Roomie

Remember that night you were coming home late

And I stood up at the window in the door while you were putting your key in the lock?

You screamed blue murder and alarmed the neighbours

While I crossed my legs and we laughed til our bellies ached.

 

 

Remember that night I came home to an unexpected correspondance;

I fell to my knees at your door and wept?

You too wore out knees and tissues

While I grieved and doubted and raged, we sobbed til our throats were raw.

 

 

Remember I used to leave ends of old baguette on the kitchen counter

Like a little present unasked for but not entirely unexpected?

You’d smile and leave it there til I’d remember what I’d done

And we’d laugh and sit down to eat your diet soup without bread while the cat scratched at our jeans.

 

 

Remember we refused to get a television because we were oh so cultured darling,

And we put your PC in the corner out of the way, because there was nowhere else for it?

You’d casually switch it on, slip a DVD in the drive and with a sideward glance at my nod

We’d watch Friends back to back til bedtime.

 

 

Remembered vignettes of a shared life, a witnessed life, a different life;

Moving in, moving out, moving on…

Things change, memories make it worthwhile

But now I have to do all the dishes.

On being not single.

Ah, Valentine’s Day… The day on which we (I?) make jokes about how difficult it was to open our front door with all the cards and flowers in the way.  Otherwise could be known as “Marmite Day”… You either love it or hate it.

Facebook testifies to this fact.

From schmushy declarations of love, to boastful photographs of “oh-gosh-I’m-sooo-surprised-by-this-bouquet-of-flowers-aren’t-I-sooo-blessed?”, to bible verses about love and to downright “fnuh”, the 14 February has got people status-updating to the max.

*     *     *

One of my life’s most creative and romantic gestures (thus far, I hasten to add!) was to make a handmade story book of high school friends who became college sweethearts.  I poured my heart into it and it took weeks.  After the then-current-day page of our love story, I marked “To be continued…”.  When I gave the gift, my sweetheart thumbed through the pages after “To be continued…”, smiled and said “Oh good, there are lots of pages still to come.”  *Sigh*  Perfect!

Except two months later it was all over.

Love is a risk.

*     *     *

Not so long ago, I lived in a house with two other girls.  A little while after we moved in together, one housemate began a dating relationship.  What struck me about the dynamic of that this time round, was that while we two single housemates were feeling left out of the “couples”, my newly “dating-someone” housemate was feeling left out of being single.

Over the next months, she and her boyfriend went through millions of ups and downs and ins and outs on the journey of working out if they could build a life together.  They eventually tied the knot and are now facing the rest of life’s challenging adventures together as husband and wife.  We got to be part of that as the three of us housemates honestly walked the path of our changing circumstances together.

Love is a risk.

*     *     *

I never thought I’d be one to advocate for the American way of things, but if my friend and colleague is a good example of the American take on all this, then do it their way…

She made “Valentines” for the members of her choir : little red boxes containing lots of little items each related to some aspect of love.  I can’t remember exactly, but like “a poem, to read and share”, “a piece of ribbon to bring together the ones you love”, “a plaster, to remind you that broken hearts heal” things like that.  She’s determined to help them think differently about Valentine’s Day today.

She also invited me around to share in their new family tradition of Valentine’s Chocolate Fondue complete with red napkins and heart-embellished fondue forks.  When its shared with family and friends, there’s no need to be single when you can be together.

*     *     *

Love is a risk and if Valentine’s Day can be a way to celebrate the fact that the risk is worth taking and that we are not alone in any part of that, then I’m up for that.

And chocolate fondue.

But perhaps there’s no need to boast about your PERFECT life on Facebook…??

Apology

Four friends in a prayer square – all linked in different capacities and depths, but linked all the same.  One trusted the others because of the others.

They were beautiful, these four girls – beautiful with a vulnerability that came and went as they struggled with fear, inadequacy, guilt, desire…  Thoughts and feelings both expected and unexpected in women.  Beautiful with a depth of honesty not many shared and they shared with few others.  Beautiful.

And I was one of them.  Valued and loved, heard and known, seen and unseen.  I don’t think its arrogance to say we were beautiful – beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I hold them in my ‘I’.

Its been a while since these four met – or at least since this one met with those three.  Much has happened, continues to happen, while I – removed from them – have happenings of my own that wrap me up in myself.  Not so pretty.

Guilt and I are not friends – I will not have coffee with him, nor will I lie with him, not even hold hands.  Though sometimes we bump into each other – a fleeting glance that makes me sad.  Sorrowful until I remember my true friend Forgiveness, also known as Love, Truth, Jesus.

Forgive me, friends, for what I have left unknown, unacknowledged, unheard, unmet, unheld…and come, there are many days to tell, much dreaming to do, old demons to face and new life to meet.

(December 2008)

God’s Extravagant Beauty

I’ve been reading Surprised By Hope by Tom Wright with a friend recently.  If I ever get round to it, I’ll share some reflections from it.  But, that book and some other chats and ruminations have encouraged me muchly to rediscover and re-revel in some of the ways in which God has made this whole creation something incredibly extravagantly beautiful.

The following video is of a heart-breakingly beautiful piece of music on an instrument I’ve always wanted to play… And all the better as it is performed by my heart-breakingly beautiful friend…

Hypnosis (you’ll have to download it in order to watch – worth every single 78MB)

Enjoy, friends…

What is friendship?

A while ago I spent an evening with a friend I hadn’t seen for a while, just hanging out and chatting.  She was sharing with me that she’d been thinking recently about friendship.  What makes a good friend?  What makes ME a good friend?

The conversation has been playing on my mind ever since and a couple of stories have come to mind…

Number one… In my second year of uni, I shared a house with a few girls, one of whom I was particularly close to and another of which particularly did my head in!  Unfortunately, my annoyance with the latter was thinly veiled and the former called me out on it.  At the time it was incredibly painful, being confronted with my own ugly heart, but yet I count it as an heroic act of true friendship as my friend fought – not only for my heart, but also for the wellbeing of the other friend.  The end result was a lesson learned and an enduring sense of love and care towards both housemates!

Number two… A much more ‘normal’ example, fewer tears and less glamour… An old school friend who I’d sort of lost touch with during uni who got back in touch with me, took hold of our friendship and hasn’t let go.  Despite my rubbish contact-keeping, my hopeless text replying and my laziness in face of organising a social life during some serious change and after organising a week of meetings, this friend has pursued me and taught me the importance of intentional time spending.  Not just benefitting her, but mostly keeping me sane and keeping my head firmly out of my backside.  Now this friend has just become a mummy and its my turn to support her in the midst of serious life-change… and its a pleasure.

Number three is not so much a story as a general… eh… ‘smell’.  I have another friend who I met at uni.  We’re maybe not the best at keeping in contact sometimes, but things never change – I know that wherever or whenever we hang out, that she’ll always be someone who feels like home: someone who knows me and accepts me in all my quirks, someone who’ll make me laugh, laugh at me and with me… Its great to feel safe with her – not because she won’t ever say anything hard, but because she’s always honest and real about me and about herself and that is precious.  Plus, when she says she’ll do something – whether its visit or pray or climb a mountain – she does it.

What about you?  What stories do you have that define friendship for you…?

Perfect Timing

So, this afternoon I ended up having to have quite a difficult conversation with someone. Can’t go into too much detail, but things about the conversation had exhausted me, unsettled me and gave me some reasons to feel fearful enough to want to put some things in place to protect myself.

There I am, sitting in my car, playing it all over in my head, worrying about stuff and wanting to crawl into bed to escape, my finger hovering over my phone wondering who I could call. I’m feeling weighed down, like I just can’t face the people-work I have to do tonight, wishing that the person who was meant to call me back had called… Next thing my phone rings. It just comes up as a number (as I recently lost my phone in an unfortunate moment), so I think its maybe the phone call I’d been waiting for.

But no… it was my long-lost American friend. We haven’t spoken in maybe over a year – the only contact having been a series of ‘so-sorry-its-been-so-long’ Facebook messages about 2 months ago. There was no conceivable reason she should phone. And, to be honest my heart kinda sank because I was far from the appropriate mood for catch-up chat.

“Hi” she says, “How are you?”
I give a slight groan and think about how to answer that…
“Only its just…” she continues, “…I just very suddenly out of nowhere felt like I needed to call you. Like, not that I should call you someday, but that I should call you, like NOW. URGENTLY. Are you okay?”

My answer flowed out in grateful tears.

The Rise and Fall of Rory Gilmore

Recently, I made it to the end of my 365 blog of things to be thankful for and tonight heralds the end to yet another chapter of my life in this past year.  Just over a year ago, I embarked upon a journey to Stars Hollow, home of the American TV series of “The Gilmore Girls”.

Tonight I watched the finale.

It has been quite a journey of ups and downs, thrills and spills and – well, quite frankly – its been an on-going obsession.  Don’t worry this blogpost does not contain any spoilers – I nearly fell out with my housemate over my OCD-level of determination not to hear even a scrap of information that might spoil the end of the 7 season, 42 disc, 154 epoisode, 6160 minutes of my favouritest pick-me-up television EVER. 

EVER.

I don’t know how to sum up just how much I loved-slash-hated-slash-loved-to-hate-and-hated-to-love these 40 minute-long escapes into small town America, but, I couldn’t let this rollercoaster of emotions end without a brief word about the ride.

Numerous conversations about the witty cynicism, the will-they-won’t-they, the how-could-she/he-do-that?s…  Several late nights and lazy weekends (I think my record was 10am til 7pm only breaking to shower and eat).  Heck, I even saw a book shop in Paris and my first thought was that Rory would love it.

I know it sounds crazy, but let me have just this one obsession?  Many others are addicted to far more technicoloured dream-series than this.  And this one… This one is worth it.

My only regret is that now that I have lived it, I can never again watch with fresh eyes.

This is not ‘goodbye’, Rory.  Its just ‘See you later’…

…

See you later.

A Paris

Tonight je suis allée ‘boire un coup’ on the Pont des Artsà Paris!  It was a bit classier than drinking on street corners… But only just…!  I love travelling, what an incredible experience to se promener at night with people who are fast becoming friends even after only 4 days.  Okay, we might never see each other ever again on earth (a realist of a dreamer, moi), but it’ll be cool in eternity to be like : “aww, remember that night on the Pont Des Arts à Paris?”…

c’est trop cool… 😀

Bloggy and the Beast: Will the real Small Corner please stand up?

 

Aaahh, WordPress – how I adore thee!

I spent some time this afternoon expostulating about the benefits of WordPress over other blog service providers.  I did it with such passion I could’ve been preaching life or death!  It is perhaps a little sad (how did people ever describe that concept of sad before ‘sad’ came to mean anything other than unhappy?!?) that I care so much about my small corner of the internet and how it looks and functions, but I AM NOT ASHAMED!  I will stand loud and proud, declaring my love of all things blog.

Just don’t link to my page in case anyone I know reads it…

Hmmm… a strange thing, perhaps, to be rather choosy about to whom one discloses the details of where one publishes one’s contribution to the community we call ‘Blogging’, but I am reluctant that anyone and everyone should know where to find my online voice.

I suppose its mildly ridiculous in many ways, because a blog is hardly a private affair: random strangers from all over the world can tune in to my latest ‘un-intellectual musings’ (I stand by that, Mr Zoom – you can take it up with me later) at the click of a button.  Also, how many people in the actual real world of my life spend much time reading blogs?!?  Not many (enough, but not many)!  AND, even if they read blogs, it is, perhaps, arrogant to assume they would put much thought into reading what I’ve written…

The Beauty of blogging, you see, is the sheer pleasure of expression: finding exactly the right word in exactly the right place to convey exactly the right tone… its an ART!  Then of course the pleasure of reading the rants, stories and thoughts of others who are, if not similarly minded – at least similarly appreciative of the craft:  creating dialogue from monologue, banter from battle and in many tiny steps ultimately plotting to TAKE OVER THE WORLD!

The Beast, however, is my fear is that people will judge me  solely by what they read here and that they will judge me to be something worse that what I already am.  For someone who has recently yelled: “ENOUGH!  I am DONE with worrying what people think of me!” I’m pretty worried about what people think of me.  Someone told me that once you hit forty you get over such fear because you’re more confident in who you are.  Someone else said it was because senile dementia begins to set in…

You see, the thing is… its not that what I choose to publish online is a different persona than that which I project in life and work – that I lie or falsify myself in either area.  But I guess I’m just wary of publicising the fact that some of my thoughts have made it into written form and are emblazoned across the Web because, in a sense, its only one part of me.  A part that can be held up and spread around out of context (if anyone actually could be bothered doing so!).

I’ve heard it said that “who you are when you’re alone is who you really are”.  I could be being rather hasty (it happens when you think ‘out loud’), but… b*ll*cks.  Maybe even with a capital ‘B’, but I’m not sure yet…  Surely different situations bring out different parts of your personality in a way which is neither false nor schizophrenic?

So, for example, if I’m with my best friend, I’m laid-back, blunt as a sledge hammer and sometimes ridiculously silly; if I’m with students, I’m more upbeat, phrase my sentences more carefully (sometimes!) and am generally more pragmatic; if I’m with older people from church I’m more measured, thoughtful and serious; and on my blog I’m much more flippant and articulate (its all relative, huh?!).

Which one of those people is the real me?  Surely all of them!?  I am not a two-dimensional character… I am a person, created in the image of Yahweh, and I cannot be summed up by the examination of one part of my life and to do so is to judge wrongly.

Is that what we do when we judge people?  We only look at one (maybe even two or three) ‘parts’ of a person and come to a conclusion, put them in a box and sit back with our arms folded smugly thinking we know them.  We look down on people’s insecurities because we don’t take the time to understand why they act or feel the way they do; we gossip about one thing someone once did without making the effort to find out why; we give up talking with someone we’ve known ‘inside out’ for a long time because we don’t recognise that their thoughts, opinions, dreams, desires, likes and dislikes are fluid and don’t fit inside the box we built any more.

That, I suppose is why only God can judge – He truly knows us inside out, upside down, right side up and back to front.  He sees all our ways, thoughts and actions all of the time.

I’m not saying that we can’t be false – just that when we’re different with different people its not always as deceptive as we think; nor is it something to get hung up on. Where is the line…?  I’ll leave that to you to conclude (or perhaps to the Jewish World Review?).

So, who is the real Small Corner…?

…

I am.

And then Tuesday came… (a.k.a The Great Crash of January 2008)

There have been several posts brewing in my illustrious mind in recent days and there may well be a sudden blogging boom in this small corner of the ‘parallel universe’.  This one, however, is most unexpected – or at least it was until it began to brew as I sat in the office today.  Who knows where it will go?  Who knows when it will stop?  Watch for the sign of the lollipop…

Last night at approximately 16.47, I was in a car accident.  From henceforth it shall be called

“The Great Crash of January 2008”.

Panic not, I am – as you can (hopefully) tell – still alive to tell the tale (soon to be the only 365-able part of yesterday). So, in true anything-and-everything-is-blog-fodder style, we must go back to bygone days of yore in order to set the scene for said Great Crash…

 *cue wobbly flashback screen*

I remember my friend Roberta and I taking a notion to cycle a couple of miles downhill to the local leisure centre when we were about 13.  Great idea at the time, not so good when going back UP the hill (the road with the graveyards if anyone is familiar with the Valley Leisure Centre).  It was half way through the uphill homeward slog that we composed our should-have-been-a-hit-record “Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo I wanna car” (I still remember the tune!).  Do you remember being 13 and the driving test glory days of 17 are a million years away?  Painful.  I longed to drive ever since that day.

Eventually the day of my test rolled round.  I passed.  First time.  Oh the freedom!  Oh the joy!  Oh the days of two years free insurance!  It was wonderful.  I bought sunglasses, I made mix tapes, I sniffed magic trees… and a passionate love affair with driving began.

So, for two happy, happy years I trundled away in a little dark blue Corsa with ne’er a scare nor bump.  Then the free insurance ran out.  The first quote we got was actually in the region of £5000.  I artistic-license you not.  Crazy.  We shopped around and around to try and get a better deal, but – alas – no affordable insurance for little 19 and a half year old me.

Thus began the Driving-less Years.

The human spirit is resilient and so my life went on.  I became accustomed to my lack of freedom and social life-less existence, sometimes aided by car-insured friends, sometimes dependant upon moody-driver-always-late-when-its-raining buses.  But – oh! – how I always longed for those heady days of “mumsie-pays-for-my-petrol” splendour.

Three long non-driving years ensued.  It was only when considering a second year at Bible College that I began to pray seriously for the miraculous provision of a car.  Four bus journeys a day and no mates had really begun to wear thin!  For ages I hummed and haa-ed whether to do another year at Bible College or to move to France.  (Who needs a car in France?!  Its only in Northern Ireland that a fifteen minute drive on clear roads takes one hour to travel on two buses.)  I finally made my decision and informed the college registrar that yes, she could tear up the one-year certificate I’d already received at my graduation and start writing the two-year diploma one instead – I was coming back.  She said: “Oh great!  It’ll be good to have you around.  You don’t happen to need a car do you?”

Whaaaaaaaat?!?

“Yeah, I got a phone call from a man who wanted to donate his son’s old car to someone who needed it.  Do you want it?”

Does a bear…?!?

(“I saw a bear once”)

Thus began a beautiful relationship with a lil red escort called Samuel (which means ‘asked of God’).  This is Sam:

Isn’t he lovely?! 

For 18 wonderful, free-and-independant months, Sam and I (and sometimes Daisy, but that’s another story) chugged merrily all over Ireland (well, the North and Sligo- do any other parts matter?).  It was so wonderful! *sniff, sniff*

Then disaster struck… Sam one day began to choke (she conveniently applies artistic license in omitting to tell the reader exactly why he began to ‘choke’) and nothing could be done to save him from a scrap yard fate.

Well done, good and faithful steed, well done and fare-thee-well…

(moment of reverent silence)

 The period of mourning over and a brief flirtation with a red Corsa later, the search began for my perfect car: a Ford Focus.  Not exactly the stuff of dreams I hear you cry, but I didn’t want anything too flash (only partly because of money issues!).  I wanted solid, reliable, quietly attractive with room in the boot for a guitar.  Several debates took place as to whether I should be waiting for the much-desired Focus or just test-drive whatever came along in the meantime.  Yes, many drew the obvious parallels to the husband/wife search.  Honestly, can’t a girl even get a car without people over-analysing?!  Gosh.

Then I saw him… the One.  A sleek, affordable Focus, all mine for the taking!!!  His name shall be call-ed Milo because… well, because girls have to give their car a name.  Its, like, the law.

(again conveniently omitting the exact details of this naming process for fear of being deemed completely bonkers.  The Daisy story is definitely worse, though…)

That was 11 months ago and Milo and I have been very happy ever since.  Bit of a wobble with a recent screw loose (!) but otherwise, great.

And then Tuesday came…

There we were, driving from the North Coast to the Glens of Gormley (or the Rock of Fergus to be more precise) when all of a sudden a numpty – SMACK! – bangs into the back of us at a roundabout:  My neck!  My CAAARRRR! MY goodness – its pouring out here!  Neck and shoulder banjaxed, a new bumper required.

*cue vast waves of sympathy*

We’ll survive.

…

You know, I envisaged this blog to be about the annoying-ness of the current blame-and-claim culture; the paranoia that makes you wary of saying anything more than ‘Give me your contact and insurance details, mate, then nark off’.  But telling a random story about the cars in my life so far has been much more fun.

For me 🙂

The moral of the story is, don’t expect anything more intelligent from a self-confessed un-intellectual.  At least until the whiplash goes down…