A thousand flowers
A song repeated
The medicine that is Sunlight
I recall vividly, tea parties and picnics my sister and I would have in the garden when we were much younger. We would lay a blanket down, talk to the fairies and invite them to join our party of teddy bears for a cup of tea and some biscuits. As we got older though, our tea parties became few and far between.
Now, we seldom enjoy sitting in the sun. And that, I think, it one of reasons people seem to get more unhappy as they get older. This is my lack-of-tea-parties theory, which I believe can be applied to any person from any walk of life, anywhere in the world.
This theory seems to go hand in hand with research studies that show that people who live in countries that get more sunlight throughout the year enjoy higher levels of serotonin, a natural hormone that the body releases when it’s happy. It’s no wonder why the tropical regions of the world are where people enjoy vacationing the most (Jamaica definately comes to mind.)
If you think of it logically, when we are children, we spend more time outside, even when we are at school. We make a point of incorporating outdoor activities into children’s routines. Then, as we get older we spend more time in classes except for a recess hour here or there. I remember writing exams in June when it is winter in South Africa. We would be cooped up in an exam hall for three hours. Not much sun came into the hall and we only had three heaters plugged in (you can imagine that three heaters between 200 teenagers is not the best situation.) The second that we handed in our papers I would find the sunniest spot on campus and bathe in the sunlight. But still, I was not doing that for enjoyment, but more for practicality. If I did not sit in the sun my fingers would have literally frozen solid and I wouldn’t be able to write the rest of my exams.
Yet still, that was the only sun I was getting, the rest of the time I was sitting at a desk.
And that is what we do, we spend more and more time indoors and at a desk as we get older (this is probably why the spray tan industry booms with adults.)
I read an article that spoke about the cities of Chicago and Manhattan, specifically the central business districts. In the early 1900’s when the cities started to really grow, people were all to happy to work in their offices. The buildings were big and offices were large. Then, as time went on, the age of the skyscraper came into being. And all of a sudden large buildings were going up less then four meters away from eachother at times. And the buildings just got higher and higher. This meant that less sunlight was coming into those large, beautiful offices I was talking about. The overall health of the people working in those offices declined, and so started rises in depression. Simply because of a lack of sunlight.
These days we have laws to counteract building being put up to close together. What we don’t have is laws saving us from our habits and routine. There are the excuses of “I’m too busy” or “just after I finish this report.” we lock ourselves in our houses staring at screens and wonder why we become so overwhelmed with work, or social media; inevitably making matters worse for ourselves. Who is to say you can’t take your cup of morning coffee outside for five minutes. (I promise, it will brighten your day.) It happens to be the small, simple things like this that happen to make a very significant impact on the way we feel about our lives.
Perhaps we need to grow down and take the time to have a tea party once in a while with those teddy bears you have hidden at the bottem of your hallway closet (Don’t even try and pretend you don’t. I have a dolphin named Pepsi, and he protects me from nightmares sometimes. Don’t judge me.)
As much as we progress through different stages of life, there is something to be said about reverting to the simple innocence of playing outside. It might do us all some good.
Plates of gold
Letโs take a trip to Japan. Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pieces of pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. The result of this is lovely gold and silvery streaks covering the surface of the pottery, such as bowls and plates. In this way it treats the flaws and breaks as part of the piece’s history instead of treating it as though it is something to disguise.
I suppose we ought to be ashamed of putting broken bowls and plates out when guests come over. After all, it is just an admission that you were clumsy enough to break something, and why would anyone ever openly admit to another human being that they are less than perfect? Thatโs just way too out there, I mean, what will the neighbours think of us?
Kintsugi is closely related to Mushin, a philosophy which literally translates to โno mind.โ (loosely translated to โHakuna matata.โ) It promotes a living-in-the-present attitude. This acknowledges the veins of gold instead of the break. It acknowledges that the most important part of the hurt (the break) is the healing (the gold) and that this should not be hidden, but celebrated. But again, what would the neighbours think?
What everyone seems to forget is that, you are not the only person in the whole universe who has broken a plate, and you are not the only person who has cracks of their own. So really, why not display the broken plates? Perhaps when Mrs Jones from next door comes over for dinner, you two will have something to talk about.
If we are able to admit that the gold, in something as arbitrary and mundane as the plates that have been broken, makes them more beautiful, surely we should be able to do that for ourselves.
Just like the art of kintsugi, he knew the art of fixing up broken people with the laqcuer of his golden words.
– เคจเคฟkhz Jomraj
https://www.yourquote.in/nikhz-jomraj-dmml/quotes/just-like-art-kintsugi-knew-art-fixing-up-broken-people-his-guc85
As wonderful as this concept is, I do find a flaw in it. The only way a plate can be repaired in this way is for someone to take the time to apply the gold mixture to its broken pieces and one by one, help put them together again. (And yes, I am certainly comparing human beings to a flat piece of porcelain.) In order for this to happen, someone needs to see that the plate, is in fact, broken. (This is where humans differ from plates.) Human beings tend to be better at hiding their cracks then plates are, and so, if no one can see the cracks, they arenโt going to get fixed.
As strong as we are and as much as we believe we can do things on our own, we are fatally flawed :
We tend to not be able to see the gold that is already within us, and so we believe that none exists at all.ย
I suppose when you woke up this morning you didnโt expect to be taking advice from something you donโt give a second thought to; something you eat your morning toast off of. I wonder though, if we donโt give a thought to the small things, how should we expect others to give a thought to us? Especially when we make ourselves out to be less significant than a plate.
Featured image was obtained from https://www.artlovingitaly.com/the-japanese-art-of-kintsugi-explained/
Alone on the farm
It had been a long, hard day. The sun had beat down on her back as she had tried to fix the roof of the shed. Her face was shielded by a large hat, but by the time she had drawn a bath that night, it stung when she touched her neck.
In an attempt to sooth the stinging, she went outside to collect some aloe. She broke off a few pieces and made her way back inside. The kitchen was large. They used to have two cooks, but now there was only her. She broke the aloe and did her best with her splinter ridden hands to empty its thick juice into a shallow bowl. She added a little warm water to make it easier to apply and went to the bathroom where one of only two mirrors in the house was kept.ย
Carefully she dabbed a cloth into the mixture and started to apply it to the back of her neck. Once that was done she applied some to the back of their hands. They were not stinging yet, but had started to become darker and darker of late from her long hours spent working in the sun. She feared the tanning would be worse for her then the sunburn was.ย
Next, she went back to the kitchen and placed the bowl in the old sink. It was rusting on the edges, but was still good. She took out another bowl and squeezed some lemon juice into it, then proceeded to attempt to remove some of the splinters in her hands. It was a long ordeal, after half an hour she had only managed to remove three. Hoping the lemon would clean her hands, she gently placed them in the bowl. They started to sting where the little wooden shards had penetrated her skin, but she endured. Lately it seemed that most things stung in some way or another.
She placed the second bowl in the sink and took a mug to the table. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Collecting her nearly discarded lemon, she squeezed a little juice into the mug and then threw the lemon out the window. She had picked some tea leaves from the garden the day before. So she broke a few pieces of the long green leaf and placed it in the cup. Sugar was expensive, but the bees on the farm produced honey and she knew how to collect it, so she kept a jar on the counter. She took a spoon of honey and placed it in the cup. By then the kettle had started to whistle, and she poured the hot water into the cup. She stirred it with the spoon she had used for the honey.
She went to the living room down the hallway which she now slept in, placed her mug on the side table and made herself ready for bed. Then she took out her clothes and placed them on the chair in the corner and made a quick job of dusting off her work shoes and placing them under the chair.
Finally she got into bed and sat with her back leaning on the wall. She retrieved her tea from the side table and took a deep breath; inhaling the scent of the tea. For a moment, nothing stung. Until she took the first sip of her tea, then she could taste the sting.
And the next day she repeated everything all over again.
By: Leilah Bhyat
Backspacing and yellow bomber jackets
I am sure we all know the feeling. The one where you are writing a text message or strongly worded email. You get half way through, or maybe you even finish it and once the adrenaline rush of telling this person your truth has passed, all you can do is sit there, catch your breath, and promptly begin to backspace furiously.
I found myself sitting in front of my laptop doing that a lot last night, and I got to thinking. Do we really think so little of ourselves that, in addition to not wanting to take up space in this world and kind of just blend in to the crowd, we also happen to degrade the worth of our own unique life experience and what could happen if we actually spoke up about it?
Whether it be you finally telling the boy that you really see this relationship going somewhere, or maybe you are a guy who wants to slow things down a tad because you are not comfortable with the pace. Maybe your boss has dismissed your opinion one to many times and youโd like to express your serious concerns in this.
I canโt count the amount of times I have sat before a keyboard furiously typing my words, unapologetically expressing myself and feeling empowered by it. Then stopping.
I do not believe that this is a question of gender, as many people might believe it is, everyone does it. Perhaps itโs a trend โeveryone is bottling up their feelings, I should too,โ or perhaps, โCrippling self doubt is the new yellow, everyone should have at least two shades.โ
But even though itโs in fashion, no one wants to outwardly display their yellow bomber jacket, because that is just too out-there. Yellow gets you noticed, and once you start backspacing that strong hue starts to fade.
I think what we donโt realise is that deleting the words doesnโt suddenly delete the emotions. Itโs the โout of sight, out of mindโ mentality that has become acceptable. Effectively, you are taking yourself, tying them to a chair, making them pour their heart out and then duct taping their mouth shut once they are looking up at you with tears in their eyes. Then you leave them in a concrete room with a solid metal door, and expect them to be able to go on as if nothing happened. We do this over and over again. Each time chipping away at our voices and self worth. I think wearing the bright yellow bomber jacket might just be the lesser of two evils.
Or better yet, maybe we should hit that send button and see what happens.
Made on Earth
My father and his best friend grew up in Apartheid South Africa. My father is of colour and his best friend, who I fondly refer to as Uncle Kimon, is white. Growing up I heard endless stories of the trouble these two used to get into. Them going to “whites only” beaches, or Uncle Kimon picking up my Dad’s girlfriends from their houses, so their parents wouldn’t think they were going out with an Indian boy.
Although Kimon was considered run of the mill ‘white’ on paper, in reality, his parents are Greek. Because of this, people couldn’t quite place him. With his dark, almost-black hair, straight nose and olive skin, no wonder people couldn’t place him. To them he was Portuguese, or Italian, even ‘coloured’ at times. It isn’t any wonder then why, when asked, “Well, what are you?” Kimon got tired of explaining. Eventually he started giving the same answer each time.
“I’m a citizen of the world”
Knowing him, it was said as a joke or a rather cocky remark. But I like to believe that my dear Godfather accidentally stumbled on a rather timeless piece of wisdom.
Before anything else we are human. Once we are born all sorts of labels get placed on us, none of which we decide on or even ask for. Growing up in South Africa gives you a particularly unique perspective on the subject. My Dad’s side of the family gets labelled as “Indian,” my Mum’s as “white.” Both my parents look like they are from the Mediterranean.
Inevitably I get asked the same question as Uncle Kimon, “Well, what are you?” (A question, it must be noted, is not considered rude if you are well acquainted with someone where I come from.) I have a few responses to this question:
- “I’m Indian” (an answer reserved for the simple minded folks I meet)
- “Why does it matter?” (reserved for those who really believe they can know everything about me if they know the answer to this one question)
- “South African” (reserved for people who insist I must be from somewhere else even though I’ve already insisted that I am, indeed South African, and on some occasions, shown them my ID)
- “Human”
“I’m a citizen of the world.”
-Uncle Kimon
People don’t seem to like the 4th answer much.
People tend to look at their fellow human beings as things; objects that need to come with a “Made In” label. I’ve been told I’m Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Brazilian, German, Arab, Greek, Lebanese, Turkish, Egyptian, British, American, Australian and Persian. And I’m sure my mother must be exhausted from giving birth in all those places at once. The airline tickets alone must have cost a fortune, never mind the visas.
Thinking about it now, I don’t need to show anyone my label, no one needs to know what fabric I’m made of (It would definitely me satin, just for the record) or if my colour runs out if you put me in the washing machine (It doesn’t, olive skin will always be olive.) In fact, I don’t need to be put in the washing machine at all, I’m perfectly happy with a warm shower like everyone else.
I’m not “Made In,” I’m “Made, on,” I’m made on Earth to be precise, And definitely a Citizen of the World. Though I don’t think the government would be too ecstatic if i wrote that on my passport, it might cause a few problems at customs.
Thank you to Sheldon, for your never ending support. Check out his site, like and support!
https://quitequeer.wixsite.com/lgbtqiaap
And another thing 