findingbrightplaces

right there: my story of singleness

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 17 Feb 2014 10:38:00 +0000

(Russ Mills)

I’ve read about 8965, 7346 blogs dedicated to this one topic. And I can’t claim to be any different. I guess I never imagined what would come tumbling out of my fingers and onto this screen. However, it’s part of my journey, part of what could connect pieces of my story to parts of yours.

It began with this silly dreamers disease and another dream to pack on to the pile of one's iv had stored up and abandoned in the dust-covered, moth-eaten corner of my once upon a time...

I wonder how I got here again. How I ended up dreaming as I did.

It was about you, of course, the man who I will one day be tethered to. Or not.

Because no longer does time mean what it once did. Its value is still as gold but goals no longer validate me.

My timeline has been disrupted.

I see things differently now.

Now that I don't live for you. Or breathe to walk down the aisle. Or eat to fit into a dress. A dress I'd created and re-created from the age of 4 when princesses married knights and when real men fought dragons. Growing up can so easily eradicate the innocence in us. We live through the burdens of our weary world carrying scars of rejection from the knights that inflict pain and the real men that create trouble, turning into dragons that inject heartbreak into our souls. I don't always like being single and I don't pretend to be secure about your absence. But I also don't imagine meeting you anymore. Like I did for years. "Always dress up and get out because you never know who you might meet" I was once told. A theory I'd applied because there was always that odd slice of hope. You know. That hope. The hope you wish was far-removed. The hope you didn't ask to exist or penetrate into the muscular fiber of your beating heart. The hope that pokes its head too far out at the most inconvenient and least expected moments in this life. The hope that my own fairytale might not have expired just yet.

Yet I know I'm getting old. Grey haired, less of a people-pleaser, a little bolder at 28 than I was at 22. That 22 year old self that sometimes stares back at me from pictures I keep hidden on a hard-drive. That self that seemed excitable and carefree. She fascinates me. Sometimes the comparison leaves me feeling a little wiser than her, and yet, most often, a little dumber. She believes in “the one”, in a soulmate who you’re destined and designed for as if that were second in importance to being knit together in your mother’s womb. But the man of my dreams is no guarantee. Being 22 certainly made dreaming of prosperity far easier. Edward Cullen was always bound to walk in. To arrive. To either fix the mess of me or add to my own know-it-all Christian walk of bravery.

I was always different. Never faithfully praying for my future husband or planning my pinterest wedding from flowers to décor. Sure I had a dress. Everyone does. But I felt recognized by God for my fight against the emotional-girl-porn cliché of dreaming. I felt validated for my physical purity. I felt like I’d earned it. I unconventionally even ran away from the immense unintentional pressure to conform and did the travel-as-a-single-girl story. I wanted to matter outside of a status. I wanted to prove to myself that I was different and deserving of a prize. So I kept paddling out and waiting for my wave,

my turn.

My God-given right to the perfect story.

(instagram.com/ambervdhoff)

Instead, time dragged, the tide went out, the sun set and what came crashing in were some new status’ of negation: Not dating. Not married. Not pregnant. Not a mother. Not a home-owner.

No one asked me to dance. No one ever does. You're left sitting at the table eating wedding cake… alone.

But I'm me. 101 percent Faye Claire Mc Clean. It's who I've been for 28 years. I've changed. I've grown. I've learnt. A lot. I can offer you tips on morning sickness as most of my friends have been pregnant. I can tell you how to balance a household with a toddler and 8-month-old twins because I've au paired for over 15 different families. I’ve had freedom to drop everything and chill with friends, to run when I want, to travel, eat baked beans on toast, sleep on random couches, run away, write personal novels of adventure, drink large quantities of wine, pray into the early hours of the morning, dance when I’m home alone, spend time examining the world. I’ve had freedom. I’ve had time. I’ve had an entirely different life from those of my friends who are married with kids. I’ve absolutely loved and thrived in sucking the marrow out of my single days. And still…

Sometimes I find myself hovering in that strange contemplative space of waiting. Armed in a slightly stretched wet suite, board under arm, my toes digging into the soft sand, eyes scanning the horizon… because although I’ll tell you I’m not waiting, I often feel like I am.

I think singleness is often a juxtaposition of the joy and sadness at the same time. Feelings that are so mixed together that it is hard to tell where one emotion ends and the other begins. Because standing on that beach with a strange sense of expectation is somewhat exciting. No regrets of a wasted life. I have gradually unconformed myself to the stuff this world declares to be satisfying and settled the ‘cure to the itch’ in a no compromise submission to my heavenly husband. Not that it’s easy.

A constant consumption of humility and relinquishing of control.

(http://themountainlaurel.tumblr.com/)

Sometimes society also has a rather hard-core way of shoving you into a rough reality check when you get too high on freedom. When you’re always the bridesmaid and never the bride, when you’re excluded from coupley dinner dates and ignored because you may pose a threat to the insecure newly weds. When you’re told you better get married and have kids because your body has passed it’s prime or when you aren’t given as much responsibility or opportunity because singleness somehow equals weakness. When you’re judged because you’ve [obviously] been too fussy with men to STILL-be-single at this age or when you’re abusively tied into all kinds of ‘serving’ or working extensively-long-hour-roles because lets face it: Single people don’t have lives right?

But the beauty of it all is that Jesus meets us there. At either point of joy or sadness or at that mixed moment of heart-racing, desolate reliant contentment and terrifying confusion. He meets us in that corner of judgement, scorn, exhaustion and in the moment when validating our singleness just doesn’t sound ‘enough’.

Right there.

He meets us right there.

And perhaps one of my most extraordinary realizations, reached at a point when I was wandering in solice up a mountain in the snow-covered Dolomites. The gripping reality that strikes at a moment you least expect. His gentle voice that sounds so different to that of the simplest-sounding cliché I’ve heard 8965, 7346 times. The truth. A fact that can be applied to most other human-being life struggles:

This one thing can never be all I live for.

No matter how much pressure builds, no matter how many of my peers portray seemingly perfect little homes. It cannot be the one thing I dream of. It cannot be my happy ending. It cannot be the blessing or prize or joy I keep waiting for as a sign of His favour or approval. It cannot be the way He gives me the desires of my heart. It cannot become a mind-game that I use as a trick of reverse psychology in my walk with Him.

Because perhaps God really does want to fulfill the promises He has given us. And perhaps He will.

In ways we can’t understand. Like he did for countless hero’s of the faith. He did it for them. He can do it for us too. Perhaps the hurtful actions of those dragons will become less confusing and seem more ordained in the light of His perspective. Perhaps our fairytale has always only ever been found in His perfect love.

His perfect love that I will spend my entire life trying to fathom.

And this is my story. This is the story that I get to tell and the story that I live in.

The story He has built for me over the years.

(Similar to a story I wrote in 2011: http://whattodowithdaylight.blogspot.it/2011/05/enough.html)

He is right there. He always was. Always is. And always will be.

Right there.

So if you find yourself, similarly to me, to be in a place of waiting, whether for someone, something, an answer, a message, healing, joy or just a moment of restorative respite.

Start where you are and allow Him in.

Right there.

He is worth all of it.

Giving to us. Overwhelming us. Speaking to us. Caring for us. Protecting us. Loving us. Listening to us. Providing for us. Acting on behalf of us. Lavishing us.

And meeting us.

Right there.

An ancient hymn (by Bradford Torrey) expresses this best:

Not so in haste, my heart!

Have faith in God, and wait;

Although He longer long,

He never comes too late.

He never comes too late;

He knoweth what is best;

Vex not thyself in vain;

Until He cometh, rest.

Until He cometh, rest,

Nor grudge the hours that roll;

The feet that wait for God

Are soonest at the goal.

Are soonest at the goal

That is not gained with speed;

Then hold thee still, my heart,

For I shall wait His lead.

the beatboxer.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 25 Oct 2013 14:21:00 +0000

Standing against an old derelict building in urban Rome.
Down some side-street near to an ancient dome.

Tattered moth-eaten jeans, a grey extra large t-shirt and a light blue cap pulled down low. Barely revealing his eyes.

Eyes fixated on a spot across the street.
A distant land where your passion gives you meat.
Where reality isn't made in a status or a tweet.

His posture slightly hunched, left hand moving up and down, the quivering motion of his throat.
This imitation of sound is more than noise. More than your crumpled up bank-note.
Its as poignant as a famous quote.

Controlled poise. Earth-shattering tempo. And then… [wait for it]… the zenith of bass.
It thumps at your chest like a formula one vehicle starting up before a race.

His drumline to an inner percussion.

So focused that he doesn’t notice the undulating movement of people around him.
The sway of international tourists and the swagger of locals who come to marvel at the synchronized sound that echoes like a thousand choirs singing a hymn. The fastest bound beat that filters into those dirty sidewalks of the bustling city centre. It seems to graze across the cobbled ground, making its way over those long bridges, all along the verdant Tiber River. And even into the deafest of ears it may enter.

It's a rhythm that wont let up.

Unscathed by the ungenerous. Lost in a world of his own.
A few pitiful copper coins did not dismantle his backbone.
He is defined by a different motto. A different chord.

A tacit message to the world.

Like the Pied Piper of the streets with a different intent.

He spreads a “live out your passion” courageous announcement.

wet behind the ears.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 25 Oct 2013 12:31:00 +0000

She sits a little upright, her back hunched ever so slightly over a book entitled “When in Rome”. Her skin, old and wrinkled like an old renaissance portrait, tells a story in itself. Mixed hues of pinks, blues, purples and browns. She is her own canvass. She looks up, to stare out our little glass cage at the passing autumn scenery with a tranquil contentment. There’s a certainty in her movements. A peace in her posture. She makes age look lovely.

Her eyes are an ocean-on-a-fine-day-kinda-blue. They draw you in and almost swallow you up if you hold her gaze. They seem detached from her body with their sparkling excitement.

Like aged wine, matured in a cellar with care, she seems to emit a tranquil worth. There’s nothing compulsive about her aura.

I dare to broach a question. She smiles, takes a sweet, considerate breath and speaks. I sit and listen to the words that flow from her like a trapeze artist’s movements in, under and through my inquisitive mind. Her words create a feeling within me similar to how deep-sea divers must feel when their apparatus beeps to alert them of treasure on the ocean floor.

Carl Sandburg wrote, “I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.”

I think he was wrong. Sometimes beautiful things get more beautiful over time.

I can only imagine that as you grow older you begin to love and appreciate those who are older than you. Perhaps it is in realizing how vulnerable and susceptible we are, as human beings, to life and the “unexpected” that we can see how our lives are but a fleeting shadow. As Psalm 39: 6 says, “Surely everyone goes around like a mere phantom…” and James 4: 15, “You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”

Last year my gran was rushed into CCU for problems with her heart and lungs. She is an incredible inspiration to me as at almost 85 she is highly capable and lives by herself with a huge social circle. She is mentally alert, full of fun and laughter and has seriously Carpe Diemed the heck out of life. I have often compared her social life to mine and felt slightly inadequate and boring. I remember that while we sat with her through visiting hours for a week – many of her friends came to see her. Some were younger although the vast majority were older people who walked into that hospital as the news spread. At one point, as a lady named Molly, aged 92, was pushed into the ward in a wheel chair, I distinctly felt as if the room was being filled with generals…

Generals who have fought battles and conquered kingdoms.

Men and women who have walked this life and experienced things we may never see or fully understand.

These are the pioneers and heroes who planted the seeds and cultivated the land on which we have built houses and grown rose bushes, with distinct aromas and perfumes.

I believe we are able to glean from and learn so much from those who are older and have gone ahead of us.

They have so much to offer to those of us who are younger and still learning how to live in the midst of the sometimes tough soil of life. Their history is filled with nourishing and rich rain - seeping into what sometimes seems to us to be a rather monotonous existence. Their stories are like memoirs of world leaders. Catalysts of change.

During my travel experiences this year – I often, if not always, choose to sit next to elderly women. One’s similar to the British lady I described above. And no, I’m not a freak. The reason for this is that they are safe because they wont hit on me, bother me with stupid chatter, annoy me, stare at me, ask for my number, creep me out or tell me they want to “f*ck me” (no lies). On trains, in flights, in airports, at stations, in coffee shops… I will always scan the crowd for a safe little old lady. Doing so had led to some inspiring and rather humbling moments as simple questions turn into stories that have challenged my naïve and somewhat idealistic outlook on life.

Being in Italy has also helped re-define the way I view elderly folk. They are valued here. It’s part of Italian culture. Your parents and grandparents play an essential role in your day-to-day life. They are looked after and have a space in society. A space where they are cherished, not simply because of what they once were… but because of who they are now, what they have to impart and give. Sadly, I think this goes against normal Western culture.

I know that I am guilty of not always including or showing appreciation for those who are older and wiser in my life. Over the years I’ve been blessed with consistent mentors, grey-haired friends, mind blowing parents and a gran who never ceases to amaze me. I know I might never change the world, or impact society as I dream but I’m learning that I can begin with consciously changing the small things.

Because, most often, beneath a plain and perhaps wrinkled exterior is something extraordinary.

The BRIGHTEST place in the world

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 11 Aug 2013 21:16:00 +0000

I’ve been searching for Bright Places in areas, cities and towns.
I’ve been constantly seeking out rare beauty in new spaces that hold something I haven’t seen before. I’ve attempted to document, photograph, etch and record the art of it all. And although I’ve glimpsed and reveled in the phenomenon of those exact places, a truth has recently hit my heart that has altered my entire quest. Like most life-altering and revolutionary truths… I stumbled upon it.

The brightest places in this world are found within people’s hearts.

I’ve found those bright places around a kitchen table in Ancona with five individuals, composed of a family, who will never realize the full extent of how they altered my heart. I found it within the hours spent teaching English to my three students each week. I found it within an elderly couple from Sirolo who could not speak a word of English but smiled at me daily like I was their friend for life. I found it within the weekly glass of wine poured by a grandfather with eyes that tell a tale of having weathered many storms. I found it within the vibrancy of Corgetta’s loud questioning of “Faye, Parlo Italiano?”

I found those bright places in a girl named Chris tina who went out of her way to offer me a friendship I so appreciated in this small town without many English speakers. I found it within an Italian teacher who handed me an English-Italian dictionary each week and asked a direct “Kapito?” about five times each lesson. I found it in the gorilla embrace of little Livia whenever I was feeling insecure. I found it in the hypnotic eyes of a 19-year-old bboy dancer. I found it within the sisterhood of a Canadian girl (shoutout Kaytee!) whom I shared everything with for almost two months. I found it in the company of two university lecturers who declared they would be my second family after one encounter. I found it in an incredible family from Pomezia (yes that’s the name of a town) who welcomed me as if I was blood related. In fact, I’ll never forget that day…

The day I walked into their home as a stranger, sat upon their white couch as a guest and as Gabriella handed me a coca cola and opened her heart to me… I realized that this was more than a simple summer camp host family. This was the beginning of a friendship that would forever change me, challenge me and show me (once again) how intricately God is involved in the details of our lives.

This family felt like coming home.

P-diddy rapped it well:

“A house is not really a home… I’m coming home. I’m coming home. Tell the world I’m coming home.”

Good friends are difficult to find. And yet once you find them they enrich your life infinitely.

I think I definitely have some of the best friends in the world. I know it may sound silly as everyone has friends they consider amazing at some point. Growing up in a small town where friends were difficult to find you learnt to value those who were simply there, filling some kind of half-step-cousin’s-third-child role in your life. It didn’t matter. Friendship meant companionship. It meant you didn’t have to do stuff alone. It meant someone was around to do whatever there was to do in a small town together. Some of those friends have stuck and others have faded out but the memories remain unmistakably etched on my highschool scrapbook pages.

The friends I’ve made during my time in Italy are completely different to the one’s I have back home. There’s something about the history of a friendship where one glance or flick of the wrist can dictate the very next motion, word or understanding. I can name my historical friendships on one hand. I’m utterly grateful for those.

Gabriella, Giada and Ernesto are three individuals who belong to a family that live in a home, in a small town of Pomezia - about 30 km from Rome. They welcomed me as one of their own. They introduced me to their friends as if I’d helped cut and cover the patchwork of wine bottle corks on one of their kitchen walls. Gabriella’s parents adopted me as if I’d learnt to walk in their living room. This family became, beyond dispute, a part of my very own heart. They shared daily life with me for three weeks. Every morning and evening we had a tantalizing exchange of dreams, of hopes and of culture (combined with Ernesto’s winner cappuccino’s).

They are like blood-related friends I’ll have for the rest of my life.

So there I was.

Searching for Bright Places in actual locations.

There I was.

Rating and ranking cities and towns by appearance and touristy attractions.

There I was.

Seeking out good train tickets to well-known places for a couple of pictures that would prove that I’d seen all the good spots in Italy…

For what?

Facebook? Twitter? Instagram?

Those spots don’t exist.

Those places are fickle and unfulfilling.

Friends and followers… I have one thing to say to you:

The brightest places in this world are found within people’s hearts.

The brightest places in this world are found in the person sitting next to you, the heart longing to be with you, the mind thinking about you. The brightest places in this world are found in the most unsuspecting areas because when you find yourself caught up in a moment, like the many I have found myself sitting or standing in over the last 7 months, you realize how the myriad of memories that matter most are those spent with people.

This blog began as an idea from a line in a famous Dr Seuss book... “off to find the bright places”.. and I have indeed found them. I know I will be finding them for the rest of my life. However, the subjects of my quest are no longer to do with travel as much as it is to do with those I meet on this incredible journey of life.

Maybe living in a small town in Italy for your whole life isn’t so bad.

Maybe caring for your children and family till you’re old and grey isn’t boring.

Maybe dedicating your life to loving others is by far the simplest but most profound truth to grasp.

And maybe, just maybe, the bright place of your own heart will inspire others to live in a way that reflects this truth.

I wish you a happy “Finding Bright Places!” week.

I think I need a real job.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 05 Aug 2013 13:13:00 +0000

Some people prefer white picket fences, mountains of security, numerous templates, clearly marked roads, clothes without luminous colour, the norm of conformity, movies with predictable endings, neat pre-packed lunches, pop music without a beat, poodles in jerseys, dead-straight hair, sunshine all year round… If I’m completely honest with you – I’m just not that way inclined. Sometimes I find myself needing to take some time out to ask myself some questions about this “different me”. Hence, in the name of introspection I decided to take a day off this last weekend to draw myself towards myself, review and reassess my life and perhaps reignite my creative fire. A long day of pure nothingness. It scared me a little as it stretched out before me like kilometers of ocean whilst paddling out on a Mauritian sea.

I’m not sure what normal people do on days off. Do they read? Or walk? Or sleep? I spent the entire day thinking. And eating. And thinking about eating. And thinking. And thinking and eating. I thought about the fact that I am pretty much over 15 percent grey, still unmarried and not any closer to a clear direction for my almost 28-year-life. I thought about hair dye, face peels, the ships leaving this port, climate change, world hunger, the idea of studying social justice in Ireland, political unrest, poverty, missing my friends and family and how far id have to run to burn of the amount of gelato and chocolate I have consumed in the last week. And what I’d consumed while I was thinking all of the above.

These are the neurotic workings of a Faye Claire Mc Clean mind.

( Various Digital Art by Daniel Clarke)

I think I need a real job.

This time a year ago I had resigned, sold most of my stuff and was exploring parts of Mauritius with my parents.

I felt courageous, envisioned and on top of the world. I found this piece I wrote back then….

The beauty of this place astounds me. It’s like being brought back to something raw and pure and honest and open and real. If land could speak or hold personality I feel this island would be brutally honest. She would be someone who says it like it is but is so strikingly gorgeous you wouldn’t be able to hold a grudge in any way. This island has something of hypnotism about it. Yet even within that… you do have a choice to either love or hate her. Some despise her for her size and lack of all the frills of modernity. Others love her for the very same reason. I have fallen into the latter category of people. I feel as soon you see one side of her she tempts you with another corner of adventure. You keep walking and eventually running to just keep up with trying to fill your sight with enough of what seems so surreal. She tempts you with no subtlety but satisfies your senses with deep and genuine culture. You just have to be daring enough to look past the fickle outskirts of holidaymaker pretense and step into the beating heart of dirty streets and barking stray dogs. The warmth of winter temperatures, the lean lanes, the smell of burnt rubble, a radio playing music released five years ago, lost honeymooners, French being rattled off on every street corner, freshly baked bread, breathtaking sunsets, antique shutters, surfboards, fresh fish, red wine, starry night skies, sunburnt skin, luminous seas, salt pans, sugar-cane plantations, beaten-down bicycles, mountains of lush vegetation...

This coastal air speaks of health and wholeness. My appetite is severe. My skin is radiant. My soul is free. Constantly moving. Constantly soaking in sunshine. The glory of a shower at the end of a long day is not determined by the hot water working as your body feels completely satisfied being cleansed from the salty mix of air and water. You crawl up on a couch with a glass of french wine and breathe the air in again. And it’s as if you had just landed. As if you had just stepped off the plane and gulped in the savage humidity with foreign lungs. There is something about natural beauty that inspires. There is something about this island that moves me deep inside. A movement that urges me into wanting to speak to someone on the beach and explore these streets in the dark because that's what you get to do when you’re an explorer…

An explorer also needs money, vision and a plan.

As stated above…

I think I need a real job.

So this is me wishing you a great week in your real job ;)

Kisses from Italy.

You'll never walk alone

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 02 Aug 2013 14:18:00 +0000

When you walk through a storm,

Hold your head up high,

And don't be afraid of the dark.

At the end of a storm,

There's a golden sky,

And the sweet silver song of a lark.

Walk on through the wind,

Walk on through the rain,

Though your dreams be tossed and blown,

Walk on, walk on,

With hope in your heart,

And you'll never walk alone,

You'll never walk alone...

--Liverpool Football Club

Over the last few days I have been updating my C.V to include my first ever personal profile BOOYA (thanks to my Claire friend!). I was struck by how much of a circus my C.V appears to be (although I should call it “experience” in case there is a possible future employer reading this). It almost like a kid’s drawing that needs some sort of outline… A way of connecting the dots. Which is what I am currently seeking. I’ve worked in a pharmacy, in three radio stations, in a modeling agency, in a church, in sales, in an environmental company and I’ve au paired/ tutored in between all of that. I am utterly grateful for every opportunity I have been given and for every company I have worked for. I remember when Kate MacEwan (my last boss) phoned me from NSS, asking if I was looking for a job. That phone-call was more than just a simple inquiry. It was a God-ordained, history making victory moment for me because, at that single point, it was exactly what I needed.

I have also been thinking a lot about how I long to be involved in a career where I can challenge and change parts of society... Yawning yet? I dream of working in a place where the skills I possess can be used to help those in poverty, facing injustice and severe disadvantage. I’ve thought about studying social justice or applying for jobs in areas where I could gain a foothold, no matter how small, in this area. I haven’t found an answer just yet but if you have any ideas please email me ;)

And my point was? I’ve written about the children that have changed my life before. I’ve written about how each personality has altered my perspective and challenged me more than any working environment… (you can check it out over here: http://whattodowithdaylight.blogspot.it/2011/06/tomatosaucewithanything.html)

In December last year (2012) and January of this year (my final two months before I left SA) I was au pairing a toddler and eight-month old twins in East London. Savannah, the toddler is the most outgoing bundle of activity you can possibly package into that small amount of skin. The twins, Kayleigh and Conner, are gorgeous. Conner has a super-chilled surfer vibe going on and Kayleigh is the more uptight lady-like weight watcher. However, their individual personalities do not, in any way, detract from their unbelievably contagious cute-factors. Truly. I have never fallen (that much) in love children before. And so it was that those three managed to creep into my heart at the undisputed heart-racing pace that they did…

I think in some ways they prepared me for the three children in Ancona. Although they are older, the language barrier was a huge factor and use of imagination was what enabled any level of communication to happen. Into the first three weeks here, Livia got really sick and had to stay home with me for four days. I did arrive in the middle of winter so the horrible viruses around here are typical for this time of year. We sat and watched cartooni for a while but spongebob always induces a severe mind-numbing effect after more than three episodes. Thinking back to my childhood I can recall making many tents indoors and in our massive garden with my brother (although I did use my bro as a slave in constructing grand architectural designs). And BOOM! I suddenly had a vision of building a blanket fort in the dining room between the table and chairs...
Livia and I moved all her barbies and dolls into the tent, drank water from proper tea sets, played some Bon Jovi from my laptop and pretended these dolls spoke Engtalian. Such fun (minus the Bon Jovi)!

Children find everything in nothing,

men find nothing in everything.

- Giacomo Leopardi

That was during my first month in Ancona.

Now, I am currently spending my final month in this city with a little 4 –year-old named Chicco (full name: Riccardo) who is absolutely adorable.

On Saturday evening we had a “date” which went as follows:

Dinner (spaghetti and meat), watching some cartooni, and then… (wait for it)… HOUSE PARTYYYYYY!!

I blew up some balloons, put on MTV and we danced, threw balloons around and shouted “Festa festa festa”… I am sure the neighbours were about to shoot us through the walls but Chicco’s hysterical laughter kept me going for over an hour. It was honestly a whole lot of fun! Once our energy had been sapped, we plonked our sweat-soaked buttocks on the couch and filled our throats with mountains of chocolate. Just as I was feeling certain we were both about to pass out, Chicco’s sticky hands clutched onto mine as he hopped onto my lap and we watched more cartooni.

I said “Chicco, stanco?”

Vicious shaking of his little head.

[15 minutes later]

“Chicco, Dorme?”

Determined shaking of head repeating “Noh Faye, Noh!”

[11pm]

Promptly stands up. Switches T.V off. Turns lights out. Marches to his bed.

I held his sticky little hand for 5 minutes before he fell sound asleep.

Conclusion: Cutest kid!

Chicco has taught me that sometimes the simplest things matter most.

Sometimes holding someone’s hand is enough.

Sometimes words fail and situations seem impossible.

Sometimes the greatest lecture or most brilliant speech can’t change how you feel.

But when someone holds your hand, no matter how small or sweaty or sticky that hand may be… a motto reverberates through your heart…

“You'll never walk alone”.

So-So things

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 20:49:00 +0000

As time marches on and I find myself staring at the rather emotional six month mark of my stay in Italy I feel a need to record the stuff that was once so brand new. I don’t want the inexplicable beauty of those initial illustrations to become some attic storage so-so things. To loose the dizzying array of new perspectives I once considered a novelty. There are certain differences about a culture that shout rather intrusively at you and others that quietly filter into your conscious everyday business.

For instance, the landline phones ring very differently here. Yes, you read that correctly… the way South African landline phones ring has become so much a part of my reality that I have never contemplated a different “ringtone” for LANDLINES. Then there are the police and ambulance sirens which sound like a child’s broken toy car screaming endlessly down the streets, penetrating even through tightly-sealed shutters. Every hour church bells ring. Although strangely enough I no longer ‘hear’ them. Perhaps I have finally integrated into Italian culture ;)

Health care and schooling are free in Italy. However, tax deduction is higher (unlike SA) with almost half of your salary being donated to Mr T (or the big ugly Taxman). The couple I stayed with in Ancona are both doctors. Mario (the father) is an Orthopedic surgeon (with a fascination in foot surgery) and Cecilia (the mother) is a Radiologist who is currently studying to further her qualification (specializing in ‘swallowing’). I have come to realize that there are always strange facts about a different country that strike you as bizarre but are boringly normal for those that live there. For instance, they explained to me how they both have to pay an annual insurance fee that protects them against being sued by patients. Shocking? No, this is normal in Europe. People sue for anything (even though it is free) and most of these cases are minor injuries. It seems absolutely absurd when you ponder the poverty of hospitals in rural areas of Africa or even South Africa and how much we pay for simple hospital care. I have tried to explain how most public hospitals in South Africa are poorly run, have insufficient funds and are sometimes even a little dangerous. Hence, when I hear about pending law suites from a patient suing a doctor because their sprained ankle is still slightly sore after the doctor x-rayed it and told him/ her to go home I am left a little dumbfounded.

Children in Italy seem to be very free. As my Italian friend Gabriella described, “They are the kings and queens of every home in Italy.” There is very little or no discipline whatsoever. Most children are given license to dictate to their parents what their needs are and how they deserve to be treated. Children are not asked to do chores or assist around the house. They demand and the least of their wishes are met. There is also little respect for parents or any kind of authority. In my perspective (forgive my bluntness) it seems as if a new generation of lawless individuals who have no understanding of responsibility are being raised in this society. I have also been told that there are more and more cases of young teenage girls (from the age of 14) getting boob jobs and all sorts of plastic surgery. Parents fund these initiatives like pawns in some massive soap opera game. They seem to live and die for their children - to give them whatever they request. I find myself being grateful for how this not what I perceive to be a norm in South African culture. I think we take it for granted that the influence of Xhosa, Zulu and Afrikaans cultures - which both demand that children respect their parents and/ or caregivers – sets us apart from many other nations or at least Europe. There is something about a disciplined and well-mannered child that sits well in my idea of a home. But that’s just ME.

"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it"

(Proverbs 22: 6)

“True freedom is impossible without a mind made free by discipline.”

(Mortimer J. Adler)

I attended Italian classes at a school up the coast for six weeks from mid April until the end of May. It took me about 5 minutes to walk to the bus stop and about 15 minutes on the bus from Piazza Cavour. I would always try blend in as I sat in that bus three times a week, taking in the city, examining the different kinds of people, and watching Winter slowly change to Spring. My class was comprised of a mixed group of students from all over the world including North Africa and Japan. I remember arriving late on the very first day because the bus didn’t stop at the designated place. I paced back along the crazy busy main road (almost getting run over about a dozen times) and walked in, found a seat at the back and felt a slow motion movie play out before me: Firstly, I introduced myself as Faye from South Africa. As I stated that the teacher dropped her chalk and shrieked, “Oscar Prestorius” in a slow, staggered Italian pronunciation. Then the entire class turned around in unison to stare at me as though I might have begun hacking them all with me handbag. I mumbled “Si, si” and cursed the media for taking away my wild-lion-in-the-backyard-and-elephants-in-the-streets-kinda-reputation. I felt like I was forever viewed as Faye from celebrity-murderer-SA. Heck.

The pope gave his last speech on the 28th February and thousands poured into St Peter's to see it. The elections were held at the very same time and people grumbled over having to vote. There are two major opposition parties in Italy, one being an older and more long-standing party and the other being a younger revolutionary party. The world pointed and laughed at the result of there being NO election result. The Italians looked away and spoke Italian. Who is the president? Some 88-year-old guy who no one really knows (Giorgio Napolitano). Does anybody really care? No.

The same seems to go for religion. Catholicism has reigned over Italy for centuries. The older generation still attend mass meetings every Sunday. However, although the catholic church still has immense power there’s a growing frustration amongst the majority of young people (18 – 35) who do not follow the customs that have locked this nation in to a certain way of living. The two students I teach (20 and 16 years old) have individually told me that they do not believe in God or follow Catholicism because they do not believe there is any meaning in it. The 20 year-old also told me that none of his friends agree with the way the government is leading the nation although they love their country. Italians are generally proud of their culture but, perhaps like every other country in the world, they have lots to complain about. What fascinates me is that the English and European Revolution began through changes in two areas – the church and political front. Could we be standing on the precipice of something larger?

I arrived in Italy during Carnival. This is something the whole of Italy celebrates and it is held for two to three weeks in February or March. It ended on the 12^th of March this year and it is fascinating as it is something absolutely normal for them but completely bizarre for me. It is basically an excuse to dress up and the children love it. Apparently it is bigger in the north of Italy and in Brazil (obviously) but I did see a few interesting outfits. If you go out at night you are taken aback by the amount of monsters, nurses, princesses, fairies, zorro’s and strange creatures roaming the streets.

The climate of Ancona is something worth mentioning because it is both Mediterranean and continental. Winters are quite cold (Jan. mean temp. +5°C), with frequent rain and fog. Minimum temperatures can reach -10°C outside the city centre. Snow is not unusual when the air masses come from the north or from the east, and can be heavy at times. This was bizarre for me! I remember returning from Rome one weekend in Winter and seeing snow falling on the beach sand! I did not even know this was possible. Summers are HOT and humid, especially by the sea. DUDE! Maximum temperatures sometimes reach +35°C / +40°C, especially when the wind blows from the south or the west. I have struggled during this summer because of the high humidity and the fact that everytime I try to place my head on my pillow sweat dribbles down my face like a sick joke. Thunderstorms are quite common, particularly in August and September. Spring and autumn are really changeable seasons, but generally mild.

The furniture in most older Italian houses is huge. Perhaps that goes with the history of the place. But for me it is striking! The huge wooden cupboards or desks or draws or bed posts fill me with a huge sense of wonder. I know that furniture is usually passed down from one generation to the next but it is not something you find in SA. I initially found myself staring (with a distinct dropped jaw) at the furniture so much so that people would ask me if I was ok. I found my mind wandering as to how someone would have moved this furniture into the specific flat or apartment. It seems so large that the carpenter would have had to build the piece of furniture into the room or flat. It makes me feel entirely silly as I felt depressed in SA after selling my bed, couch and giving away my kist.

Walking down the street can sometimes seem like an attack on your senses. There’s a specific smell about Ancona that reminds me Knysna. It’s a fresh coastal city smell. There’s also a fascinating mix of coffee, pizza, pastry, rich tomato sauce over pasta and a flower or plant I cannot place. You can walk quietly down one street and see nothing for kilometers, but take your first left or right into some small seemingly insignificant cobbled road and you will end up in the middle of a market or restaurant. It’s like an interesting maze of mystery. Constantly surprising.

There is one thing that scares me about Italy: the drivers. They drive like absolute hooligans. Ok, I must be honest - they also hardly have any accidents (I have NOT seen an accident while being here) but the point is that they still drive like maniacs. They take parallel parking to the extreme as there is not enough parking in most cities. Cecilia told me that it is a problem as you can drive around town for over an hour trying to find a small space to park your car. I have had many moments of having to stifle a shout or scream whilst they park in a space that seems half the car. I’ve let out an instinctive gasp sometimes only to be laughed at. I thought Eastern Cape drivers were bad. I thought the highways of Johannesburg were off-the-hook. I’ve traveled in dodgy Madagascar taxis. I know that you choose your bus in Mauritius according to how beaten-up the front section is because it shows you what speed the bus driver goes. But this Italian style is a completely new culture of driving and parking for me.

The coffee. Italian coffee. Need I say more? The stuff is like nectar. It’s a serious business of refined quality that catapults you into your day. DUDE! The Italian espresso style doesn’t take long to grow accustomed to. Neither does the kick-start caffeine fix. It is always usually made (like an artwork) with the assistance of the staple Balitiele in every home. However, that being said, every now and again I do happen to long for a big milky cappuccino. Call me gay. Whatever.

The normal meal routine is slightly different and has taken me 6 months to adjust to. It’s usually like this: Firstly, they eat after 8pm. There’s all these facts and stats about how eating after 8 is bad for your metabolism blah blah. The strange thing is I’ve battled to find an obese Italian. All of them are toned, beautiful, golden-brown creatures. Most meals begin with a big bowl of pasta. (Note to everyone unaccustomed to Italian meals: this is never IT. There is always something larger to follow. cue JAWS music. ) What follows is a substantial piece of meat, amazing chunks of cheese with some Italian vegetables. However, the vegetables are usually always drenched in oil or overcooked that their goodness seems irrelevant in comparison to their manner of filling you. There is also always white bread on the table… kind of scattered as though it is ornamental. This bread appears to be normal but just a caution: you dislocate your jaw trying to bite into it. Do not regard your hosts as strange – every table in Italy has the same kind of rock display. Then, as you enter the third course - a bowl of fruit placed on the table. After this some torta or cake that lasts a lifetime. This is all completed with the final intake of something called “the coffee killer” which is a liqueur (dinner digestive) like grappa (fermented from the peels, seed and stems of grapes and is perfectly clear in colour and of high alcoholic gradiation) OR my absolute favourite --- limoncello (obtained by maceration of the rind of lemons in alcohol and is mainly produced in the south of Italy where the lemons are almost as big as grapefruits.)

On that note, there is indeed something to be said about the wine in Italy. Wine and water are a constant on nearly every kitchen table but the wine is only consumed in small-sips. Wine is a very strong culture here but it is unlike my South African experience of it. You fill a quarter of your glass and it can last an entire meal. Drunkeness is frowned upon because, in my experience, life is shared and celebrated around the kitchen table in the right combination of food, wine and talk. I must say – South African wine is on a par with Italian wine and the price is fairly similar too. You can get a good bottle of red wine (depending on what region you are in) for just over 2 Euros. I must just add that I love love LOVE the red wine from this Marche region.

These are some of my many impressions about Italian culture. A culture that has challenged and changed me. I’m reminded of an episode of House where 13 (Olivia Wild) finds out that she has Huntington’s disease. House addresses the issue in his usual direct and seemingly heartless manner. He explains how surviving an accident or living through an operation doesn’t change anything. He describes how almost all people go back to their same way of living. He says ‘almost dying changes nothing’. However, he says that when you hear that you have a few days, weeks or months to live and there is nothing that can be done to save you – everything changes. So his conclusion is ‘dying changes everything’.

What I have realized is that sometimes all we need is a new perspective.

Sometimes.

And for some people it happens when a specific diagnosis is given.

For others it is a moment of deep realization or comparison.

For me, it has been in a decision to live in a place called Italy.

my home-made movie

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 18 Jul 2013 19:22:00 +0000

I have this weighty expectation as I sit on this train heading Romeward for the third time. There’s something about traveling a route more than once. Something about the way you view everything around you. And my vision is not only full. My heart is bordering an emotive explosion as I play out the home-made video I have made in my head of seeing my parents at Rome Termini. This time I have changed the tempo to fast forward to the exact place I could be. Tears are a given. They slide down my face already. The time and place are still to be set. Outside the Nike shop or as I am walking in or at some random point (which is usually how it goes). Life is not a movie. However, those moments where a climax has been built, your emotion brews like a landslide about to tip, your imagination thrown into creating the context and characters - it can feel just like one.

Despite my usual fears regarding public transport, I got onto the train fine and am actually very comfortable. People filter onto the train at each stop but I pretend not to notice with my headphones on and my poetry book propped up on my lap like a defense against any strange Italian men. I purchased this bargain Book of English Poetry for 1 Euro at a Sunday fleemarket in Spoleto this weekend. The warm spring sun is streaming through the window onto my long straightened foreigner hair and I can feel the random glances reflecting off me from bored, inquisitive eyes. It certainly feels like our unwritten movie has begun. I love viewing the countryside in between consuming chunks of old english. It’s like drinking red wine and eating Lindt dark chocolate. A classic combination. And that gets me thinking: I would pretty much kill for some chocolate right now. Or just some chocolate cake. Or a cappuccino with chocolate like they make at Vida e cafe in Jozi. And a part of my mind drifts into what it would be like to live there again. The starkest contrast.

But let’s rather get back to the movie hey.

The rumbling noise of the engine, the subtle side-to-side rocking of the train, and the spectacular views of the countryside. It is as if everybody knows this is a movie because all passengers have been silenced. Some are absorbed in their phones, others listen to music, while a few read.

No one dares to break the silence.

I remember arriving in Rome’s Leonardo De Vinci Airport on that icy early Friday morning in February 2013. From Frankfurt leaving you in a humble, violated, timid and rather fearful state after being stripped and interrogated by harsh Germans who scare you into submission by almost sucking your blood…Rome definitely holds a relaxed nicety. The smell of fresh hot-out-the-oven croissants, crisp glances, the furious patter of never-ending feet, foreign languages intermingling in between treasure hunting for the right flight terminal. That constant ebb and flow of a foreign airport that catapults your state of being half-awake-half-a-slumber into a quick rush of blood to the head. After exploring the airport for six hours I plonked myself onto an achingly-cold metal bench with a pen and my notebook whilst the ipads around me stared in utter new-school judgement. It’s strange how letting go of familiarity and all the hours, months and years of that oh-so-comfortable safety net leave you with a distinct sense of loneliness, searching every scene for something to remind you of home. However, I know that it’s time to rid those rusty, mould-ridden, dirty dishes lying in the kitchen sink of confident egotistical dissatisfied living. It feels like I am already catching a glimpse of some untold stories. And that gentle pause of in-transit brings a flash of a dozen different ideas I shall (hopefully) write about…

That was six months ago. And I have six months of new memories gradually filling new spaces in my heart and mind.

With those images fading out, the train slows to an eventual halt as I arrive in the city that taught me to dream again. Climbing off the train, clutching my bag and walking steadily towards where my home-made movie must reach its pivotal point. And oh it did satisfy. The endless march along the cobbled path of that never-ending station, overtaking young and old to reach…

Standing there like guardian angels they were. My two favourites. My heroes of the faith. The two individuals in my life who have always believed in me, always loved me, always overwhelmed me, always supported me, always given me the privilege of being their daughter.

The shrieking ecstatic joy of those moments in life.

It’s as if, for those few minutes, the world literally stops and you are caught up in an awe-struck place similar to that of standing in the Colosseum or beneath the Pantheon. Reality seems re-defined by the raw emotions and oblivion to everything else that could possibly distract you in this life.

"A home without Oros is not a home"

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 15 May 2013 16:18:00 +0000

I’ve been gone for three months.

And for the first time in my life I had a dream in Afrikaans. Yep Afrikaans. Wat dink jy daarvan?

I am experiencing my first longing for home.

I am currently void of anything I would call “home” right now. Although I am living in my own apartment above the flat of the family I am tutoring in Italy – I still feel like a guest surrounded by their furniture and household items. My home for the past 4 years has been Johannesburg, South Africa. I lived in a modest 2 bedroom apartment, which I shared with my amazing Christina friend. It was filled with one old but lovely yellow-wood kist, a dark wood bookshelf and dark leather couch which I saved a for century to buy brand new. Our huge rooms had massive windows that led onto a small balcony overlooking the main street in Dunvegan. I loved watching the seasons change through those windows… and sitting on my windowsill as a huge Gauteng storm brewed. The balcony held two really old ripping-at-the-seams purple couches made from a felt material that had got seriously manky from sitting through the rain, hailstorms and collecting the dirty smog of the city. However, I formed a rather strange attachment to these couches. Nobody liked them and if they were forced to sit on them – they would perch on the corner of them like a bird waiting to take flight. I would climb into my sleeping bag and spend nights on them talking to God and watching the moon and stars. I had no television as I feel guilty watching it. I would rather write when I have an opportunity to do anything. Our bathroom, entrance hall and kitchen were tiny but made for the best room-to-room conversations. We also had a rather strange cockroach friend who lived in the space above our bathroom cabinet. He would show himself to freak us out but, as typical girls, both Chris and I were too afraid to kill him. We both hated washing dishes so our kitchen sink was usually left piled up with half-attempts at cleaning up stuff. But we both understood that. And then there were the disgusting rats outside our flat from the restaurant downstairs.

Despite these minor household flaws, it was our home, and I loved coming back to it after being away. We certainly had our share of negative experiences in that space – I can easily recall the thousands of hours I spent hunched over my laptop on my bedroom floor working on yet another pressing and all-important job application. I remember the heartbreaks we shared from “stupid-boy” situations. Both of us experienced stress-induced sleepless nights, times where the idea of tea and biscuits got us through the day and where a hairdryer was used as a heater to warm our freezing winter rooms up.

But we also had many good times in our little apartment.

I fondly remember watching Joyce Meyer sermons lying on Christina’s bean bag or playing music from my room and screaming along to familiar dance tracks. On some weekday evenings, we would go for awesome runs around the area with a group of friends, our flat being the meeting point. I also recall Saturday mornings, when we would always stay in our beds longer than anyone else in our neighbourhood could possibly handle (I’m sure). But now it seems like my home is just a memory.

Here I am, sitting in my hermit loft apartment, typing these words while the clouds gather over this beautiful city. I sit here knowing I have the opportunity to explore a dozen other surrounding and exciting countries, but all I want in this moment is to be back in that tiny, poorly furnished apartment watching Pretty Little Liars. More than the physical space of that apartment, I miss the few but great friends I left behind.

It is strange how I have not considered going home or even contemplated living back in SA until I felt this deep sense of loneliness and slight homesickness last week. It snuck up on me like a breakup date you want to forget and reminded me of how good familiarity once was. Whether rushed gym sessions, movie-dinner dates with friends, being stuck in N1, N2 or N3 traffic that makes no sense, never-ending rushing around busyyyyness, planning weekends away or cheap Mr Price clothing. The smell of brewing storms in smoggy Joburg or blooming jasmine creepers in East London, having people around you who understand "ja nogal", "hai wena" or "flippen heck" and who can respond to your fast-paced explanations without a queried flinch. Malema jokes, our cultural melting pot, the SABC, driving on the 'right' side of the road, knowing how, what, when a city works - the vast mass of stuff we consider to be all too common is in fact what brings us a great deal of security. Like old jeans that fit you from years of being worn in - familiarity holds a distinct degree of comfort you don't get from those brand new Sissy Boy's.

As much as I love the culture, city coastal vibe & food here in Italy (including the torta (cake) for breakfast) I miss the smell of greasy KFC, the African mama's who shout out their conversations whilst invading your space, the hot, hot sun, Nik Naks, the complete mixture of languages & accents, the assurance of where to buy certain articles, & of course the never-ending petrol price surprise! I miss complaining about e-tolls, laughing (or crying) at our corrupt politicians, smiling at strangers, proper cappuccino's (with a taste), rugby with boerewors and a lekker braai on a Saturday, and maybe.. just maybe.. (yes,ok, I will say it...) Eastgate on a Saturday morning. BOOM.

I once heard it said that "A home without Oros is not a home.." and I laughed out loud.

I thought it was a joke.

When I first left, I kinda secretly swore I would not be coming back to Johannesburg, and had strong doubts about settling down in any city in South Africa. I left feeling as though the world was my oyster and I was diving in to get the pearl out.

Now, only 3 months into my adventure, and already I am starting to see things differently.

when in rome.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 11 May 2013 20:03:00 +0000

I once heard it said that “The Chinese did not build temples to the size of the human body but they built temples to the size of the human spirit.”

I think that if this is true of ancient or modern day China, then the Romans must have influenced them. To stand in the centre of an ancient square and feel goose bumps climb up your entire body like a virus of awe. To feel as if the only adequate response would be to drop down on bended knee and give way to the tears that build up behind awe-inspired eyes. To refrain from taking one more photo because no image captured can do justice to the raw emotion and pure brilliance that captivates your being…

Day-by-day for 56 hours I was able to fill myself with impressions in a city packed so full of history it is almost possible to allow your imagination to take you back there…. To a time, to a place, where men sought to live for something greater than a pension fund. An era where legacy and sacrifice were held in high esteem. To a time where brutality held reason and where glory, although perhaps misunderstood, went hand-in-hand with fighting in battle until death.

Rome taught me to dream big again.

I literally saw everything in three days. Beginning with Castel Sant’ Angelo which stands on the road leading to the Circus of Gaius and Nero, where Peter was crucified in front of the obelisk that now faces the façade of the Vatican Basilica (which rose precisely on the Apostle’s tomb). Walking around the castle that overlooks what seems to be the entirety of Rome, roaming through the exhibition within the heart of the castle that describes the journey of Peter. The artists have attempted to capture something of Peter’s faith in their paintings as they document his journey and how he met Jesus. They seek to portray faith, first as a response to an encounter with God, who makes the first move towards us. Then it shows how faith can be confusing and slightly bewildering because it shatters our certainties and asks some hard questions. There are paintings depicting the Feet Washing and the Arrest of Jesus in the Olive Grove and also Paradise where Peter is clutching the keys of Christ. Artists like Georges De La Tour, Lorenzo Veneziano, and Gerrit van Honthorst are featured as well as the Guido Reni who has created a painting about the noble harmony that binds Peter and Paul. There is also “the thrill in the eyes of the Apostle as he runs to the empty tomb of the Resurrected, still incredulous, and yet already a believer, with a sky rent by the gleams of the post-Impressionist dawn all aflame on the painting by Eugène Burnand.”

I have seen many exhibitions but this one was specifically stirring as I was reminded about how the disciples and Peter’s stand for Christ impacted so many lives then but still inspires modern day Christianity now. It does for me anyway.

Then there was Saint Peter’s Square and the most awe-inspiring Basilica. It is interesting that Piazza Di San Pietro was designed by Bernini with the intent to welcome the tired pilgrims after their long trek through the city. More than 400 years later and there are long lines of tourists waiting to go through security to view the giant church.

Roaming along the Tiber River and taking in the various markets, people busking, lovers posing against a grey backdrop of winter clouds...

Onwards I strolled to Piazza del Popolo and the beautiful gardens right by Piazza Napoleone I where I stopped to sit for an hour trying to avoid the many connected-at-the-mouth couples. The Spanish Steps (Piazza di Spagna) which I saw midday and at sunset but met no Spanish love. Deepest sigh. There were lots of young people chilling on the steps at night – largely due to the fact that drinks are around 15 Euros so bars and coffee shops around that area are avoided by those with a normal budget.

I found an interesting little bit of history about Ancient Rome – back in the day it was customary for a Roman bride to be carried over the threshold saying the words “Ubi ti baius, ego Gaia,” meaning, “Where you are John, there I am, Mary.” Rather romantic right? But say for instance, he wasn’t a strong gladiator type and tripped – leaving you on the pavement – that meant your marriage was doomed. However, divorce in Rome was easy – all you had to say was “Tuas res tibi habeto” meaning “Keep what’s yours for yourself.” No need for a custody battle. The kids stayed with the father and the dowry was returned to the woman.

But oh along I did go drifting through Via del Corso and Via del Babuino popping my head into designer stores that have the potential to leave your wallet in a state of disgrace. The standard two-euro-gelato is always more affordable and so I purchased it for breakfast, lunch and pre-dinner. Moving, twisting and dancing within the maze of little café-lined Roman streets I did stumble upon the ever-crowded Fontana di Trevi, Piazza Venezia and the HUGE monunmento a Vititorio Emanuele II. Standing on those steps and sensing something of the weight of influence and power that the Roman Empire must have carried. It is easier to comprehend when everything you stand on is so immensely massive. I asked a stranger to take a photo and in doing so met a girl from Brazil there who joined me in at the Colosseo, Foro di Cesare, Arco di Constantino, Piazza Campidoglio, to Piazza Navona.

The next day I found myself back at Piazza Navona and after some (more) Blue Ice gelato – I surprised myself by landing up at the marvelously constructed Pantheon. A rather violent “Sssssshhhhhh” came over the microphone every few minutes as silence is required by the hundreds of tourists passing beneath that dome shaped monstrosity as it is partly a church inside. It also forms something of a burial site as the first two kings of Italy are buried there. Stepping inside feels like entering a giant eyeball as its perfectly round dome, pierced with a pupil-like aperture high above. Other than the contortion of your neck - standing there and watching the sky through the ceiling is a unique experience.

Then there was the Vatican Museum with the constant longest line of a 4 hour wait in Rome (seriously). It is just like a human stream with an ever strong current. The endless galleries with 17^th century art displayed by Giotto, Fra Angelico, Raphael, and Caravaggio and hallways full of sculptures. The never-ending bumper-to-bumper walk to the famous overcrowded and monumental Sistine Chapel where everyone seeks out Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam which is but one of the nine panels depicting stories from Genesis. However, even with the hoards of tourists bumping against you, when you stand in the centre of that chapel there is something surreal about the history, the effort, each story, the artist, and the fame attached to that single place. For instance, The Last Judgement took four years to complete (between 1536 and 1541) and Michelangelo began working on it some twenty years after having finishing the Sistine Chapel ceiling. I am reminded of a quote I read in matric whilst staring at the art history notes covering my entire bedroom floor, "Without having seen the Sistine Chapel one can form no appreciable idea of what one man is capable of achieving." (Johann Wolfgang Goethe)

Or another one by Gabriele Bartz and Eberhard König:

"In a world where all experience was based in the glorious lost past of Antiquity, he made a new beginning. Michelangelo, more even than Raphael or Leonardo, embodies a standard of artistic genius which reveals a radically changed image of human beings and their potential..."

Lastly, in the tale of my explorations there was Santa Maria in Trastevere that was the first church in Rome to be built exclusively for the virgin Mary (with its 12^th-century shimmer golds coffered ceilings, and inlaid marble floors). Finally, ending those long days with dinners in Trastevere (a student area with decent priced restaurants and known for the best nightlife in the city) with Cecilia. I discovered Roman food and wine to be just as wonderful and our long stumbled walks back along the Tiber to the hotel every night were a testimony to that. Apparently Romans weren’t always known for delectable pasta and pastries. In fact, the diet of ancient Romans was quiet different and included delicacies like stuffed dormouse, stewed snails, sow’s uterus, newborn rabbit, and roasted peacock (can I get a “gross” up in here?). The Ancient Romans wouldn’t have fared well with Animal Rights activists.

On the last day, whilst it was raining outside, I found myself writing from Santa Maria Maggiore. This is a word-for-word account of what I wrote (for historical recordings haha):

I am writing this from a church in Rome. It’s just another church but its detailed beauty and booming bigness blows me away. I have formed a new love for big catholic churches and I visit them on a semi-regular basis. I come to these places when I need solace and when I need to set the compass of my thoughts towards my constant North – Jesus. So as I sit here, bible on the pew next to me, pen in hand, moleskin journal on my lap, staring at the beautiful ceiling as my ipod plays. I am listening to a sermon I downloaded from Cornerstone Church. It’s strange as it is about prayer and breaking of bread but begins with how the Romans grew up worshipping something. It was entrenched within their culture and if you didn’t have someone to follow – your life was a mess. It is strange because Catholicism is deeply inherent within nearly every home over the entirety of Italy. These bells that ring as a reminder every hour. And yet, I am not certain how many of those know the real Jesus. My soul literally aches with His reality. How is it possible to stand in His presence and not be moved by Him? Like literally moved. If I could go slaughter the pigeons scattering the street outside as a sacrifice, or run along the Tiber river shouting His love, or etch His name on the roof of the Sistine Chapel…

I stare upwards as tears surge down my face like a flood of newly formed rivers, mascara masking my cheeks as if Heath Ledger’s fictional joker were being brought back to life. I look the least like any saint but beyond that - I feel hopelessly inadequate. I am just so desperate for Him. And He has felt so distant. I have been so confused by theories focusing on elements of grace and freedom whilst trying to distinguish what God says. I have been frightened to “follow” the real truth and to not become consumed with some nice-sounding false doctrine or to even become someone on her own mission. I feel stuck in a battle and fighting within an age obsessed with success, with beauty, with sex, with love, with money, with acceptance. I keep “trying” to saturate myself within anything that will make me feel like my life counts, to somehow secure my wavering mind with a truth that I am in fact making some difference on this earth. To know that I can fight this good fight of faith and be welcomed home without regret into the arms of a “well done my good and faithful servant”. It sometimes seems impossible. However, as I sit here, contemplating everything I have seen, playing back the overloaded memory card and stories attached to the incredible places - the tension of that ongoing fight fades and I feel like the world is a little clearer. I feel like He is a little closer.

Some say a picture can tell a thousand words but in these moments, like the one’s I have experienced in Rome - a picture, cameras and even words tend to fail. If I were to describe how I felt as I stood before the grandeur of those immense buildings, staring at architecture I studied throughout my art history days but never fully understood. It is incomprehensible that men, without the machinery available to us in this day and age, created buildings that (still) move the soul unto utter awe.

This is why Rome taught me to dream again.

Because someone, at some point, made a decision, no matter how impossible it may have seemed, to build or paint or sculpt something really really really big. To honour a saint, or to express love, or to prove a point. Whatever the reason… it was enough to make what seemed impossible become absolutely possible.

That reason was enough to fill the architect with hope until completion.

That reason brought a distinct clarity.

And that reason moves me.

Perhaps like Peter our response to the impossibilities in life can be a simple:

"Lord, if it's you, tell me to come to you on the water."

(Matthew 14:28)

With reference to:

http://www.annusfidei.va/content/novaevangelizatio/en/eventi/mostraadf.html

LET’S GO – Rome, Venice & Florence (The Student Travel Guide)

flexible and untethered

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 May 2013 11:51:00 +0000

The way people walk here is different.

A gentle strolling as opposed to my fast-paced-iv-got-a-ramp-to-conquer style of steps. Or maybe that's just a big city way of moving. When you need to get from A to B - stomp the ground or overtake the elderly or curse the learners. The constant destination always driving you to race through life like an unstoppable force of Usain Bolt. Never stopping to even know what the salt from your own hard-earned sweat could possibly taste like. Never considering the "what ifs" because strict schedules, death-by-deadlines, manic meetings and bent-over-backwards budgets create a space only big enough for targets to fill. The formality of a busyness I don't think existed before time began. And my fear is that the warning of Socrates may be more of a reality than we realize - "beware the barreness of a busy life"…

Waiting in a bank queue, getting stuck in traffic, sitting on hold for a Telkom call. Living for ‘that Friday feeling’ just to sleep in for an hour extra on a Saturday.

Viktor Frankl, a Viennese psychiatrist and survivor of the Holocaust, wrote in his book Man’s Search for Meaning that one of the most demeaning and even damaging aspects of life in concentration camps was the assignment of deliberately meaningless tasks, such as moving piles of dirt endlessly from one site to another for no purpose at all. I can survive any “how”, as long as there is a “why”, he wrote.

With my initial intent of becoming a radio presenter at a national radio station in South Africa, I spent a ton of time and effort, applying some sacrificial service to making contact with people in the industry, attending castings, being involved in all kinds of projects and believing (with great conviction) that this would make me “matter”. However, I could feel the gradual disenchantment with the potential of a career in media growing with each passing month. What began as the tiniest pull in my heart grew into a full-blown and ever increasing frustration. Things that once were enjoyable lost their appeal. I spent my weekends investigating options to study further, doing TEFL and watching TED talks. The gentle whisper became a choir in my head to the Switchfoot lyrics: “We were meant to live for so much more. We want more than this world’s got to offer.”

I was told there is a thin line between discontentment and adventure. That this phase would eventually pass. That I was a dreamer and needed to remain faithful. But the passing phase did not pass. And God did not write on the wall. But my life felt barren in busyness and I wanted a story worth telling. I wanted to KNOW that I was really living. Life is relatively short. A conviction that has always stirred me to cross rivers instead of sitting in the sun tanning. Not so much burdened with the ever-popular image of the story I will one-day tell to the grandchildren sitting on my lap but rather being filled with a fear that my existence will never evolve into anything more. Existence, simply put, frightens me.

The true test, however, arrived just after I had resigned from my current job. The pivotal climax of saying ‘no’ to an offer at a rather large corporate in Johannesburg. It was something of a defining moment for me as I attempted to discern between God’s heart and my own plans. However, I once heard it said that sometimes outward factors can serve as indicators for what you should do. I took stock of my circumstance and used some common sense. And I chose what perhaps could be termed the road less travelled. It isn’t glamorous or a path devoid of emotion. For me it was a decline from the fast-paced treadmills and goldmines. A simple notion. I sold most of my belongings, lived with my folks for 6 months and searched for an overseas adventure. A bag of clothes, my laptop, bible and some vitamin C. Quite the cliché, right?

To view it from another angle – it could be difficult to consider my situation fortunate - no job prospects, single, no retirement plan or medical insurance, no property or furniture or fixed assets to my name, and an age creeping ever so close to 30. However, I do feel fortunate that I have this chance to take an extended hiatus from what had become mundane. It is so easy to get caught up in the rat race, chasing after the next ‘checkpoint’ in a drawn-out series of predictable steps. These were mine:

1. Finish high school with good enough grades to get into university.

2. Complete an undergrad degree which guaranteed employment upon graduation.

3. Build up my CV and settle into a good corporate job.

4. Build up a reputation as a DJ on weekends with enough experience to eventually make it onto a good slot on a national radio station.

5. Write for a publishing house and definitely write a book.

6. Get married to a full time elder.

7. Settle into a nice city and home.

8. Have two or three children.

9. Plant a church with my husband and to minister together internationally.

10. Travel.

Haha. That’s your cue to: laugh along now. It seems like I am further away from accomplishing anything on this little list. So this trip to Italy isn’t so much an escape, but rather, something of a research project. Fortunately, this research project doesn’t require obtaining grant funding, nor performing complicated statistical analyses. It does, however, require the collection and interpretation of data – not your typical research data, of course, but rather personal experiences. The objective of the project? To find the bright places. To know my King better. To write. To allow different cultures to challenge me. To soak up this adventure as I am filled with new impressions.

If you’d like to follow my adventure, please sign up for regular updates via email or RSS (scroll over the rectangular box on the right - its a collapsible menu).

my life detour.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 06:57:00 +0000

Four weeks ago I awoke to the sound of my alarm buzzing in the humidity of my little bed in East London. I stumbled out of bed and straight into the fantastic smell of my father’s artisan bread being taken out of the oven merged with freshly ground coffee beans. Sights, smells and tastes that are enough to captivate the dullest of senses. Familiarity breeds contempt but after a few months this still remains a very real novelty to me.

This morning was a little different. The excited chatter of children in a language I am not yet familiar with. The double duvet keeping me cosy as winter slowly eases off it’s harsh grip from this coastal European city. Church bells ringing in the distance like conditioned chimes in the salted wind. Harsh morning light seeping into my loft apartment announcing a new day, a new start, a repositioned heart.

It is a winter’s tale… from the outset, but oh so much more than that. A tale of my journey, of a hunger, of adventure in combat. I haven’t discovered why atoms can measure time based on mass or fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming a member of the famous five or secret seven. In fact I am possibly further off from being any kind of extraordinary Einstein, Margaret Thatcher or Nancy Drew. I’ve simply come to understand certain aspects of myself more than before. I’ve come to own a perspective on this earth. A viewpoint on life and on what I truly believe in. I have realized that even within my flawed, failing and broken twenty seven year old person there is something placed within me from before time began ticking. An eternal flame that rages against the dying of the light. This flame is that which grants me the grace to believe in more than a big bang and to carry any kind of hope to live a life worthy of someone far greater than me.

It is strange how when you look back there are always some dots of realization that stick with you. Those dots that seem insignificant within the moment but connect in ways that make so much sense later. There was a day like that last year, in June, when I went running with my dad to a view spot high on this mountain ridge in Mauritius. My dad, being much fitter than me, ran to the top as I gradually walked up. We stood there, soaking in the last rays of a huge setting sun and stared at what seemed to be too picturesque to be true. And as we walked down that mountain in the dark I felt a sense of being on edge. Like there is SO much more to life and I'm walking in such a slight portion of it. But I'm so desperate to tread into every part of it. Like territory I never knew existed because I’ve been sitting in interviews containing rushed questions of 'where do you see yourself in 5 years?' or 'how will you be an asset to this company', which have blurred the lines between ambitious goals and a surrendered identity. An identity formed before creation. I have attempted an immature effort at plausible-sounding reason whilst sidelining the true texture of my heart.

I realized that I have been breathing to exist and existing for a salary to pay rent and be "ok" for so many months that I know I'm not "ok". I'm so done with surviving. I'm done with ignoring adventure because I have a priority or aim that I’ve moulded into my brain to make me feel secure. I know i've been fighting my insides for longer than I can bare to be able to hold a conversation with people who I want to impress or seem similar to. We are breathing in the putrid air of hand-me-down dreams. We have fabricated some kind of dead-reality and have forced ourselves to accept it. We attempt excitement at what we have known for years but actually just want something brand new. We just need one taste. I'm convinced of it. I say that because I have only recently gathered enough courage to taste of it. A new perspective. New impressions. A new space.

I arrived in Ancona on Friday night the 8^th February at 19:10 on AirItalia waiting for a faceless family. I had a few moments of complete terror flood me as newspaper headlines (once again) flashed through my exhausted head. I sat there in that little airport pondering the weight of this decision for the very first time. Without any line of communication I felt a little anxious. Those twenty minutes did indeed feel like twenty hours as I sat hunched up against my bag, shivering from the cold and whispering a long line of desperate pleas and prayers to my King. “Please let the family arrive. My Lord, I need you to help me right now. Please let this all work out. Dear Jesus let this not be a scam. Please God – I don’t want to be taken through another character building trial right now.” Without a working phone – I began watching the only two other people in the airport and planning how I would use sign language to request to use their phones. I felt like a tiger stuck on a boat in the middle of the pacific ocean. I had not skyped or even spoken to the family before so it was perhaps slightly risky. However, that gut feel is something we are led by in times of doubt and desperation. I call that feeling the Holy Spirit, who leads me in ways I do not always see. And guess what? The family DID arrive. And they were, in fact, awesome. They had filled my apartment with Italian treats and even printed out a photo of my family in a frame on my bedside table. Cecilia lent me some of her jerseys and jackets to compensate for my ignorant South African sense of winter. They really made sure I felt at home.

Upon proper introduction they asked me about the trip. However, my initial outburst about the flights to Frankfurt and then Rome and then Ancona was received with two blank looks and a simple “Can… you… speak… slowly…” . And so began my introduction into another world that has begun to change me as a person. I do not speak Italian and their English is simple but we manage to make sense of each other. We have had some really interesting conversations about the difference between life in South Africa and life in Italy. The converging of two worlds. The mixing of two cultures. And I, the foreigner, have found my ideals and ideas slowly altering.

My main role here is to tutor them in English. I have been attempting to research and find strategic ways to converse with the children in English as it can be very tricky to understand each other. Mario and Cecilia’s English has definitely improved in the last few weeks as they begin speaking the language everyday. I also have three official students, outside of the family, so far – a 20 year old Edward-Cullen look alike (Riccardo) and a super sweet 16-year-old girl (Lucrezia) and a 15-year-old well-spoken boy (and the only timeous Italian person I know) named Franchesco. It is rewarding to hear their English improving each week and to assist them in understanding the language. I have slowly learnt a few Italian words and expressions too and began official classes at an Italian language school on first week of April. I know, from studying some linguistics, that full immersion in a culture is the best manner in which to learn a new language. However, it can be very frustrating too. For example, Cecilia arranged a dinner for me a few weeks ago to meet a lady who works at the university in Ancona and speaks English very well. This lady and another Italian gentleman, who also speaks English fluently, came for dinner. Cecilia had made a massive five course meal. It was a great evening and they spoke mainly English for the first hour so I felt a part of the conversation and could contribute. However, the conversation slowly began drifting into Italian with someone at the table trying to translate after every 10 minutes. This requires effort and can be frustrating for them. I completely understand. It does just mean that I end up trying to smile and not look like the dork who cannot say a thing. This continued for the rest of the evening and three hours later I was simply trying to keep my eyelids open at the table. This is how most conversations have a tendency to flow. I have found those times to be something I would term ‘hitting-a-brick-wall’ where I can get lost in a space of complete isolation… wishing that this language wouldn’t separate me so much from a world I long to know.

Most weekends are about being stuffed with traditional Italian food (LOTS of pasta, pork, cheese, oil and donuts cooked in pig fat). “da mangiare” means ‘to eat’ and they do it often haha. Mario (the husband of Cecilia) says that I must weigh myself and call it my South African weight because I am going to weigh something different when I leave. But seriously… food is a huge part of life here. Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) happens around the table in the kitchen. It is the first place I go to when I enter their flat. It is the place I exit when I leave their flat.

Mario and Cecilia are both doctors here and their children are Alessio (10), Livia (just turned 8) and little Valerio (4). They each have very different personalities and do not speak much English. In fact, they do not speak English but we have been working on that. Alessio is super mature for his age and very quiet and studious. He doesn’t need to be told to do homework or study for exams. He simply gets on with it. Levia is a social butterfly. She is a little dreamer, actress, chatterbox and loves me doing her make-up. She has always wanted a sister so I seem to be fulfilling something of that role. Valerio is a musical little boy who enjoys dressing up like Zorro and calls his grandfather (“nono” in Italian) his best friend. He has definitely been checking me out to see how I fit into his little world and routine.

I had my first proper gelato on my third night in Italy. It was one of those memory-making moments because while we were all walking through the icy street with ice cream dripping down our chins - Mario asked me what I miss most about South Africa. It was a question I could not answer. All I know is that every season in life holds new opportunities and the potential to grow and learn and LOVE life.

For me, this season is in Italy.

oh.the.places.you'll.go.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 14:39:00 +0000

There are a million reasons to write a blog.

But somehow, for me, it feels much less lonely over here knowing that you will be on this journey with me. So im hoping you'll join me. We can talk about all kinds of stuff and although i have no clear idea as to where this will go id be very happy to share this adventure with you.

My last post (on http://whattodowithdaylight.blogspot.it/2013/01/howwedowhatwedo.html) was something to do with me tumbling down a rabbit hole into the unknown. The funny thing about that post was that i had no idea i would soon find myself writing the next chapter in Italy. Yes, ITALY!

And this is definitely not a rabbit hole.

I mean I’ve eaten the rabbit (literally) but, if anything, this journey i find myself on is more along the lines of a book by the famous Dr Seuss. The brains in my head and the feet in my shoes have reached this city in Europe and i want to write about it. Hence, this post forms my official introduction to my new experiences and introspections.

welcome!

Congratulations! 

Today is your day. 

You're off to Great Places! 

You're off and away!

You have brains in your head. 

You have feet in your shoes. 

You can steer yourself  any direction you choose. 

You're on your own. And you know what you know. 

And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.  

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care. 

About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there." 

With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,  

you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.  

And you may not find any 

you'll want to go down. 

In that case, of course, 

you'll head straight out of town.  

It's opener there 

in the wide open air.  

Out there things can happen 

and frequently do 

to people as brainy 

and footsy as you.  

And then things start to happen, 

don't worry. Don't stew. 

Just go right along. 

You'll start happening too.  

OH! 

THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!  

You'll be on your way up! 

You'll be seeing great sights! 

You'll join the high fliers 

who soar to high heights.  

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed. 

You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead. 

Wherever you fly, you'll be best of the best. 

Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.  

Except when you don't. 

Because, sometimes, you won't.  

I'm sorry to say so 

but, sadly, it's true 

that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you.  

You can get all hung up 

in a prickle-ly perch. 

And your gang will fly on. 

You'll be left in a Lurch.  

You'll come down from the Lurch 

with an unpleasant bump. 

And the chances are, then, 

that you'll be in a Slump.  

And when you're in a Slump, 

you're not in for much fun. 

Un-slumping yourself 

is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. 

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked. 

A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin! 

Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win?  

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right... 

or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? 

Or go around back and sneak in from behind? 

Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.  

You can get so confused 

that you'll start in to race 

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace 

and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space, 

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. 

The Waiting Place...  

...for people just waiting. 

Waiting for a train to go 

or a bus to come, or a plane to go 

or the mail to come, or the rain to go 

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow 

or the waiting around for a Yes or No 

or waiting for their hair to grow. 

Everyone is just waiting.  

Waiting for the fish to bite 

or waiting for the wind to fly a kite 

or waiting around for Friday night 

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake 

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break 

or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants 

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. 

Everyone is just waiting.  

NO! 

That's not for you!  

Somehow you'll escape 

all that waiting and staying 

You'll find the bright places 

where Boom Bands are playing.  

With banner flip-flapping, 

once more you'll ride high! 

Ready for anything under the sky. 

Ready because you're that kind of a guy!  

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! 

There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. 

And the magical things you can do with that ball 

will make you the winning-est winner of all. 

Fame! You'll be as famous as famous can be, 

with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.  

Except when they don't 

Because, sometimes they won't.  

I'm afraid that some times 

you'll play lonely games too. 

Games you can't win 

'cause you'll play against you.  

All Alone! 

Whether you like it or not, 

Alone will be something 

you'll be quite a lot.  

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance 

you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants. 

There are some, down the road between hither and yon, 

that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.  

But on you will go 

though the weather be foul. 

On you will go 

though your enemies prowl. 

On you will go 

though the Hakken-Kraks howl. 

Onward up many 

a frightening creek, 

though your arms may get sore 

and your sneakers may leak.  

On and on you will hike, 

And I know you'll hike far 

and face up to your problems 

whatever they are.  

You'll get mixed up, of course, 

as you already know. 

You'll get mixed up  

with many strange birds as you go. 

So be sure when you step. 

Step with care and great tact 

and remember that Life's  

a Great Balancing Act. 

Just never foget to be dexterous and deft. 

And never mix up your right foot with your left.  

And will you succeed? 

Yes! You will, indeed! 

(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)  

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!  

So... 

be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray 

or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea, 

You're off the Great Places! 

Today is your day! 

Your mountain is waiting. 

So...get on your way!