Layers

I have always been fascinated by things that come in layers. Beautiful works of art with layers of colours and images that make you step closer and look deeply are at the top of my list. So are trees that have layers of bark, each revealing a different colour or texture underneath. Or slate, with subtle differences in colour in each layer, from gun metal grey, to purple, to russet.

Needless to say, I am very excited by the new theories I am reading about what it means to be a person; that the self is not a single, unchanging thing.

New thinking talks about the multiplicity of the self. So, if I understand the theorists, it means that I have lots of selves, all layered together, some converging, others not. I have past selves and present selves; selves that I choose depending on the situation; selves that I like and those that I don't;  future selves; selves that I hope for; selves I want to forget. All of my selves are constantly in relationship with each other and the world. The world and the selves of others all touch my selves, affecting them, changing  them, teaching them. We are infinitely complex.

But this is the bit that is both scary and gives me hope. If I have so many selves, why don't I fly apart? How do I know who "I" am? The theorists aren't too sure either. None of the ones I have been reading have been able to explain, except to say, "Maybe it's the soul", or some such vagueness. What does it mean  to have a "strong sense of self"? I am reminded of a scene in "Witches Abroad" by Terry Pratchett. Granny Weatherwax and her sister are trapped in a magical hall of mirrors that plays tricks on your mind. The only way to get out, is to know which you is you. Her sister starts running, looking for herself. She gets lost for all eternity. Granny Weatherwax looks down at her body and knows exactly. She steps out immediately. What did she know? What do we all know?

Making.

Making is amazing! Making something out of cloth, wool, paper or paint is both challenging and therapeutic. As the paint goes onto the canvas transforming its colour and texture it transforms the painter . Making something original and new from your own soul is a connection with the divine that is impossible to replicate elsewhere. And as I paint, I connect, praise, create and heal all at once. It is a prayer, a song and a blessing. So, if you have not made anything beautiful recently, go now! Buy paint. Buy wool. Buy a pencil and paper. Make something! "I make art to tell my soul that I am listening. "

Change

It is commonly accepted that change is the only constant. I don't know who said it first, but they were right.

Some changes are like geological shifts and evolution. Others are fast, like a pitstop in F1 racing.

These past few months have definitely felt like a pitstop. Deciding to change jobs and move in a matter of weeks and then finding a new place and moving within just one more week has left my head spinning! It is now four months down the line. The new job is settling in nicely and the new place is starting to feel cozy and I finally have time to reflect.

Funny thing is...

I don't think the changes have come and gone. The restlessness has not left me. The sense of impending shifts is still there. Now, at the moment, it is just a vague niggle at the back of my consciousness. I don't know what shape this next change will take, whether it be careerwise, homewise or otherwise, but I have a sense of it... and it's exciting!

See, this is the interesting part. I like my comfort zone as much as the next girl. It is not usual for me to want to change. I always buy the same brands and shop at the same shops. I have a favourite restaurant and a favourite author. I always eat my cereal with hot milk and leave my sweet potatoes for last. But right now... I don't know... There is something at the edge of my thinking, somewhere between second and third thoughts (see "A Hat Full of Sky"), something telling me not to relax and get comfortable.

Should I be worried? Am I being fanciful? Am I being overly hopeful? I don't know.

Change is the only constant, so let's see what happens next!

Ubi caritas, et amor, Deus ibi est.

Where love is, and compassion, there is God. Or is it, where God is, there is love and compassion? Which comes first? Do our loving actions call God to be present, or does God's presence make us loving and compassionate? Option A: Love first. This means that we are capable of love without God's help and He arrives to bless our loving actions - give us a pat on the back, so to speak. So, the burden for making the world a better place is ours. Option B: God first. God is omnipresent, according to most Christians, and He is love, so love is omnipresent. Ok. So, why do we read of people like Kony and places like Sudan, where the lack of love and compassion is so clear and sickening? Is the burden for making the world a better place God's and He has decided to take the day off? Or is it Option C? Knowing God and knowing love is not a human thing at all and it is impossible for us to do so without Him. So, unless we surrender to Him and His love, humans will not know His love. Therefore, there will be places and people who make it look like He is absent, because they are trying to run the show their way. And there are places and people who are conduits for His love and make it visible to others, because they have surrendered to Him and serve His kingdom. Thus, His kingdom comes on Earth as it is in Heaven? So, the burden for making the world a better place is God's, but he chooses to use human servants. I am leaning towards option C. Whether I'm right, I don't know. Whether others choose differently, I don't really care. I know one thing: I choose love.

Dreams!

We all live life hoping for more. Some of us are fortunate enough to get more. I have received so much and yet I hope for more. Why?

Here's why: I have much - people who love me, people I love, a good job, a nice flat, a nice car, a Kindle... The list is long. The very last item on the list is the problem, though. I have dreams.

This is not meant to be the unsatisfied rant of a spoilt brat. This is a statement of fact. I have much. I want more. Because what I have does not answer the call of my dreams. The job is good, but it's a job, not a way of life. I believe that one's work, that thing you do to fulfill your role in the grand scheme of things, should be something that you want to make a way of life, because you were born to live that way. I was not born to live this way. Being a teacher is noble and good and I am not bad at it, but it just ain't me.

(Note pause here)

As I wrote these first paragraphs, I had to pause, wondering where this is going. So, I took the time to go over some old posts. Methinks some of the things I started seeing during and shortly after Lent are becoming clearer. I know now that where I am now is the right place for me to be, but I am definitely on my way somewhere else. My role in the grand scheme of things is changing and my job is to work as hard as I can, both on the here-and-now and on the next step.

Wish me luck!

The Pink Chair

This is the pink chair in question.

On being a teacher.

So, teaching is described as the most stressful, but satisfying career in the world (If Oprah can be quoted as a source).

I have to say, I agree. But... Not today. Today I feel only the stress.

What makes a young, single woman decide to spend her waking hours parenting a whole bunch of other people's teenage daughters in a boarding house? Seriously! Just think about the hormone levels! Every broken nail, every laddered pair of stockings, everything is a Drama-with-a-capital-D!

At the same time, I spend my mornings trying to get the intricacies of the English language into the heads of a variety of equally hormonal other teenagers from ages 12 to 17. Usually fun, but on a Friday after lunch... Not so much.

I think Lawrence expressed it best:

Last Lesson of the Afternoon.

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.


And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment? - I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them -
- I will sit and wait for the bell.

D. H. Lawrence