Infinite Shades of Grace

For weeks now I have been trying to write something for this blog.  I’ve been writing and writing and nothing good seems to come of it.  This, I have concluded, is because I have been trying and trying. Unfortunately for me, I am not one of those people who can churn out any writing by trying. Anything that I feel is worthwhile being read has to be born of experience, struggle and inspiration.  It has to be written at 3:48am in the morning, like now, because I cannot sleep until it (whatever 'it' is) has been put down in words.

This is something I have discovered about my tiny stories and also my tiny life.  I am always trying to find a formula for my writing and for my life.  I want to know exactly how I should go about life so that no matter what, it will be a success. With writing I want to find a way to be able to be as other great writers who would sit and force themselves to write and great things would come out of it. All that the trying does is just exhaust and frustrate me and make me decide that I will never write again. 

This is exactly true of my life too.  I so badly want a formula.  I want to know how I should live.  I want to do it the ‘right’ way.  I do not want to make mistakes or live with regrets.  I want to live everyday following ‘the formula’ so that in the end I will have done everything right and have my story all neatly played out.

For the past month I have been worrying and stressing a lot about life; begging God to show me how to live. I told Him that I do not want grey areas.  I want black and white so that I know exactly what I should do to live the kind of life that He wants.  I felt that this was godly because with a formula to follow, I would be sure to do what was right and so please Him.

But last night, I lay on my floor crying because I was just so exhausted by all the trying.  I wanted to give it all up just like I wanted to give up writing after trying to conjure up some magic on a topic.  And the more I have thought about it, the more I realize that I am so tired not because it is not good to be seeking God’s ways to live, but that I was doing it so that I could control my life.

Again and again I come up against huge ‘issues’ in modern life, grey areas – money, food, wealth, poverty, vanity, time – and I feel convicted on some area of it and immediately I want to put a law down on how to change and perfect this area in my life.  I can’t eat this, I can’t buy that, I should stop wearing makeup, I should delete all my social media etc etc.  I want to make it black and white.  But I cannot. I feel as if there are just too many grey areas where I can not be certain of what is right or wrong.

I want the law.  I wish I could have been the Israelites who knew exactly what one was supposed to do when one found mildew in one’s house or had a rash on their left ear lobe.  It is not because I want to please God or earn my salvation but rather it is more depraved than that.  I want to please myself.  I want to look at my life and be able to say ‘well done, good and faithful servant’ – I do not value God’s praise enough.

The chief reason I want a formula however is because I do not want to trust God.  If I have a formula then I know what to do, I know how to live and can be independent of Him.  I have asked God over and over why life is not simply right or wrong, why do there have to be so many shadows and different methods and people with different ideas.  Surely if it was simply black or white then we could glorify Him that much easier. 

This life is so many variations of colour and everywhere you look there are people living it out in different patterns and hues. These shades and hues and spectrums of light and shadow are infinitely more beautiful than bland black or white. Above and beyond that, so many colours and variations make us seek and trust God in a way that black and white would not. The world is full of a million people, doing life in so many different ways and God uses each and every one of us and all our crazy ideas and actions in crafting His masterful story.

We live in a pluralistic world where supposedly nothing is right or wrong.  We can choose.  And it is awful because we are confused, especially Christians, in knowing what is good and what is bad.  We immediately want law to decide for us. And then we immediately want to tell others how they ought to live.  However the law has been fulfilled and we now live by grace. 

Grace is a million colours, reflected in a thousand ways.  And we cannot control that grace or have a 3 step program on how it applies to any given situation.  Grace is new each day, it has to be lived in and our eyes have to be open to it in every person and situation.  It is a constant relying on the Giver of Grace. Wherever I am, whether living a first-world lifestyle in Sweden or in poverty in the Transkei, South Africa, I am living in God’s grace.  It is not right or wrong, all is ordained by God and I can simply walk in the paths He has set before me, seeking His face every moment.

Tiny Stories and tiny lives are not the result of careful planning and control.  They are not black words on white.  Instead they are a millions colours of light, dancing and shimmering on a page as the Grace Writer writes with His glorious pen, and we interact and live out the story.  The colours of grace envelop all that we do; our failings and successes, our lifestyles and culture and mindset all become His glory.

His glory and His story is not shades of grey but infinite shades of grace.

The Plot of Every Story

I often find myself wondering about life.  And the story of life. Most of the story seems to be a whole lot of waffling, pages filled with dull accounts of chores and worries and small annoyances and silly thoughts.  Not much seems lofty or noble or even particularly interesting.  I look at all the days of my life like pages filled with nonsense scribbled on them and it makes me sad.  It feels so pointless.  It is so disappointing.  Is life not meant to be glorious, a journey toward some great goal, every moment filled with meaning and passion?  Why does it seem so ordinary and painfully mundane? What on earth is this story all about?

I used to think that I wrote my own story.  That I could decide what happened and it was up to me whether the story was what I wanted it to be.

But life, although our decisions are totally our own, often situates you in places and with people that you never chose or wanted.  Sometimes it is good and sometimes it is bad.  The truth is that we do not get to write our story, God does.  And He has some weird ideas about the plot, the characters and the setting. Crazy weird. Lewis Carrol has got nothing on Him.

I have folded a lot of laundry this year and stacked a lot of dishes.  And I often stare at the heaps of clothing and think, “Is this what my life has come to? Is this what life is about?” They are questions that have broken my heart.  Everything seems so futile, so mundane and soul-killing.  Where is the adventure? What is the purpose? Is all of life just about duty and mind-numbing routine?

I have waited for God to break through and save me from the pain of this everyday drudgery.  Because surely this is not the story He is writing for me.  Surely the plot turns into a climax of magic and dreams coming true.

The truth is that this is life.  It is duty and drudgery and people who hurt you and it is being disappointed and misunderstanding and hurting others and making wrong choices and wasting time and forgetting what is important and blaming others and living with guilt.

That is the reality of life.  That is how the story goes. 

But it does not mean that the story is a bad one or a pointless one.  It does not mean that the story is not glorious.  The seeming banality of the story is in fact what makes it divine.  The weird thing is that God writes our stories but ‘our’ stories are not about us.  They are about Him.  And that is the glory of them. That is the glory IN them.

When we read our stories and all we see is ourselves, of course it is going to seem pathetic and ridiculous. This is because we are pathetic and ridiculous.  However, when we read our stories, and live our stories with eyes open to Who it is that they are about, then all is illuminated with the magic of the fairytale we hoped for.

The glorious plot of His story is found in the mundanity and the loneliness and the boredom.  But it is not where I am or what I do, or who I am that is the plot.  It is the God who loves me in all the chores, the serving, the hours of work, the relationships, the misunderstandings, the budgets, the admin, the weather, the meals or the daily decisions.  God is the Story Writer who calls me to be His bride and daughter despite my seemingly pathetic existence.

My generation has always been told that we are special, that we can do anything we want and be anyone we want. But when we grow up and life hits us, we realize that in fact, we are no one special, we are just the same as every other ‘special’ person.  Some of us become cynical and pessimistic at this point, others, delusional and egoistic, seeking only our own comfort and satisfaction.

 

This year, reality slapped me in the face and it has been incredibly humbling. However it happened in the best way possible as I had nothing or no one else to rely on except Christ.

I have not just woken up to reality of my own insignificance but also to the Significant One. He gives me a place in His Story and takes the scribbling and tear-blotted pages and uses it in His divine narrative.

God’s magic is that He uses our boring and everyday in His story.  He doesn’t change our circumstances or situations. Life is what it is.  But He is with us through it all. He has ordained it all.  And when we awaken to Him in it, give thanks to Him for every grace and acknowledge His will at every turn, even us stupid, half-blind mortals get a glimpse of the glorious narrative He is writing in His book of life.

Let’s not carry on just paging through the scribblings of our story mindlessly, just trying to find out what happens in the end.  Neither let us carry on in our pride trying to write our own marvelous story.  Let us accept that we are rubbish writers and that the stories we write will not be published.  Let’s accept what the Author of Life wrote for us before the beginning of the world and live it out with Him by our side as He awakens us to His eternal Word and glorious plot of redemption and grace.

Writing Today's Tiny Story

I came abroad in order to follow my dream and pursue the purpose that I had for my life.  But once I got here, all those dreams and purposes were not what I really wanted.  All of a sudden I was at a total loose end, I did not know why I had come here and fell into a deep despondency that at times still grips me.

I felt like I was wasting a year of my life doing something that I did not really enjoy and that was not going to get me anywhere in my career.  I was beating myself up for making this happen when I clearly was meant to stay at home.

But fortunately for me, God ordains everything.  Even the bugger ups we make He turns into His perfect will.  There is such comfort in that!  Because when we hold onto that, there is always hope.

I came here on a mission to do a whole lot of stuff; study Swedish, do short courses -- all so that I could maybe study here further and possibly stay for a longer period of time.  Now that I think of that I feel really dumb for being so naive. I cannot wait to go home.

So after six months of feeling really despondent and homesick - which at times I still am - I am able to catch a glimpse of what God has given me in this year.  He has blessed me with a whole new way of life, a new family, time and space to relax and just simply be.  The problem is that for so long I have been feeling down for not achieving what I planned when really something much more wonderful has simply been given to me as a gift.

I have really learned a lot more about what life is about.  I have always been very focused and purposeful.  Everything I do has to be seen as worthwhile in reaching a specific goal for me to put effort in to it. 

I love to-do lists and planning and ticking off tasks completed.  Those who know me will all know of my daily planner obsession with all its little boxes waiting to be ticked off.  Many people always admired my organisation and I took pride in being someone who accomplished a lot of things.

But this year, I got so tired of it all - the constant pressure to always be doing something, to always be achieving something – was wearing me out.  This was partly because I got here and was at a loose end as to what exactly the point of this whole experience was.  I have been suffering from a bad case of anxiety and this quote kind of helped me figure out why.

I am so grateful for this time which although tough, has taught me to be still and know and to live in the present. At moments ‘the present’ has seemed like a never ending plain of the Free State stretching out before me.  And its weight has pressed down on me like the Natal humidity making it hard to breathe at times. 

Life is not about getting anywhere or accomplishing anything really.  It is, well, it is about living.  I feel like I have lived in a daydream for most of my life thinking that everything would be perfect once I had achieved a specific goal – once I had finished school or got my degree, if I could live abroad, get the perfect job, travel, see the world – but with the achievement of each goal, another one quickly emerged and yet again I was living for the future of ‘when’.

This year I am learning that life is really nothing big.  It is not some big calling or mission.  As Christians we often feel like we need this huge purpose.  But our purpose is just to live and to live fully.  We are called.  Called to be one of God’s children.  And that happens in the everyday and ordinary that you find yourself in. I constantly find myself getting anxious about what I am supposed to be doing and where my life is heading.  It is times at these that I have to remember to TRUST. Because wherever I go or whatever I do, it is ordained by the Author of life and so even if it seems pointless, I can know it will turn out into a great story.

Learning to enjoy my 'Holland'

http://www.our-kids.org/Archives/Holland.html

Characters make the story

The greatest lesson I am learning this year (and one that I think I will continue to learn for the rest of my life) is that life is ALL about people and the relationships you have with the people in your life.  I almost feel like it is what makes life.  That without other people I as a person mean nothing.  I guess I had to come to Europe to discover what Ubuntu really means.

My previous post laid bare the disappointment that travelling was.  But that was not the full story.  The truth is that I did have magic moments on my travels – moments that I will treasure forever. 

It just was that those moments were not seeing the Coliseum totally by surprise one day when I turned a street in Rome nor was it seeing the Eiffel Tower glitter in the Paris skyline.  Those were special moments.  But they did not have the ‘magic’ factor.

The most magical moments I had were with people. The moments were magic because we were doing something kiff together like going up into the Austrian Alps or walking along the East Side Gallery. But honestly we could have been anywhere and it would still have been a magic moment.

People drive you crazy.  We misunderstand one another.  We say stupid things and we get grumpy and irritable.  We are selfish and like things our way.  We often have different ways of dealing with situations that piss people off but are totally normal to our way of thinking.  People are damn annoying.  Those closest to you hurt you the most.  But life is empty without people. All the beautiful places, all the good food, all the crazy experiences mean nothing without other people to share them with.  Doesn’t matter if you’re doing cool stuff or doing mundane stuff, you need people there for you.  God himself has his homies.  He did not create us to be alone. 

I have always been a loner and a bit of a control freak.  I want people on my terms and I want them to stay in the boxes that I put them in.  I don’t want them to hurt me or take up to much of my space.  But that is not what relationship is about.  You need the hurt to experience the love because we are human and if there is no hurt then the love cannot be real. 

So these are some of the magic moments I had with some freaking awesome people.

First off, these two crazy cats arrived: Stephie and Bru

I love this couple more than you can imagine. Awaiting their arrival was the most excitement I have ever experienced in my grown up life.  They literally made me come alive again after months of loneliness and isolation.  For the first time in months I laughed loudly and had someone who ‘got’ me and thought that men in dinner jackets with coiffed hair really are the most ridiculous sight ever. 

We barbecued illegally on this nifty little ‘braai’

stared at owls at Skansen, made fun of American tourists, went to Ikea for cheap food 

sad pandas at Ikea

and spent hours in the national park smelling flowers and throwing stones on the lake.

I made new friends along the way.  These crazy hippies almost convinced me to smoke weed and gave me a taste of the alternative life.  Cycling the streets of Copenhagen and swinging over the lake in Christiana were magic moments because of them.

My dear friend Magda, the perfect German host (she being the perfect German), left us nutella and good German bread for breakfast, gave us very exact directions and a list of German phrases so that we would not get lost and heaven forbid be late!!  We saw and did so much in Berlin yet the magic moment was a real ‘braai’ that she especially organized for us in her parents’ garden.

Alice, my chilled, easygoing Austrian friend who bought us lots of wine, tried to teach us to pop gum loudly and made us feel so at rest in her beautiful bungalow.  Walking through the alps and going up in the cable car were incredible.  However the magic moment was watching a stupid series with her one night and eating Mozart kugel on her red couch.

Steph and Bru left me (crying like a baby) to go home on a horrific 40 hour long trip and I continued on to Vienna. Lisa, a girl I met on a trip to Russia last year had offered to have me to stay.  We had only ever spoken for half an hour in person yet she invited me into her home and into her family. She even bought me a famous Sacher cake which we ate in a park with plastic white forks. She took me to the Blue Danube and as we lay on a jetty she played the Blue Danube Waltz off her phone.  

the fancy sacher cake and plastic forks 

In Munich, Manuela hosted me in her tiny little Olympic village flat.  She kindly did not take offence when I asked for something other than German bread to eat – she introduced me to pretzels - and got me to drink a litre of beer – before church!  We spent the evenings chatting on her balcony till late and wondering where we would be in ten years time. 

eating salted pickles at the market

From this point on in my travels I was alone and it was not the same.  Nothing means as much without people.  Bad hostel rooms, getting lost, expensive food and language barriers are not as easy to bear without someone to laugh (or cry) about it with. 

Faye, my fellow traveler and sister in this experience of living abroad, came like an angel out a Michelangelo fresco to see me in Rome.  The heat, the tourists, the sleazy Italian men all became a story and an adventure with her by my side.  The gelato tasted sweeter and the ancient beauty of Rome came alive just for having a dear friend to share it with.  We lay in a park and hated on Europe and let our longing for home totally romanticize everything in SA – even the car guards and petrol price. (check out her cool blog: http://findingbrightplaces.blogspot.it/)

When I arrived in Paris, after a delayed flight from Nice, my heavy suitcase bumping other pedestrians, my hair frizzing and my back wet with sweat under my backpack, I was seriously about to crack.  But God knew.  And He blessed me with a clean, decent hostel (I’d left a room in Nice which I had shared with four men who slept only in their jocks because of the lack of airconditioning) but more importantly, He blessed me with a new friend.  And not just anybody.  A South African friend.  Alison turned what would have been just another city full of tourists and famous sights into an adventure.  We only had one day together but got to walk up the Champs Elysees, shop for a ten euro item at a Gap store, have lunch at a sidewalk cafe, see the Eiffel Tower and of course take photos (I finally have photos with myself in them).  This chick is seriously cool - you should check out her travel blogs and food websites. (http://alisonwestwood.com/)

All stories need people in them to make them magical.  Because what is any story without its characters?

A Board Called Wanderlust and Where to Pin Your Hopes

I have a Pinterest board called Wanderlust  (lame, I know). And when I created that board I literally had a lust for travel.  I wanted to see the world and all the wonders it had to offer.  The sights, places and spaces that I had only ever read of or seen in movies – I had to see them and experience their wonder and I was prepared to do whatever it took to do so. 

So last week I was looking through that Pinterest board after a month of travelling through Europe.  And I was shocked that many of the things which I pinned in absolute ignorance, I have now seen and done.  Even random things like the Abbey Bookshop in Paris – I pinned it because I love any cute bookshops but then one day, totally by accident, I stumbled upon it down a side alley in Paris.

There is something else that I pinned on my Wanderlust board.  A quote by St. Augustine (though one can never be sure about these quotes and who they belong to).  It goes like this:

I read that, and I was determined to read all the pages.  I felt like my life would not be complete or fulfilled, that I could never be content, that my life would not mean anything unless I had travelled the world and seen all that it had to offer.

And so, despite being a rather nervous, high-strung person who does not like change and who is useless at directions and map reading, I set out on a month long trip through Europe.  I am not brave person but I am rather stupid.

I have seen the Berlin Wall, the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower, had lunch in the shade of the Arc de Triomphe, gone up into the Austrian Alps, cycled through Copenhagen, eaten white sausage and drunk beer for breakfast in Germany, sat at little cafes in Florence, suntanned in Nice, heard the Pope giving his Sunday message from the Vatican, eaten the famous Sacher cake out its beautiful box in Vienna and gone shopping along the Champs Elysees.

A dream come true.  Or so it should have been.  This was my dream.  To travel, to see the world, to visit these magical places.  And I am grateful that I have done it.  I am glad that it is done because now I know what I did not know before.  Travelling is overrated and it certainly does not make your life 'fulfilled'.

  

I saw great things, I did great things.  I had fun.  But the more I saw, the less it meant.  I got good at looking but stopped actually seeing.  I wandered through the Vatican museums, one scorching hot day in Rome and realized that if I had never seen a fresco of Mary and the baby Jesus or hundreds of white statues of Roman nobles, my life would have been okay - it might in fact have been fuller.  It was as if all this ‘seeing’ and ‘doing’ was actually emptying me out of any beauty and joy.

I am a small person.  I grew up in small towns and cities in South Africa.  And there I find myself with the rich and famous, suntanning on the rocky beaches of Nice.  I certainly got to read the pages of the book of the world.  However, I do not think these are the best pages. I do not think they are the most interesting or exciting.  I do not think that they are the pages I will treasure forever and go back and read and reread. Because the more I saw and the further I travelled, the more I longed for home.  For the norm, for the average and every day.  I longed for the real world, my world, not the gaudy, tourist attractions that although beautiful and awe-inspiring, meant nothing to me.

I would have traded this month of sightseeing and gallivanting for a holiday at my gran’s house in Durban where we watch stupid BBC comedies with my grandpa and get yelled at by my grandma for sitting in her chair.  I would trade the hundreds of famous art works by Michelangelo and Da Vinci for a visit to the Ann Bryant Art Gallery with its old buildings and artwork by local artists.  I would exchange all the Roman archaeology and statues for that stupid Coeleocanth at the East London museum.  And you know why?  Because all that is real.  It is my world. 

And maybe I am ungrateful.  I know I am.  Maybe I am just ill-suited to travel – the tourists, the queues, the foreign food and strange places, sleeping in filthy hostels and getting lost on the metro – I know now that I am.  But I also know that I have learned a huge lesson in wisdom. 

That famous places and objects and buildings and people and spaces - they are not what the world is about.  And if you do not get to see them, you have certainly not read only one page.  Our stories of the world are written wherever and however we live.  And you read every page no matter where or how you live.  You can make the world, your world, full of grace and beauty whether or not you see the Vienna Opera House or visit the Shakespeare and Co. Bookshop. 

So travel or don’t travel.   It actually makes no difference.  Contentment and happiness is found in the situation you’re in.  Not in a street in Paris or a museum in Rome.  Don’t ‘pin’ your hopes on that Pinterest board. Don’t pin your hopes on anything on this earth. Because as I discovered, it is all meaningless. Pin your hopes on the Author of the book of the world.  Because He can fill all your pages with glorious dramas and simple tales of life and love.

a tiny story with a Great Author

This blog was supposed to be about my writing.  It was going to be tiny stories that I wanted to write.  And I suppose it will be.  But I don’t care about writing any more.  Or being a good writer.  I just have a need to share my story.  My tiny story that may or may not be interesting to anyone else.  All I know is that it is a story and I hope that it can encourage someone else.

It is rather ironic that I named this blog Tiny Stories when in reality I was waiting for a big, exciting story to take place.  This year I set out on an adventure.  I left my home and country so that I might travel and experience different places and different cultures.  I felt fearless and excited setting out, ready to take on the world and write a grand life story.

However instead of a grand story, I found everyday life.  This is honestly turning out to be the toughest year of my life. To be far from your family and in a very cold and exclusive culture and to know that there is no going back, you have to face your time – it can honestly break your heart.  I know it has broken mine.

However, I know that I was called to such a time as this.  Although I feel as if I made the biggest mistake of my life in coming here, I know that I will look back and see that this year has been for something glorious.  God never lets anything go to waste.  Even if it was my determination that got me here, He in fact brought me here and is doing something much more wonderful than I could ever imagine.

Many a day I sit and cry. I no longer have shame who sees me, I cry on the subway and in the library and in the park and as I boil pasta for the children’s dinner.  At first I did not understand all these tears.  It is not as if anything terrible has happened or that my situation is awful.  Telling myself that did not help though, it just made me cry more for feeling guilty about crying.

A wise man once said that hope deferred makes the heart sick.  And I can honestly say that my heart is sick. I had pinned my hopes on a dream.  I believed that I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I believed that I could choose my life and decide how it should play out.  My hope was in me and my abilities.  And I have discovered the difficult truth that you don’t get to make up most of your story - you get to make peace with it (Ann Voskamp, aholyexperience.com). 

God is so faithful.  He will not let us go.  He will not let us settle for less than Him and the goodness of Him.  He will do whatever it takes to bring us closer to Him.  And although my heart has experienced more loneliness and anguish than I sometimes think that I can bear, I am grateful for it.  This experience has caused me to make Him my only hope, my only boast. 

I can no longer boast in my cleverness or my standing in society or my willpower to go for what I want in life.  I have come to the end of myself.  I have been broken.  And that is what I want.  I want my life to be eternal. I have seen much of the world now and done many things that I always dreamed of and yet have found it all to be meaningless. The one thing I know to be true, to be worth investing your hope and beliefs in, is Christ.

So this is my tiny story.  It may be depressing, but it is in fact filled with hope because of the marvelous Author who is writing it. He knows the end, and with Him, the end is always a good one where everything works out.  He likes clichés like that.

Spring's Arrival

I wring my hands self-consciously.

“Keep your back straight” I tell myself.  I have a tendency to hunch my shoulders when feeling awkward.  I absolutely hate these situations.  I now seem to live in them permanently. “Where should I stand?”  “What should I be doing?”  “Should I even be here or would it be better for everyone if I left?”

I smile and nod at the other guests, trying not to look pathetic. The last thing I want is to be pitied by them.

 I look around for something to do; if I am useful then I might feel as though I belong.  The children are ordinarily my chief duty, and they are playing noisily in the room adjacent. The parents have to raise their voices to be heard over the clatter of toys and the shrieks of excitement. I walk unseen past the chatting guests to go see if I can help the children in some way.  I admire the girls’ drawings and help the boys get the toy cars down from the cupboard.  They aren’t interested in me however, and I don’t want to make the parents feel like I am the hired help.  Tonight I have been invited to the dinner party as a guest.

Rejoining the adults, I am offered champagne and hors de oeuvres.  I certainly am being cultivated in the finer things in life.

I try to make small talk with the guests; the language barrier an added strain. I manage to converse haltingly on the topics of weather and occupations.  This is what basic language courses prepare you for.  It is the more in-depth conversations of politics and the humorous anecdotes where I lose my way and find myself like Alice at the tea party: bewildered yet trying desperately to make sense of it all.

Dinner was served: oxfile with red wine reduction, Italian salad leaves and pureed cauliflower.  Eating now kept me preoccupied and out of forced conversations about the weather and life in South Africa.

Usually, my initial instinct is to avoid these situations at all costs.  It certainly was the easier route to take.  I had half thought of making up an excuse for tonight - that I had an engagement and would be out - when really I would be wandering around the city, feeling lonely and pitiful. 

Now, as I sit around the table with the hum of conversation surrounding me, I look out the window and see the last traces of winter disappearing and small bright buds appearing on the walnut tree.  I am proud of myself for choosing to come.  The drab, brown grass will soon be a brilliant green after the snow melts.  Spring always made the winter worth it.

I sip my wine and cut into the tenderest of ox fillets, I feel a glint of contentment. This small town farm girl is far from her expected life.  I had faced some heartache, leaving my home and all that was familiar, and for weeks now I had felt like it had been a mistake. But, I was exactly where I wanted to be.  I had taken a giant leap out of my comfort zone and that is why I had come: to experience life in a different way, to be challenged, to grow, to be cultivated, to meet new people, to see myself more clearly and learn to be adaptable. It dawned on me that I had had to make it through the winter in order to experience my own spring.

 I listen to the conversation around the table with half an ear; the language is slowly but surely becoming familiar. I feel a flicker of kinship with my host family who catch my eye and smile at me from across the table.  My own Spring is budding. My seemingly dead branches of loneliness are blossoming into confidence and although painful at first, the beauty is worth the risk.

South African Ghetto

behance.net

There were not many people in the small gallery. 

“We can make a quick getaway if this is not fun,” I said under my breath to my friend Lara, a born South African but bred Swede, who I had dragged along with me for moral support.

We stood in a corner, feeling awkward with our heavy coats and handbags, nervous lest we bump and break some of the art or craft work.  A Ugandan artist’s work was on display.  The bright colours and irregular shapes of people and city skylines was so comforting in a country in love with modernism and Ikea prints.

ikapa.co.za

“Welcome ladies,” said a soft spoken coloured man, handing us each a business card for ‘The South Africa Society in Sweden’, the organizers of this event.  He welcomed us to join the group and take part in upcoming events such as potjiekos competitions and Youth Day braais. 

“Oh for a proper braai with proper meat.  There will definitely be no falukorv and hotdogs there!” I exclaimed to Lara.

Grapetizer, was being offered around by a young woman with a strong Coloured accent and a friendly, open manner.  Her green African print headband was just as bright as her personality. She joked and laughed at herself, making me feel comfortable and welcome, almost like we knew each other from a previous occasion. 

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Slowly but surely people began arriving.

 

“Howzit!”

“Yslike, this wind is cold man!”

My heart was filled with joy and I smiled involuntarily as I recognized the jargon, accents and dialects of my fellow countrymen. 

A tall Zimbabwean-born, South African-bred man introduced himself to us.  He freely asked personal questions and openly shared his feelings. 

A gay CapeTonian with his cardigan and high-pitched voice still seemed manly in comparison to the average metro-sexual Scandinavian man.

Two women with strong Cape-Coloured accents laughed loudly as they sat on the gallery stairs, observing the musicians setting up. 

The stereotypical South African men in jeans and T-shirts were such a comfort to eyes exhausted by style and high fashion. 

These were people who I could understand.

There was barely room for us all in the gallery’s small back room and we rubbed shoulders and squeezed together to fit in.  This was as it should be at a gathering of South Africans, a society accustomed to overpopulation and overcrowding. 

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The proceedings began with the singing of Du Gamla, Du Fria and Nkosi Sikelela Afrika. I observed one South African with their hand over their heart.  Such a gesture was the utmost sign of respect and my eyes filled with emotion. In Sweden and much of Europe, such a gesture would be interpreted as dangerous and nationalistic whereas for us it represented unity and love. My tears soon turned to laughter as Vanessa and I caught one another’s eye, we both knew the language of the Swedish national anthem as much as we knew our own – very poorly!

Presently the Swedish hip hop musicians began sharing about their collaboration with South African musicians and all that they had experienced. 

Suddenly, the proceedings were interrupted as, in true South African style, the Ambassador arrived late.  She wore traditional African dress with a head dress and beads. The polite, young Swedes stepped aside to give her room. No doubt they had experienced this sort of thing on their travels in South Africa.

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“Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. I am so proud to see so many South Africans united in celebration of the freedom of our country.  It is you who are, the true ambassadors of South Africa.  Don’t lose your friendliness, your Ubuntu, here in this cold, unfriendly country....”

I was attacked with a case of the giggles. I knew her.  She was my university lecturer; she was the minister of some obscure government cabinet; she was the clerk at home affairs; she was a stereotype who frustrated me back home but who I missed in the dignified and ordered proceedings of Sweden. I felt as though she would surely give me a hug and call me ‘her baby’ should I greet her.  Her lack of diplomacy and disregard for Swedish social norms made me proud and happy.  She truly was proudly South African and had not been shamed into changing her culture to fit in - as I was guilty of doing.  I thought her admirable and brave.

After the presentation I joined the motley crew for drinks in a nearby restaurant. A tall, skinny, coloured man with crazy curls flopping round his face like a small puppy’s large ears entertained me with stories of life in Europe. 

Some had come for work, others for love.  Most had stayed for their careers.

“Don’t believe in the fairy tale of a Swedish prince my girl,” a divorced woman advised.  “If you want a pretty face then you got to be happy with the personality of a f***ing doorknob,” she said dryly  elbowing a poor Swedish man beside her who simply laughed and nodded in agreement.

The South Africans’ relationship with the country and people had been similar to my current feelings initially. 

“I hated it.  Hay-ted it.  Hated the f***ing weather.  Hated the f***ing food.  Hated the people too.”

“And now?” I asked, desperately hoping that things would improve.

“Ag now I like it.  This is the best time now.  The summer is magic.  Magic ek se.  Everyone out in the streets.  Braaing and drinking.  A lot of parties you know.  You gonna love it.  Now the city comes alive.”

The chairman of the South Africans in Sweden Society ordered chicken wings and chips for the table to share.

It was wonderful to share food with these simple people.  There was no propriety and rituals to eating.  No sitting primly and refusing on the grounds of vegan-ism or vegetarianism, no stick-thin beauties disciplined and self-flagellating. Men and women tucked in, licking their fingers with no regard for the opinion of others.  They sat comfortably on their stools, reaching across one another and interrupting with their own anecdotes and experiences.

We were a politically incorrect bunch.  Stereotypes regarding race and gender were freely stated although a more diverse group you would not find in the entire restaurant.  Quotas for black, white, coloured, old, young, male and female were all filled. We were foreigners yes, but our group also included a few Swedes who clearly enjoyed the company of South Africans.    

I felt for the first time since leaving home like I was truly understood and accepted.  I did not have to explain myself or put away my slang and humour.  I did not have to impress or present myself in an acceptable manner.  I was South African and a part of the family of South Africans.  I now understood why foreigners are so reluctant to assimilate and so eagerly sought their own people and formed ghettos.  Among your own people, you were protected and found a place in a very large, rather unforgiving city. 

An Appetite for Art

It was a much longer bus ride than I had expected.  I was not even sure where I was supposed to get off and was loathe to give away my identity as a tourist and ask for directions.

I stared out the window and felt invigorated by the electric energy of the city on a Saturday morning.  The streets were busy with buyers, buskers and beggars.  The homesickness that had been weighing on my heart lifted temporarily as I felt a part of the city.  I was a resident of one of Scandinavia’s largest cities and that was something exciting and enlivening when I considered it.

The Scream

The bus was now twisting its way through the national park in the middle of the city. Here the dawning of spring was making itself evident and much of the snow had melted already. Although the grass was still a dullish brown, crisp green shoots and even small, delicate flowers were introducing colour into the landscape which for so long had been only seamless white.

The Turkish tourist next to me mistook me for a local and asked if I knew where his stop was.  Surprisingly I did, and I felt a strange joy for having helped someone and having had contact with a stranger.  In the isolated lives of Stockholmers it was not common to be spoken to by your fellow passengers or to be asked for help. I dearly missed the interaction between citizens which was so common in my home country. I realized that I ought not assimilate to the coldness of this culture but rather reach out to the many other foreigners and even locals who might also be seeking friendship.

The Sick Child

We finally reached the bus stop for the Art Gallery and I climbed out with the crowd of art enthusiasts.  Together we walked up the small hill to the grand art gallery which had been the former residence of a well-to-do family.  The large garden was dotted with nude statues mottled green with age and I stood a while in silence appreciating the stillness of nature and the view of the river.

Inside, the old house was buzzing with activity.  I hung up my jacket, and paying for my ticket, proceeded up the old staircase to where the main exhibit was on display.  I was unacquainted with the artist, Edvard Munch, but slowly began to realize that he must in fact be rather famous because of the large number of admirers.  His artwork also had that quality of great art which commands respect and I felt that I needed to give each artwork the appreciation it deserved.   I followed the numbering and names of each art work from a sheet provided and made notes of which art works I liked best.

Four Girls in Argardstrand

In a separate room, guarded by a prim curator, were some of Munch’s largest paintings.  My first reaction to his artwork was not one of particular appreciation; the colours were too bright and the faces of his subjects too large and almost harsh. However, the more I gazed at the colours and techniques used, a strange delight filled me.  The more I looked, the more I saw.  I could read so many stories into each scene and an appreciation for the artwork in itself began to grow in me.  It was a wonderful sensation, something that I had not felt before.  Suddenly I understood art, its importance and necessity for society.  I felt myself being enriched simply looking at the expression of another person’s feelings and interpretations of the world.

Girls on a Bridge

Unexpectedly I had developed a need to see more artwork; to gaze at other lines, shapes, forms and textures, just to satisfy my new found appetite.  This was a new and strange sensation; one that I knew could be filled in the richness and tradition of this place. I felt hopeful about my temporary home knowing that I could be enriched in this foreign land and go back to my own country with something to share.

Images courtesy of http://www.artcyclopedia.com/artists/munch_edvard.html