Looking for answers.

We live in a world of sorrows.

A world soaked in conflict, injustice and poverty.

We live in a world touched by disease, that which is incurable, that which is unstoppable.

We live in a world where today’s newspaper is someone’s bedding and a cardboard construction against an unused wall is called home.

We live in a world where you’re too old, too young, too immature, too independent, too co-dependant, not spontaneous enough, not sensible enough, too this, too that but never enough.

We live in a world where tears go unnoticed; where the burdened become someone else’s responsibility and stay medicated to disguise the pain.

We live in a world where hopelessness twists its tendrils into the cavity of damaged hearts and optimism seeps through the once half-full glass leaving it drained dry.

We live observing the innocent abused, their youth spent in a pendulum-like existence choosing to fight or fly, destination unknown.

We live in a world where confidence is foreign or deemed arrogant.

We live in a world where predictions are promises of disasters to come, counting the seconds until it’s outside our door. Knock, knock…who’s there? Do we answer?

We live in a world where faith is mocked, seen as a crutch, a disability, for believing in Something or Someone who may have another point of view.

We live in a world where courage turns its face away because it’s “not my problem” and what’s right or wrong no longer has distinction because interpretation and perception are ambiguous.

We live in a world of mistakes, regrets, brokenness and disappointments.

Why then, why then, is this world still so, so beautiful?

Confession of a gay girl.

Some things you just can’t understand. I was born a girl, grown into a woman. A woman who likes women. But I didn’t ask for this.

My first memory of same-sex attraction was when I was 16 in my second-to-last year of school. A random comment made to me by a female friend, met my: “Why? Are you interested?” with a wide smile, raised eyebrows and…nothing more.

My twenties were spent shoving the “elephant” behind the curtain, attempting to hide it, purge it, deliver it, ignore it and lie about it. Addressing it became more of an issue than pretending it wasn’t there anymore – but truth won’t stay hidden any more than a candle can restrict how much light it emits. To be fair, it was a pretty big elephant.

My coming out was, for some, a huge insult to their outlook on life. It was an affront to the God I claimed faith in, loved with all my heart and wept before to please, please, please change me. Words were not needed; the disgust written in several friends' eyes was a visual megaphone. It made me realise how much effort we put into feeling accepted - and how much we deny ourselves the opportunity to learn who we truly are before being moulded into a form so unlike that which we were designed to become.

The difficult thing is that I’ve read all the arguments; the verses, the quotes, the discussions about being gay. I have learnt from challenges already faced and would be naïve to assume the battle is over. I know what it feels like to come eye to eye with something you fear and accept it really is real, no matter how much you’d like to escape it. Unfortunately some things can’t be explained or simply given a dictionary definition which will prove satisfactory to an inquisitive heart. In short, I don’t have all the answers.

I don’t know why. I sure as heck don’t know why me. What I do know is that my sexuality doesn’t define who I am. And it’s not that I “just haven’t met the right man yet”. I have a couple of extremely attractive male friends who would be perfect husband material! And it’s not genetics; abnormal chromosomes or “she must have excessive oestrogen”. And no, there’s no history of abuse – mental, physical, spiritual or otherwise – in my younger years, teens or beyond. I’m just me.

And to be honest, I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. This is my life; the adventure I’ve chosen and if I have to do it riding a rainbow, at least I know it’s going to be colourful.

Running out of Vegemite at the half-year mark.

Today, six months ago, I left my homeland.

I left with a pack on my back, a pack on my front, packing my undies. Figuratively speaking.

It seems then like a good time to reflect on what has happened since that October 1, 2010 departure date and think about what the next half year might bring…

I don’t want to do the “unless you’ve been there you won’t know what it’s like” deal but I probably will so just step into the roller coaster seat behind me, strap yourself in and pull down the bar – right now I don’t know where this is heading…

To come to the other side of the world I gave up my job as a reporter, the best house I’ve ever lived at, my car which boy racers tried to drag me off in and the security of feeling settled. All these might not seem like much, and realistically, they aren’t. But when the list becomes more serious like not being able to watch my nieces and nephew growing up or spending time with family on their birthday or Christmas and having to wait for updates in the early hours of the morning when a friend is battling Death and not knowing what the outcome could be leaves you feeling extremely separated and, to be blunt, selfish.

Why selfish? Because I chose this. I chose to save for two years straight with the intention of leaving. I chose to leave and not come back for a decent amount of time. I chose and choices have consequences.

But here’s the thing: I only have one life. And I don’t want to be one of those people who get to the end of theirs and say I never did anything because it wasn’t convenient or the right time for others. Doing that would be denying the opportunities life brings my way and although I’ll put my hand in the air and admit, yes, there are extremely lonely days here, there are many when the sun shines too.

So this is what I know:

- From my window I can see the steeple of a 900-year-old church. I semi-sung Christmas carols with its choir. I have never sung in a 900-year-old church before. I couldn’t do that in New Zealand.

- I have eaten paella (pay-a-yah), a Spanish rice dish, traditional to the country. No matter what people say, authentic dishes always taste different across a border or vast expanse of water. The authenticity of local produce and ways of cooking are lost.

- I am part of a community here, with people who recognise me on the street and know my name – I’m not just, “One of those girls from New Zealand living on Tory…”

- I made it to Ireland. This is probably my greatest personal achievement while being over here, so far. It was on my Bucket List (with stipulations) and I made it with two days to spare.

- I am getting to do and experience things I may never again do in my lifetime.

Will I have changed when I return? I hope so. These six months have shown me what I have back home in Aotearoa but also what I have to look forward to while travelling. And when I board that plane at Heathrow, NZ bound, I’m sure the time spent here will have felt like a single breath.

But wouldn’t it be wonderful if the next six months proved to be even more exhilarating than the previous ones?

I for one, am counting on it.

Set in stone.

Most of us, it seems, are dictated to on a daily basis.

Time to wake up. Time to take the kids to school. Time for the morning meeting. Time for dinner. Time to go to bed. Time to go to sleep. Time to do it all again.

I made my entrance into the world at 7.56am. I know this because it was recorded (and the fact that 11 minutes earlier my twin's was also).

Taking a moment to find the definition of 'time' I discover it means a temporal length of an event or entity’s existence. So technically we not only live within the parameters of it, we are ourselves a time zone. We are a space; a spell; a stint; a stretch; a span. Whatever way you look at it we have a beginning and an end.

For how long though? How much time do I have left? How many hours, months and seasons do I have to play with – because at the end of the day, well, that’s one less left in my existence. And who knows if this day I’ve lived half my life or whether tomorrow I have only a handful of breaths to do with what I choose.

And what I choose counts because time waits for no man. It’s been like that since the beginning – but let’s not get into that discussion.

I think Eleanor Roosevelt had it right when she said: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift which is why we call it the present.”

One day; 24 hours; 86,400 seconds. Time may be up my sleeve but it’s out of my hands to change it.

Everywhere You Go.

Novelist Marcel Proust once said a change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves.

Really?

It begs the question, how much change is needed in said weather to bring that recreation? In the world it can take as little as a split-second lightning strike or maybe something more extensive like the longest recorded drought in history at Chile’s Atacama Desert lasting 400 years from 1571 to 1971.

The world I can understand being recreated and realistically you’d have your head in the sand to say natural disasters weren’t on the increase.

But what about the recreation in ourselves? Or of ourselves?

Every year in the first two weeks of January I get My Song. My Song is something that sets the theme for the 12 months that follow. Sometimes it’s a challenge to see things differently, like last year was U2’s Beautiful Day. Mostly I think it’s to make me look outside myself; learn to be a lot more thankful and recognise the part I play in the world. My Song is an encouragement to see things differently, change perspective, live life fully.

So this year My Song is one I think Marcel Proust would agree fitted his words.

Crowded House’s Weather With You is going to keep me on my toes, but if that’s in gumboots or jandals remains to be seen. If I take the weather with me everywhere I go, then it stands to reason sometimes my inner storminess will need to get blown out to sea.

Growth takes every season’s input and during those three-month time frames important things are taking place. Did you know there are 168 types of weather including: pea soup, solar eclipse, dust devil, bitter brisk, midnight sun, solar corona, whirlpool, meteorite strike, falling star, howling wind and my favourite ~ beastly?

Needless to say, sometimes the forecast doesn’t quite turn out as expected. I can only hope my inner-meteorologist is prepared for whatever the morning sky brings despite what the mercury indicates on the thermometer.

Dreaming of a White Christmas.

There's something to be said about Christmas trees. Fake or for real, they generate excitement.

At my home, 12 days before That Day, a well-loved cardboard box (bearing original price sticker from the 70s) is brought out of storage and contents inspected before decorating the tree begins.


Mrs Santa Claus is made of red and white felt, stands around eight centimeters tall with a black leather belt and a cotton stitched smile that could melt an exhausted reindeer's heart. Her partner, Mr Santa Claus, is attired similarly but his face is gruffer - like a goat chewing a discarded bicycle inner tube. By the way, titles were always a sign of respect and may mean a grander gift from the Jolly Man Himself who, according to parental knowledge, could be listening down the chimney at any time of the year.


A set of six brass bells comes next, chiming delicately, held by red ribbon bows - individually no bigger than a British penny. Older than the box, belonging to generations past, they are tarnished but still sound sweet. Their origin, unfortunately, is long forgotten but every year they are the decoration fought over, favoured by all ages.


"Careful with those; be gentle," admonishes an adult as several glass baubles are unwrapped from tight tissue cocoons. Held close for viewing, within sit bright-breasted Robins encased by a snow flaked sphere. A cold Christmas is an enigma for me, a southern-hemisphere girl, and as a child the fragile globes created a sense of wonder at how others celebrate this season around the world.


Next are the handmade ornaments; clay slabs painted by five-year-old fingers in their first year at school. Unglazed, unfired, rustic and rudimentary. The parents' favourite of course. Tinsel coils are then unrolled, loop by fraying loop. A sparkling array of green and blue strategically positioned on scratchy pine branches. They've seen better years but this tree is themed by tradition, rather than colour or cost. It is a family ritual, an event.


Candy canes come last, almost as an afterthought, but before them is the celebrity of the show. My family is not of a particular faith, believing a star is what wishes can be made on, whether shooting across a night sky or placed at the top of an evergreen. It is a symbol of hope and togetherness, which is important - because this year there will be no decorating the tree for me.


There will be no Mrs and Mr Claus dictating scary Santa scenarios. The tinsel will remain tightly wound, the once-a-year ceramic memories will lie buried beneath silent bells. The shining star will cast no Yuletide magic.

But those birds in their breakable orb might just fly free to show me their realm as the temperature drops by the day and this southern hemisphere girl looks forward to her first ever white Christmas.

W. W. You. Do? (And the day I rode the carousel.)

A few years ago there was the WWJD (What Would Jesus Do?) fad. Now I’d just like to state, first of all, this is not a spiel about faith, God or musings of the spiritual kind.

I’ve been thinking about influence these past few weeks and maybe this would be better titled ‘What Would Who Do?’. Because no matter what creed you follow, having someone who motivates you to challenge yourself can’t be a bad thing. Right?

On the fleshly side of life, call them what you will: role model, super hero…friend, this is the person who makes you consider your options, be resolute in decisions – jump off the cliff believing you’ll be okay. It was this person who said to me before embarking to unknown lands, “If an opportunity comes your way, go for it!”

That’s why I decided to ride the carousel.

Built in Victorian times, chiming tunes like an organ grinder’s monkey, noble steeds and cockerels circle in rows of three. A thousand bulbs shed iridescent yellow light illuminating gold serif writing and prancing hooves.

Astride Milly (appropriate in the circumstances) I see young and younger choosing their chargers. When a bell rings the carousel starts, quickly picking up speed. Faces whizz by, anonymous, cameras poised and I think in another time and place I don’t know if I’d do this…this child’s thing. This space usually relegated to the under 10’s. Why? Because it’s too youthful? Too un-adult like?

What would you do? What would who do? What would I do? Take the opportunity and see what happens…