directions: the active principle of existence

I have been a graphic designer. I have been the author of a travel guide. I have been a jewellery designer, an entrepreneur, a receptionist, a waitress, a published poet, a switchboard operator, a promoter, a cashier, and I have taught computer skills. I have been a photographic assistant, a book keeper, a data capturer, and an events co-ordinator. I have been a paramedic, an outdoor education instructor, a life skills teacher and a pregnancy crisis counsellor. I have been an au pair, a television producer and a student.

Since I finished school nine years ago I have begun four different degrees, completed two different certificates and commenced another. I have lived in 6 different cities, in South Africa and Germany, for periods from one month to 2 years. In one town, I moved home 6 times in 14 months. I have travelled twelve countries in nine years. I have friends in twenty five different countries. I own property in none.

Who am I? I am a wanderer, a gypsy, a nomad. But let me formally introduce myself. My name is Wendy. I have breathed for 851 472 400 seconds and counting. My occupation is my life. In five years time I will probably be doing something I never dreamed I could. I would rather read a book then watch TV and I do not like tea or coffee. My favourite place is a waterfall surrounded on three sides by tall granite rock; a waterfall that most people will never find.

I love long solitary walks in beautiful places but thrive off quality time and conversation with my friends. I only like rules if I make them, and rebelliously follow rules made by other people. I break off split ends instead of biting my nails. I find it hard to persevere through tedium but I am learning. When I grow up I would like to be: a travel writer or a mom or a project manager for an NGO or a Sherpa in the Himalayas.

A few years ago I stopped at a tiny cemetery in a nondescript town. The graveyard was small and most of the tombstones are dated before my 95 year old grandfather’s parents were born. It is rarely visited and no fresh flowers are scattered among the two dozen or so tombs. I cannot recall what was inscribed on most of the tombstones. My memories do not recollect anyone famous or anybody I am related to resting in the soil. I do remember one inscription silenced the groaning gravel. I ran to fetch a pen and paper and recorded what it said:

“Mary Fisher

1845 – 1873

Deeply Regretted”

I do not know who Mary Fisher was. I have no knowledge of her life. For me her entire life is contained in the dash between those two numbers: fleeting, fragile, empty. I am not aware of the circumstances of her death. I only knew in that moment that I did not want that epitaph on my grave. I did not want my name and then the words “deeply regretted” tagged onto the end.

Since then, I have often speculated whether Mary Fisher deeply regretted not doing something in her life, or whether her family grieved deeply over her death at 28. I can shed no light on the matter, but imagine having your entire life summed up by the words: “deeply regretted”. Not intensely loved. Not dearly beloved or greatly missed. Not enthusiastically lived. Not a whisper of a life embraced with vivacity and animation and love. Instead of life, regret is engraved, and remembered, as the final word on an intriguing woman’s life.

I walked away, questions agitating my pace. How to breathe life in and shout it out? How to keep a soul fertile to changes, places, people and God? How to laugh often and much, yet weep with strangers? How to face decisions that could change everything? How to stand beneath the weight of familiarity and truth; love and tragedy; birth and the ache of beauty, and not shrink back but stand, as beneath a thunderous waterfall and enjoy the feeling of water awakening each skin cell? How to live with courage and pursue the dreams that scare me? How to live and not regret?

I am not really brave so I need to remind myself that I am capable of doing the things that I fear. My cowardice requires a tap on the shoulder and a reminder that I do not want to live my life alone in a dark corner reading a book; that I want to live with abandon and deeply. I want to be present and alive; able to let things go when they are dead and provide space for the living things to grow. I do not want to regret the things I have not done nor look with remorse on things I have done. And I do not want fear to rule my heart.

It takes courage to pursue dreams in life; to be who you are. It requires guts to choose a career that suits and challenges you; that pushes you to reach your potential. It is much easier to stagnate, to stay where you are when the time has come to do a new thing; maybe the thing you fear. For some this might be moving to a new place, a new job, a new relationship. For me the new thing is finding the courage to stay, to put down roots, to not push people away when they try to love me, to lose my nomad status and remain actively pursuing life.

I guess life has always been this way for nomads and wanderers: the constant tension between pegging a tent down against the wind and moving onto the next spot. The steady question of whether to bore a well for water, weighed against the nomad’s desire to fill up the camel skins and depart for the next oasis. The nomad’s choice is between knowing where one will sleep for the next ten years and not knowing where one will wake up tomorrow. It is a decision for life in the midst of existence. The resolution to always choose to do what will allow the nomad to feel most alive, while doing what is best for other desert travellers.

I have not always been a wandering nomad. When I was five I knew - like I knew that my mom would kiss me better when I scraped my knee -that I wanted to be a missionary doctor. I also knew that to be a good missionary doctor in Africa would require a horse and two Dalmatians. I became a wanderer as I grew up and discovered picture books of Scandinavia, and journalism, and different breeds of dogs. At 16, I decided I wanted to be a paramedic and work in war zones like Afghanistan and Iraq. Ever since I have swayed back and forth, like a nomad. I have studied paramedics, journalism, then paramedics again, and I am presently studying a postgraduate degree in Applied Linguistics. You see, I have this whole finding direction in life thing sorted!

Actually, strangely enough I think that I do. It may not seem like it: I do not have a 5 year plan, or a degree or a clue what I am doing next year. I think that finding direction in life has more to do with momentum then with finding a career or vocation. Momentum requires movement; it is an energy, a drive, a force that a person possesses. People who stagnate do not need directions because they are not going anywhere, they are not changing. It is only people, who constantly seek change and to be changed, that need directions.

I do not want to be the same person in ten years that I am today. I do not want to stop learning, living and laughing. I need to move, to change to grow, to try things and fail, in order to live deeply without regretting a second. If I had to do my life over; I would make it look exactly like the life I have lived: I would still have Plan B, C and Y as part of plan A. I would take the same friends along on road trips, scream my heart out to the same music and write off the same vehicles. I would still watch the sun set in a storm. I would still be a wanderer, a gypsy, a nomad. And I might still be a Sherpa in the Himalayas.  

Our diversity, His Glory

I spent Saturday night in China. Okay, not exactly I spent it on a street in Johannesburg which had been transformed into a patch of China by the South African Chinese community in celebration of New Years. I went with my boyfriend and some friends and we sat on the pavement beneath a hundred or so crackers which would later be lit for a dragon to scoff. We people watched, we firework watched and my boyfriend lent over and said, "All these people are God's people. God made every one in his image."

I looked around and I thought how incredibly true that was. There was a sea of people everywhere of almost every tribe and tongue and nation. All around I could hear people speaking languages I couldn't understand or English with an accent I couldn't place. There were Chinese people and Japanese people and Vietnamese people. There were Zulu people and Xhosa people and Mozambiquen people. There were American people and British people and I think even an Australian somewhere in the mix. There were South African's of every imaginable skin tone and ethinic background. And there were children with parents of different cultures and skin tones. All these people were God's people. God made every one in HIS image.

Last night, I was reading Louie Giglio and I came across this paragraph: "When God made the universe, His goal was not to make a habitat for man, but rather to make a statement about Himself. As He fashioned earth, God was not simply acting as man's interior (and exterior) designer, creating a global environment we all would love and enjoy. He was mostly thinking about Himself...when he created the first man and woman, God wasn't obsessed with the glory of the human race, but with His own glory. And it's there, everywhere - mysteriously woven into our DNA, the image-stamp of the Creator, allowing us to share a unique intimacy with the almighty and reflect His glory."

I was reflecting on how all those diverse people are Saturday night are God's people, each and everyone created in his image. Each and everyone a fragment of God reflecting who he is into the world, each and everyone making a statement about God whether they acknowledge his existence or deny it. God created us diverse because it would best glorify him, because it best show who he is: huge, indefinable, unimaginable, holy. Our diversity, our God-determined DNA, is for his Glory.

Immersion: Danny & Jesus

I'm a producer and researcher and sometimes scriptwriter for a Christian TV Channel. I spend my time phoning artists, bands and celebrities, well, normally their managers and agents. I call record labels and event management companies and production houses, which is how I met Danny.

I called Danny to request music videos for the show. He was helpful and pleasant and promised to send the tapes the next day. I waited a few days and then emailed him. He replied that he had the flu and was not at work but would send them to me when he got back. He phoned awhile later, whilst I was running errands , and asked if he could drop the videos off. He left them with one of my colleagues. I called him to say thank you.

The following Monday on my drive home my phone rings.

“Hi Wendy! It’s Danny. How are you? Sorry, I’m phoning after working hours but I’m still working and I wanted to tell you this.”

“No problem, Danny.” I start to look for a place to pull over while Danny talks.

“I don’t know if you can use this or not but I thought I’d let you know anyway.”

“Cool”, I say, thinking Danny is about to tell me one of his bands would like to come on the show.

“Well, Wendy, this weekend, was hectic with gigs and stuff, and I got two punctures on Saturday night...”

I mumble something encouraging while wondering why on earth he is telling me this and what it has to do with me booking a band on the show.

Danny talks on “...First one tyre went and then the spare. I could have got them fixed. I probably should have got them fixed but I didn’t. This morning when I went out to the car to leave for work, the tyres were flat and one was shredded.”

I find a gas station to pull into because the conversation is shaping up in such a manner that it requires my full attention.

"Now, I live on a small holding you see Wendy. I am the only person there. My housemate is in a heavy metal band and he wasn’t around. I live on a small holding and it is quite far out of town. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to get to work. So I got down on my knees, on my knees on the ground next to my car. And I prayed. I prayed to God. I told him he would have to get me out of there. And could he please make it easy.”

“Then do you know what Wendy, a pickup stopped, and out got this guy wearing a leather jacket with the words, “lamb of God” on the back, can you believe it Wendy? “Lamb of God!” He climbed out the vehicle and said, ‘man, it looks like you’ve got a problem with your tyres. Do you need some help?’ I asked if he could give me a lift to the garage. He told me he had dropped his grandfather off in the area and had decided to drop by and see my flatmate. How cool is that, Wendy? Before I even prayed God answered.”

By this stage I was smiling, grinning, laughing. I told Danny, it was amazing, that God was amazing. Then he got all shy and said, “So I just wanted to tell you that. You got the videos I sent you and everything is alright on my side?”

“Ja, it’s all great Danny.”

“Bye then.”

“Bye.”

I drove the rest of the way home laughing and crying and praying. I loved that God had broken into Danny’s life. I thought it was the coolest thing ever that God had decided that he was going to rock Danny’s world that Monday morning. I felt honoured Danny decided to share his moment, when he realised Jesus likes him, with me. I felt humbled that God put me in the position where people like Danny can phone and tell me Jesus likes them. I am looking forward to the day when Danny calls to say that Jesus and him are now friends. In the meantime I will keep immersing myself in a world where people like Danny have yet to meet a man like Jesus.

But for the grace of God...

I shared a toasted sandwhich and my heart with a friend of mine today. We spoke about haircuts and weather and deadlines and relationships with men going through a divorce. She told me about how it all happened so fast and how she hadn't thought it would ever happen to her and how so many of her friends judge her while saying, "I'm not judging but..."

I told her, "I was sorry." Sorry for the breakup. And sorry for the friends who had hurt her. Sorry for the pain I could see seeping out her eyes and down her cheeks. Sorry that I couldn't help her. Sorry that I couldn't make it all better.

As I drove away from lunch I thought about how quickly I judge others. How quick I am to think, "I wouldn't have done that!" or "What were you thinking?" or to express dissappointment when all the other person wants is love. They want a response of love that recognises how close to the edge we come in failing to live perfectly. A response which cracks us open in vulnerabilty and offers a hand to say, "I'll help you get to the other side even if by associating with you I'll be tarred with the same brush". A response which shouts, "But for the grace of God, go I..."

Skin

Percentage of the human race that has skin: 100 percent.
Percentage of your body weight that is skin: 16 percent.
Percentage of your life that is determined by your skin: Unknown.

Your skin is your body's largest organ, it covers the entire surface and has a surface area of about two square meters. It forms a tough physical barrier to protect your internal organs but anyone who has ever had to deal with race issues will know that skin does nothing to protect your emotions.

Last night I watched the movie Skin which is a film about family, forgiveness and never giving up no matter what colour your skin might be. The Laing family could have been just another white Afrikaans family growing up in apartheid South Africa but then they had a daughter Sandra who had much darker skin, curly hair and the appearance of someone of mixed race. Genetic testing proved she was the daughter of her white mother and father and her case became one of the most striking examples of recessive genes finally having recombined after several generations, and once again forming an individual reflective of racial mixing which occurred several generations previously.

Under the South African apartheid government this led to much difficulty for the family. Officially people of different races weren't allowed to socialise, live under the same roof, share a toilet or a queue. In a country where race was more important than character and anyone who wasn't white was treated as sub-human this was a tragedy for the family which ultimately resulted in Sandra running away and losing contact with her parents and her two brothers.

The movie got me thinking about race again, something I've thought about quite frequently since I started dating a man of another race just over a year ago. What does race really mean? How does it define a person? What colour is God? And does it really matter? I remember reading a memoir about a black man's tribute to his white mother, long before I dated interracially and being struck by a passage where James McBride asks what colour is God and his mother replies, "God is the colour of water. Water doesn't have a colour." I liked it then and I like it now. It just reminds me that God is so much bigger than the colour of our skin, then the stereotypes of race, then the ocean of differences between tones of melanin.

Growing up in South Africa, I am probably more sensitised to race than if I'd grown up in another country. I can't deny that I see it. I know I'm paler than my dark boyfriend. I'm not colourblind. When I met Nicole C. Mullen last year as part of my job I had quite a long chat with her about interracial relationships and I loved what she said about raising her bi-racial children, "We talk about history - there were good white people and there were bad white people. There were good black people and there were bad black people. You'll always have that. We have currently and we will have it in the future. Colour's not what makes them good or bad. It's the heart of man. And without Jesus Christ, we're all inherently evil. And without Him redeeming us and saving us, that's our lot in life."

I love that we can't change the colour of our skin, that we can't change the DNA of our race but we can change our hearts. I love that Jesus doesn't view the amount of melanin in our bodies as a barrier to him, that he doesn't let it determine our entry into heaven, that God is a father to black, white, yellow, pink, blue and every colour in between people and that no government on earth can separate him from his kids. I love that neither recessive genes or white skin or the way my hair curls can ever separate me from the love of God.

Percentage of the human race that has skin: 100 percent.

Percentage of your body weight that is skin: 16 percent.
Percentage of your relationship with God that is determined by your skin: 0 percent.