First of July

After being in South Africa for about a month, somehow (I’m still not quite sure how), someone convinced me to do the Oribi Gorge Rope Swing, the world’s highest gorge swing. I’m still not totally sure how I found myself standing on the edge of the gorge, the heavy rope attached to my waist, but there I was. 

                   ...Twelve inches in front of me, the ground disappeared....

Cold sweat, a combination of nerves and the scorching heat, poured off me as I held on tightly to the thick rope that was soon to be my only point of contact with solid ground.

                                     “Ready?”

I don’t remember my answer to what seemed like a stupid question. How could I ever be ready to throw myself off a cliff to fall 165 metres towards the bottom of this beautiful, but deep gorge? An array of thoughts circulated in my head, blocking out the rest of the world – how had they managed to convince me to do this? What would it feel like to hurtle towards the ground? How loudly would I scream? Would my shoes fall off?! 

I drifted back to reality realising that it didn’t really matter how ready I felt…

                        “3…2…1…!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!”

The worst bit was stepping off the solid surface, stepping away from what I could trust. The worst bit was stepping into thin air. The worst bit was the letting go.

I'm not good at letting go. Never have been. I'm a clinger - I like to stick to what I know, even if it hurts me. So, I have pursued relationships that I know are going to end up hurting, because I hope that maybe it'll change if I just hold on for a little longer. I have stayed in jobs that I know will go nowhere, because at least it's a job, and maybe I can hope that I will still get to where I want to be.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not telling you to let go of hope, as long as the hope is in the right thing. I mean, 

maybe you have to let go of the hope of getting married to a particular person in order to hold on to the hope of getting married at all.

           Maybe you have to let go of the security of a job that drains you in order to grasp the opportunity of a job that makes you come alive. 

           Maybe you have to walk away from a relationship that tears you down in order to have your eyes opened to one that makes you a better, happier person.

Argh but it's so scary. Amazingly scary. Because it's unknown. To let go, so often, means to fall, not knowing what is going to catch you or when.

People may tell you that it feels amazing to let go, that it’s refreshing and fulfilling. They’re lying. Oh, there are, absolutely great things about letting go. There is a freedom in it, and a new hope. But it hurts too. It doesn’t feel good. It's scary to go to that place where you can’t see ahead, but you know what? It’s so much better that being in the place where you're looking at a future that you‘ve invented for yourself and wondering why it’s not happening yet and when it will.

And it's always better to let go before you're forced to. Because it may hurt to let go, but it hurts so much more when your fingers have to be prised from the thing you're holding on to.

There is a song by one of my favourite Northern Irish singers, Foy Vance. It’s called ‘First of July’. To me, it’s a song about letting go.

I don’t feel particularly good

But don’t worry about me, I’ll get by

That was the last day of June

This is the first of July

It doesn’t disguise the hurt, but it also proclaims the hope. The hope of turning the page of the calendar, of accepting that it happened, but accepting that it is in the past, 

                         that was June, 

                                   and now 

                                          this is July.

(Thanks Foy)

Who can I control but me?

When I was younger, I used to think that if I was the best person I could be, if I was kind and generous and selfless and patient and humble and caring, that everything would work out. Everyone would like me. Everyone around me would be all those things too. Everything would work out as it should.


       I thought          
                    if I could control myself
                                                         I could control my life


The years have made me see just how wrong I was. I haven't been perfect, but even so, the years have taught me that you can forgive and apologise, but that doesn't always bring reconciliation. The years have taught me that you can care and love, but that doesn't always mean that they'll care for you and love you back. The years have taught me that you can trust and be trustworthy, but that doesn't always stop them from abusing your trust.


                                         It was a hard lesson to learn
                                                       Why?
       Because it meant that I couldn't always be in control


When I was at high school, I had one particularly destructive friendship with a girl who manipulated me, demeaned me, trapped me and generally made my life miserable. Instead of trying to talk to her and sort it out, I ran away, changing to a different school for my last two years. I gave her all sorts of excuses for my move, none of them even close to the truth that I just wanted to get away. And then I cut off contact.
A few years later, the whole situation was playing on my mind. I had lied to her. By leaving and cutting her off, I'd been dishonest and gutless. So, I decided to write to her. I hadn't seen her for a long time, but I wrote, explaining the real reason I had left. I explained that our friendship had become volatile and hurtful and I apologised for my part in it. I expected that she would reply, acknowledging and maybe even apologising for her part in it.


                                                         I was wrong


A few weeks later, I got an e-mail from her, informing me that I had imagined the problems, that I clearly had issues and sarcastically telling me that, she hoped that by getting it off my chest, I had achieved what I wanted to.
                                            I was gutted
                                  I believed I'd done the right thing
                          So why didn't she react like I wanted her to?


I was not in control of her reaction. There is no way I could've been. But did that mean that I shouldn't have apologised? 
I cannot control other people, but I can control myself. I can't base what I do on how I think others are going to react. I can't wait for others to see things as I do before I apologise. I can't wait for others to care about me before I care about them.


                   I can only control me....
                                ...so that's what I'll do

Inspiration: Taking a break

For the last few Wednesdays, I ' v e  t r i e d  t o  w r i t e  a l l  d a y.


I get up in the mornings, light the fire, turn on my computer and wait for the inspiration...and I w a i t...and I write a few words then delete them because they don't make sense or they're just plain boring...and I w a i t some more.  


Some days you just can't force the inspiration. 
Some days you wonder where on earth you ever got inspiration from.


On those days, I get to the end of the day and feel exhausted. I feel like I've wasted the day and that frustrates me. I feel like this time, these Wednesdays, they're a gift and I should be making the most of every second, not staring into space, not playing with the fire,  not watching another episode of Grey's Anatomy, not making ANOTHER cup of tea, not looking at everyone else's inspiring projects on Pinterest (if you don't know what Pinterest is, don't look it up - you will never have any free time again).


Today, I took a break.


I woke up early, but didn't force myself to get out of bed. I had an early appointment, after which, I had coffee with a friend. I had to get a couple of things, so I pottered around the shops for a bit, then I came home, put a few things in boxes for the big house move this week and then sat down to write. And you know, I feel so much more rested and less pressured than I have for a few weeks.


Looks like I lost sight (again) of what these days are about. Yes, I want to use them to write, but not to the point that writing becomes a chain that ties me down, a thing I have to do. I think I've got enough of those things in my life (don't we all?). Much more than writing, these days are about breathing again. They are about taking time out of the every day things to take a deep breath and remember what I want to spend each breath on.


And what I've found is that, by having that time, by taking the time out on Wednesdays, for the rest of the week, I'm thinking about what to write about and how to write it. The thoughts just pop up - I just need to make sure I've always got a piece of paper handy. 
I'm being inspired every day. For the last four years, I've been completely lacking in inspiration. I've hardly written at all because I haven't known what to write about. But I think that just by taking the time out, by letting my brain take a break from the routine, there is so much more room for inspiration to overflow into every day.


What I've realised is that I need to make sure that Wednesday doesn't become just part of the routine. So sometimes that means that Wednesday is for a coffee date, a walk, some shopping.


From that comes the inspiration...

Iona: a thin place

A thin place: a place where Heaven and Earth seem especially close.

When I first went to Iona, I had never heard the phrase 'thin place', but having been there, as soon as I heard it, I felt that I understood it. I understood what the Celts were talking about when they talked of places where it seemed that the veil between Earth and Heaven had been lifted. 

My mum is lucky enough to live in a beautiful part of Scotland, on the west coast. Just off the coast is the Isle of Mull and beyond it, the smaller island of Iona. I'd wanted to visit it for a long time and finally got the chance jut before I moved to New Zealand.

To get there, we took a ferry from Oban to the Isle of Mull, drove about an hour across Mull and then took another ferry to Iona. Things had been looking pretty dull and cloudy when we crossed to Mull, there were a few smatterings of rain as we drove, but when we landed on Iona, the clouds divided and we were bathed in sunshine radiating from bright blue skies. The white sand and sun made the sea turn a bright aquamarine and it was hard to imagine the place ever being anything but bright and clear.

Iona has always been a significant place in Celtic Christianity. It is said to be the place where St Columba landed when he was exiled from Ireland. As we walked through the Abbey and I remember feeling an incredible serenity. I had left South Africa a few days previously after a difficult, heart-wrenching trip, and a week later I would move my life to the other side of the world. Serenity was not something that came naturally at that point. But being there felt like closing my eyes and taking a refreshingly deep breath. 

Iona hasn't been the only thin place I've experienced. In South

Africa, it was Jericho's Walls. I think the thing about it was the silence. Sitting on the edge of the gorge, it felt like the surrounding air was weighing heavy on my ears to block out all external noises. It felt like every breath I took in and out was significant, planned. And no matter the turmoil going on outwardly, the weighty air brought an escape and a clarity, because in this place, where I could feel every breath of mine, I could feel the whisper of God’s breath.

In New Zealand, there is Raglan. In Northern Ireland, there is the North Coast. And I'm not done discovering them.