A recent work trip to Tanzania offered me the opportunity to explore a small town in the far north. What I had not anticipated was the exploration that would take place inside the hotel we were booked into.
When venturing into more rural areas, one should always be prepared for something more laid-back than you might find in the hustle and bustle of bigger cities. So one looks at the website pictures with more than a pinch of salt and make sure that you pack a bit more extensively that you probably could.What I actually should've packed for was mobility - seeing as I had to change rooms four times in my 10-day stay.
We arrived to cool drinks and warm welcomes - a promising start to a rapidly deteriorating stay. My colleague and I were assigned rooms in the new wing; so new that the building dust was still drifting around, and you could fall asleep to the sounds of your neighbors (due to paper-thin walls) or the not-so-gentle rumblings of jackhammers (apparently some late night emergency repairs). But you could blanket all this out with the very loud and very bass-driven live music that is a proud feature on weekends and public holidays. Not such great news for those of us here for business, rather than pleasure. And then there was the refreshing cold showers... due to the absence of hot water.
Believe me, when tired, filthy and frazzled engineers return after a day in the field, what they want is a warm shower, food and the welcome of quiet sleep. This was not going to feature if we stayed in those rooms.
Enter stage, room number two. It was in the old wing (yay!), but it faced the entertainment area (not so yay). Also, having learned to assume nothing, I opened the hot water tap and waited... and waited.... and waited.....and called for assistance.
Room number three: still in the old wing, still facing the noisy area but it had hot water! This I could work with... and then we realized that there was a long weekend ahead, meaning four wonderful days filled with live entertainment and late night music. So, once again, the trek to reception with an "ai senor" expression at the ready.
Room number four: Old wing, facing away from the live entertainment! The gentle chirrup of birds in the background as I heaved a sigh of relief. Which rapidly turned into a groan of disappointment after I opened a tap laughingly marked 'hot'. It took the visit of a plumber and two more requests before I finally enjoyed a warm shower. The reasons? Oh, they forgot to switch something on... coupled with the fact that hot water is not to the far left (or right) of the mixing tap, but kinda sorta maybe in the middle-ish...
Clean towels, apparently, are also a commodity that the staff have great pains parting with. Your used towels, even though you hang it up for re-use, gets whisked away promptly every morning. Replacing them, however, does not appear to feature in their list of 'things to do when servicing a room'.
The setting itself is lovely, the people are friendly and very welcoming, and you will never leave a meal with lingering pangs of hunger. They could, however, gain a world of benefit from a bit more hands-on management. And If I didn't have a project taking up most of my time, I might just have haunted their passages with clipboard in hand!
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The search is over!
I have it! I have found the single most useless man-made item!
During a recent voyage to the edge of the imagination I had the misfortune of spending a rather chilly night huddled under said useless item - the single bed duvet.
There you are, settling down for the night with bunny-slippers tucked under the bed and pillow beaten into position. It's chilly, so you turn on your side and tuck your legs up, when lo! You are the victim of a sudden attack of early-onset arthritis in the knees! Oh, no. Wait. The duvet cover just pulled away exposing you to the elements. So you grab the duvet and pull it to cover your knees when, aargh! your backside now gets a taste of frost-bite.
Right, plan B. Turn on your stomach, angling at a slight diagonal so that your head is next to the pillow and your feet in the opposite corner, tucking duvet ends in so you resemble a caterpillar. Your neck feels a bit cold, so you edge the duvet a bit higher and, oh no, now the little piggies feel the wrath of the deep freeze!
Eventually I ended up in something resembling a mummy-pose, trying to stay warm by sheer force of fury. In retrospect I should probably have opened the duvet cover and just climbed in, turning it into a rather sad sleeping bag. Oh sigh; these first world problems I tell ya...
During a recent voyage to the edge of the imagination I had the misfortune of spending a rather chilly night huddled under said useless item - the single bed duvet.
There you are, settling down for the night with bunny-slippers tucked under the bed and pillow beaten into position. It's chilly, so you turn on your side and tuck your legs up, when lo! You are the victim of a sudden attack of early-onset arthritis in the knees! Oh, no. Wait. The duvet cover just pulled away exposing you to the elements. So you grab the duvet and pull it to cover your knees when, aargh! your backside now gets a taste of frost-bite.
Right, plan B. Turn on your stomach, angling at a slight diagonal so that your head is next to the pillow and your feet in the opposite corner, tucking duvet ends in so you resemble a caterpillar. Your neck feels a bit cold, so you edge the duvet a bit higher and, oh no, now the little piggies feel the wrath of the deep freeze!
Eventually I ended up in something resembling a mummy-pose, trying to stay warm by sheer force of fury. In retrospect I should probably have opened the duvet cover and just climbed in, turning it into a rather sad sleeping bag. Oh sigh; these first world problems I tell ya...
Monday, August 12, 2013
These are the voyages...
"25th July
The raging seas and howling winds have confined all crew below decks. I lie huddled in my bunk, listening to the various crashes and thuds as everything not secured goes tumbling about. The smell of cooking drifts past every now and again, but as curious as I am, I do not think my stomach is ready to investigate how the cook is preparing anything under these conditions."
"1st August
Supplies are running low and crew morale is starting to show some signs of wear. It has been a difficult and trying expedition, though I daresay our labors have proven fruitful. The barometer is dropping like a stone, and those that know say that we may be headed back to port sooner than anticipated. The message is treated with cautious joy; I do admit the prospect of a meal without boiled potatoes is one I rather look forward to."
Extracts from a really bad sea-exploration novel? Not quite. Rather the rambled musings of an exhausted scientist halfway through a midnight-to-8am shift, shivering on the back deck of a research vessel watching the winch spool out and hoping that the friggin sediment grab will actually GRAB some sediment this time.
If nothing else it fills me with pure admiration for those voyagers who set out to explore the vast oceans a few hundred years ago. These days we set out armed with with nothing but satellite communications, global positioning systems, desalinization plants and a whole array of other safety equipment.
But some things remain eternal: the sight of endless waters racing past, the tang of salt-air and oil, the camaraderie and pet-hates that define the relationships in such a closed environment. And oh, yes, the seabirds bobbing along a drifting vessel - they must've thought we were the worst fishermen ever! But we were not fishing for, ahaha, fish. We were there to plumb the depths of the ocean floor, sifting through bucketfuls of mud and sand finding everything from fossilized jawbones to brightly colored worms and so much more.
Though the vessels themselves may have changed in shape and capability, the human need to explore remains untouched by time. Who knows; a couple of hundred years from now the diary entries of a star-explorer may ready quite similar to those of all explorers past and present.
The raging seas and howling winds have confined all crew below decks. I lie huddled in my bunk, listening to the various crashes and thuds as everything not secured goes tumbling about. The smell of cooking drifts past every now and again, but as curious as I am, I do not think my stomach is ready to investigate how the cook is preparing anything under these conditions."
"1st August
Supplies are running low and crew morale is starting to show some signs of wear. It has been a difficult and trying expedition, though I daresay our labors have proven fruitful. The barometer is dropping like a stone, and those that know say that we may be headed back to port sooner than anticipated. The message is treated with cautious joy; I do admit the prospect of a meal without boiled potatoes is one I rather look forward to."
Extracts from a really bad sea-exploration novel? Not quite. Rather the rambled musings of an exhausted scientist halfway through a midnight-to-8am shift, shivering on the back deck of a research vessel watching the winch spool out and hoping that the friggin sediment grab will actually GRAB some sediment this time.
If nothing else it fills me with pure admiration for those voyagers who set out to explore the vast oceans a few hundred years ago. These days we set out armed with with nothing but satellite communications, global positioning systems, desalinization plants and a whole array of other safety equipment.
But some things remain eternal: the sight of endless waters racing past, the tang of salt-air and oil, the camaraderie and pet-hates that define the relationships in such a closed environment. And oh, yes, the seabirds bobbing along a drifting vessel - they must've thought we were the worst fishermen ever! But we were not fishing for, ahaha, fish. We were there to plumb the depths of the ocean floor, sifting through bucketfuls of mud and sand finding everything from fossilized jawbones to brightly colored worms and so much more.
Though the vessels themselves may have changed in shape and capability, the human need to explore remains untouched by time. Who knows; a couple of hundred years from now the diary entries of a star-explorer may ready quite similar to those of all explorers past and present.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
What I did on my holiday...
Not the most creative title, I agree, but hey... as Barney would say: "true story"!
The significant other and I headed out to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend for some much needed R&R away from civilization, cellphone calls and cats. Even us dedicated pet staffers go a bit foamy at the mouth after being bounced on for the hundredth time at 3 am in the morning, or yowled at because said cats feel bored / hungry / annoyed / playful / nauseous etc etc etc.
Anyhoo. Considering the trip in retrospect, I feel a bit like Frodo or Samwise Gamgee after their famous journey, including the chance to shout "Here come the Eagles!". Scoff if you want, but our trip included treacherous mountain ascents, wizard-like staffs and, yes, eagles!
Our destination was Kromrivier - a haven for any world-weary wanderer tucked away in the folds of the Cederberg Mountains, an area known for its strange rock formations and world-class hiking / climbing routes. With the rainy winter season in full swing, we arrived at the major river crossing to find it, ahahahaha, flooded. And then some. With some backtracking and creative navigation we arrived safely at our cottage, if slightly later than planned. But visions of the Lord of the Rings soon turned into the Three Little Pigs as we set to huffing and puffing to get our darn fire to burn properly! Perseverance paid off though, and by bedtime our cottage was a cozy haven where weary travelers dozed before a blazing hearth. With an outside bathroom, trips were made on a pressing-need-only basis, and rather quickly at that.
Well after daybreak we set off to scale a local feature that promised good exercise and a fantastic view. Unfortunately it came with some hidden terms and conditions that we discovered the hard way. Just getting to the start of our ascent included a lot more bushwhacking than anticipated. I ended up with prickly leaves and thorns in mentionable places that made me say a few unmentionable words. With names like Umbrella Thorn (Hak & Steek) and Climber's Friend (officially Cliffortia Ruscifolia, but once you've grabbed a handful, it's known by more colorful phrases), the journey may sounds almost cheerful. It wasn't.
Fighting our way through these menacing shrubs, we climbed higher, finding our path littered with interesting flakes of newly exposed rock, some rock dust, areas that looked newly-plown and some new-looking boulders. All very interesting geologically speaking; all VERY nerve-wracking when you realized you're walking right along the path of a recent rockfall. Like Gandalf's brave company, this climb was not successful - we did not make it to the top, and returned to camp scratched, sore and out of sorts.
But, like all good stories, the journey was not over yet, and hope remained. The next day we set off to meet with Megan - she who follows the airy trails of the local Black Eagles (Verreaux Eagles for those in the know, "Witkruisarend" for the rest of us). As part of her PhD studies she monitors the Eagles during their breeding season, and Significant Other had volunteered his services to rig an abseil to place a camera above a nest.
We hiked up the mountain around the corner from the nest site, popping over a saddle before descending to the overhang above their nest. Unlike yesterday's brushy ordeal, this hike was an absolute pleasure. I'd also unpacked my trekking poles, and oh my word: 8th wonder of the world. The dramatic cut-down on flailing about and making ground-level inspections of pebbles was almost magical. Then a shadow swooped over us, and I got my first close-up look at ::drumroll: the Eagles. With a wingspan of 2 metres, even the most daring human feels that inner mammal giving a very alarmed 'squeak!' at the sight these hunters.
As there were eggs in the nest already, our job was to get in, get the job done, and get out with as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. Sitting at my belay station on top, I watched as the eagles flew past every now and again, and yes, I admit it, I enjoyed it thoroughly being able to say "Here come the eagles!"
With camera set in place, we left the area as quickly as possible and I'm happy to report that by the time we reached the the valley floor, the Eagles were settling in on the eggs again.
That evening we sat around a roaring fire, happy smiles and tired bodies celebrating the indescribable wonder of being 'out there'. It may not always be a smooth journey, but the rewards are beyond measure.
P.s. For more info on the Black Eagle project, see https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Black-Eagle-Project/166520386739894
The significant other and I headed out to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend for some much needed R&R away from civilization, cellphone calls and cats. Even us dedicated pet staffers go a bit foamy at the mouth after being bounced on for the hundredth time at 3 am in the morning, or yowled at because said cats feel bored / hungry / annoyed / playful / nauseous etc etc etc.
Anyhoo. Considering the trip in retrospect, I feel a bit like Frodo or Samwise Gamgee after their famous journey, including the chance to shout "Here come the Eagles!". Scoff if you want, but our trip included treacherous mountain ascents, wizard-like staffs and, yes, eagles!
Our destination was Kromrivier - a haven for any world-weary wanderer tucked away in the folds of the Cederberg Mountains, an area known for its strange rock formations and world-class hiking / climbing routes. With the rainy winter season in full swing, we arrived at the major river crossing to find it, ahahahaha, flooded. And then some. With some backtracking and creative navigation we arrived safely at our cottage, if slightly later than planned. But visions of the Lord of the Rings soon turned into the Three Little Pigs as we set to huffing and puffing to get our darn fire to burn properly! Perseverance paid off though, and by bedtime our cottage was a cozy haven where weary travelers dozed before a blazing hearth. With an outside bathroom, trips were made on a pressing-need-only basis, and rather quickly at that.
Well after daybreak we set off to scale a local feature that promised good exercise and a fantastic view. Unfortunately it came with some hidden terms and conditions that we discovered the hard way. Just getting to the start of our ascent included a lot more bushwhacking than anticipated. I ended up with prickly leaves and thorns in mentionable places that made me say a few unmentionable words. With names like Umbrella Thorn (Hak & Steek) and Climber's Friend (officially Cliffortia Ruscifolia, but once you've grabbed a handful, it's known by more colorful phrases), the journey may sounds almost cheerful. It wasn't.
Fighting our way through these menacing shrubs, we climbed higher, finding our path littered with interesting flakes of newly exposed rock, some rock dust, areas that looked newly-plown and some new-looking boulders. All very interesting geologically speaking; all VERY nerve-wracking when you realized you're walking right along the path of a recent rockfall. Like Gandalf's brave company, this climb was not successful - we did not make it to the top, and returned to camp scratched, sore and out of sorts.
But, like all good stories, the journey was not over yet, and hope remained. The next day we set off to meet with Megan - she who follows the airy trails of the local Black Eagles (Verreaux Eagles for those in the know, "Witkruisarend" for the rest of us). As part of her PhD studies she monitors the Eagles during their breeding season, and Significant Other had volunteered his services to rig an abseil to place a camera above a nest.
We hiked up the mountain around the corner from the nest site, popping over a saddle before descending to the overhang above their nest. Unlike yesterday's brushy ordeal, this hike was an absolute pleasure. I'd also unpacked my trekking poles, and oh my word: 8th wonder of the world. The dramatic cut-down on flailing about and making ground-level inspections of pebbles was almost magical. Then a shadow swooped over us, and I got my first close-up look at ::drumroll: the Eagles. With a wingspan of 2 metres, even the most daring human feels that inner mammal giving a very alarmed 'squeak!' at the sight these hunters.
As there were eggs in the nest already, our job was to get in, get the job done, and get out with as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. Sitting at my belay station on top, I watched as the eagles flew past every now and again, and yes, I admit it, I enjoyed it thoroughly being able to say "Here come the eagles!"
With camera set in place, we left the area as quickly as possible and I'm happy to report that by the time we reached the the valley floor, the Eagles were settling in on the eggs again.
That evening we sat around a roaring fire, happy smiles and tired bodies celebrating the indescribable wonder of being 'out there'. It may not always be a smooth journey, but the rewards are beyond measure.
P.s. For more info on the Black Eagle project, see https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Black-Eagle-Project/166520386739894
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Relativity in non-time travel
Sounds intellectual, eh? Well, don't be afraid... step a little closer... that's right. The title is about as intellectual as this ramble will get.
Having recently become an international traveler, I now find myself contemplating the relativity of time during sub-light travel. Oh wait, lapsed there... Let me put it another way. Time seems a bit more elastic than usual when one is out and about in the world. Possibly with an added algorithm that includes the distance away from home. Darnit, another lapse. Right, maybe I should stop fighting it and just go with it.
First off, there's the airport black hole phenomena. No, no, I don't mean the one where your luggage disappears into a logistical black hole. Although, come to think of it, it may just be further proof of my theory. Just think: there's this huge rush to get to the airport on time... but once inside, time slows to a crawl as you stand in queues, then get herded into the plane to wait some more. Once you leave the ground it's like you've entered another dimension. Far, far below people are going about their daily business, totally unaware of your brief flight through their lives - you pass by, catching glimpses that pass too fast for you to make sense of the bigger picture. Upon arrival you are integrated back into real-time, albeit through another time slow-down known as baggage reclaim.
Another phenomenon is that of distorted time brought about by distance separation; a trick of time that is perhaps second cousin to near light-speed time distortion. If you are the one away from home, time seems to fly - you're seeing new things, experiencing different conditions, your senses are continually assaulted by new and different inputs. You look at the calender after a few days, surprised at how much time as actually elapsed. For those at home, the reverse is true. Days drag past as you wonder what the other person is doing, how they're feeling, if they think of you as much as you do of them. When you talk, they seem surprised at your different experience of what is supposedly the same amount of time.
And with that I'm off to contemplate some more of this wonderful flexible resource... preferably in a comfy spot where I can watch the night sky wheel past overhead.
Having recently become an international traveler, I now find myself contemplating the relativity of time during sub-light travel. Oh wait, lapsed there... Let me put it another way. Time seems a bit more elastic than usual when one is out and about in the world. Possibly with an added algorithm that includes the distance away from home. Darnit, another lapse. Right, maybe I should stop fighting it and just go with it.
First off, there's the airport black hole phenomena. No, no, I don't mean the one where your luggage disappears into a logistical black hole. Although, come to think of it, it may just be further proof of my theory. Just think: there's this huge rush to get to the airport on time... but once inside, time slows to a crawl as you stand in queues, then get herded into the plane to wait some more. Once you leave the ground it's like you've entered another dimension. Far, far below people are going about their daily business, totally unaware of your brief flight through their lives - you pass by, catching glimpses that pass too fast for you to make sense of the bigger picture. Upon arrival you are integrated back into real-time, albeit through another time slow-down known as baggage reclaim.
Another phenomenon is that of distorted time brought about by distance separation; a trick of time that is perhaps second cousin to near light-speed time distortion. If you are the one away from home, time seems to fly - you're seeing new things, experiencing different conditions, your senses are continually assaulted by new and different inputs. You look at the calender after a few days, surprised at how much time as actually elapsed. For those at home, the reverse is true. Days drag past as you wonder what the other person is doing, how they're feeling, if they think of you as much as you do of them. When you talk, they seem surprised at your different experience of what is supposedly the same amount of time.
And with that I'm off to contemplate some more of this wonderful flexible resource... preferably in a comfy spot where I can watch the night sky wheel past overhead.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Ode to Soekie... or maybe just some ramblings
Those are the words anyone who shares their life with animals dread. It signals the inevitable parting of ways, often with hard but unavoidable choices to be made.
I heard those words last Friday, and it meant the end of my journey with Soekiekat (Southern Comfort or Soco on the books, but seriously, what pet ever has just one name?).
It was just before Christmas about 6 years ago when I met a vet-friend for coffee. Of course the discussion turned to animals and she asked how my furry family was doing. I admitted that I missed Mouse...ahem, I mean Sterling tabbycat, and that it had been an interesting dynamic with 3 cats and a big dog in one household. My memory now paints her response in coy colours: "well, there just so happens to be a kitty at the office looking for a home."
Yep, she could sure spot a sucker! The image of a lonely cat, crouched in a metal cage spending Christmas all alone in the cold vet offices broke my heart, and opened a door for Soco to walk into our lives.
The small tabby with the spiral markings on her side and a nick out of her tongue hopped out of the cat-carrier, glided through the house, and then promptly settled for a snooze on the back-rest of the couch. I stood there, mouth agape, all over-prepared for an anxious cat that needed to be settled into her environment. Instead I got a cat that ran a quick inspection and then gave me the "yes, I can work with this "-look, placing her pawprints firmly in our territory and hearts.
I often wandered about the owners that were forced to abandon her as they emigrated. And after her death, I do so again. I want to tell them what a blessing she was, that she found a happy home, that she had a good life with more spirit than her small body could ever carry and that I learnt oh so very much from her.
Soekie's rules for life:
1. Never underestimate the importance of sleep - one of her nicknames was "narcoleptic kitty". She spent quality time on her couch-back spot, right there where the first rays of the morning sun entered the house. I would walk past several times a day, observing the changes in sleeping posture, the ridiculous facial expressions of a blissful cat while in turn getting at most one green eye opening halfway or a jaw-cracking yawn.
2. Play! I was witness to many a wrestling match between Soekie and Sammi (also known as Scaredy-cat), games of chase that made it sound as if a herd of buffalo were stampeding through the house, and Soekie's dangerous "poke the lion" game where she'd sniff Savannah's (a.k.a. Fatcat) bum and then get involved in a swatting match.
3. Enjoy the outdoors. To the extent that the outdoors often found its way indoors, and it was my job to return the efforts from the "catch & release" programme back into the wild. Often at 2 am, armed with a towel or dustpan and dressed in a hastily grabbed night-gown. I could write a detailed catalogue of the catchable-sized wildlife in my area. Gardening was enjoyed by both of us, affording her a time to show off her tree-climbing, garden-ambush and surprise-attack skills.
4. Push your luck.... and be prepared to compromise. The dining room table was our most hotly contested issue. It was perfectly positioned to catch the late afternoon sun and offered a spectacular view of sunset. Also, a lovely sunning spot where you could watch the comings & goings of practically the whole lower floor. I lost count of the number of times I turfed her from the table, only to see her boomerang back. So we compromised... I placed a special kitty blanket on the table, and she graciously only sat on that one spot of the table, and never when guests were around.
5. Be bold! Whenever there was a strange noise outside or the sound of another cat, it was always interesting to observe the results in my house. Scaredy-cat would make a bee-line for indoors, and usually his hiding spot under the bed; whereas Soco would lead the charge outside, closely followed by Fatcat, to see who needed beating up on her territory.
6. Everyone is a potential friend. And I observed the most unlikely friendship forming between my adopted and reportedly cat-eating dog (well, she does have them for dinner, but as companions, not a course) and Soco. She would wind between the dog's legs, leaning in for a rough sniff and a quick lick from her large canine friend. They'd often sleep together on the dog-bed in winter, two warm bodies snuggled under the blanket.
7. Expect the unexpected. When I went to pick her up 6 years ago, I had no idea how she'd fit into the household or my heart. But she quickly worked her way deep into both, and I'm thankful for every day we had together. Her illness came just as suddenly, and our forced goodbye, reminding me of her final lesson...
8. Live fully in every moment
Until we meet again Soekie... the scratches you left in the plum tree's bark won't outlast the tracks you left in my heart.
And now for a real ode....
Ode to Spot - by Data (originally by Clay Dale)
- Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
- An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;
- Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
- Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.
- I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
- A singular development of cat communications
- That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
- For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.
- A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
- You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
- And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,
- It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.
- O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
- Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
- And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
- I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Moving on
The end of 2012 brought not so much the end of the world, but rather the end of an era. And this post contains no added Mayans... well, ok, maybe one little reference. But the rest of it is guaranteed Mayan-free. I hope.
It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.
The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.
And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.
With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.
It started off with a quiet weekend in the mountains that ended up in one rather sparkly rock being offered to me. After making sure the man wasn't joking or delirious, I accepted with a very happy heart. When we got home I heard that the job I'd applied for before we left was available to me, and the ball really started rolling. Suffice to say, by the end of 2012 I'm engaged, looking forward to starting a new job and in the process of moving house. It is ending on a note of wonder, terror, excitement with a quiet counterpoint of nostalgia.
The last few days I have tackled the messiest room in the house; packing that which needs to go into temporary storage, setting aside that which needs to go with to the temporary accommodation with fiancee, and that which must be discarded. It's a surprising and nostalgic journey, going through all the drawers, folders and boxes that somehow accumulated in between the book cases and desk. I found everything from grade school books to saved giftwrapping. Maps of places I've been and brochures of those I intended to visit. I kept reminding myself to be ruthless in this spring-cleaning process - don't hold on to old notes written in class, but don't throw them away either before reading them one more time. Somehow you revisit your life by reading little scraps of paper with odd notes, finding photos used as bookmarks and forgotten in between the pages, trying to decipher cryptic scribbles in your own handwriting. It's a flashback journey, little windows into your own history filled with glimpses of forgotten moments.
And sifting through it, I decide what to keep and what to let go of; sometimes much more than just a secret note or a long-forgotten address. Saying goodbye has never been easy for me, and some letters were not let go without a teardrop stamp. But they are not let go of lightly; they were held, read, and purposefully let go; sometimes with a fond farewell, at other times with regret. But it's time to move on, and it's more easily done with a lighter load.
With the new year lurking in the wings, perhaps it's a good time to clean the unused and unwanted things off the stage, setting it up for new memories and experiences that will complement the good that has already happened.
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