Childhood phenomena

I’ve lived through some fantastic natural phenomena. I am blessed (some would disagree, but my heart beats in a small town rhythm) to be the daughter of a geologist, so was born in a dusty Free State town full of fresh air and surrounded by kilometres of mielie fields and huge blue skies, did part of my growing up there and then moved to another, slightly less dusty town (but still surrounded by mielie fields as far as the eye could see, even when climbing the tallest tree in the garden.)

Beneath both towns lay kilometres of dug out rock tunnels, a dark, hot place with men drilling, sweat pouring, as they exploded out huge blocks of rock to be vomited up to earth and chemically treated and carefully sifted and filtered and heated by fire to bring out the molten gold of king’s crowns and princess’ rings. Well, that’s the childhood version of it, before the teen realisation of the ethics, the socially decrepit aspects, the hardship involved. I stray though, that’s another post.

This one is about the natural phenomena.

We always had tremors. Earth tremors, like rumbling monster’s tummies from deep below us, down there, where the men worked. Rockfalls or explosives, it was impossible to know as they happened. It was only when the news filtered up, of men trapped or hurt that one knew the difference between the planned and the disasterous. For us, above, they ranged between a slight feeling of misbalance to full-on glass-breaking, nerve-shattering ructions.

We only had one of those earth shattering ones in my time. I was sixteen, and had a friend staying. A non-mining child. We woke in the middle of the night to the whole house rocking, back-and-forth, like a granny on a rocking chair on the stoep, north to south, and back and forth, for what seemed like hours. She was petrified (the friend, not the metaphorical granny), so was I. I stood up, forgetting our childhood-drilled-into-our-heads-instruction to “Stand in the doorway” (the strongest place in a house.) I padded through to my parents to check they were fine.

We all survived. It was on the news, and my friend Trevor-who-lived-down-the-road’s wall fell down. Everything on shelves facing a North-South direction fell down, the East-West ones stayed safely in place. All rather exciting in the greater scheme of things.

Then there was the Red Storm of nineteen-eighty-something. I was about 10 at the time, and one afternoon in that Free State town surrounded by red-soiled mielie fields, the wind picked up to give us a monumental dust storm (we were used to arbitrary little ones that flew through town leaving a layer of dust that left our beloved Regina tutting and flapping with her duster. You could sometimes see them flying through the mielie fields - mini dust tornadoes.) This one, however, was way beyond any imaginings we could’ve made up. It turned our little town dark, at 2pm, a beautiful red dusk, the streetlights were turned on.

It was surreal. I whirled and twirled in our garden, a child dervish in the red dust. My poor sister was stuck indoors with the scary nun music teacher at the convent down the road that we shared, missing out on the excitement. I thought of her, stuck inside, while I frolicked in this outlandish world. She probably didn’t care either way, being of teenage temperament at the time.

Oh to be that whirling child, wild imaginings running through my mind, in the red dust world amongst the mielie fields below that huge blue sky… I really was a lucky child, wasn’t I?

The spirit is here

It's virtually audible or feelable or something, an electrical undercurrent flowing through the city, like a schoolchild anticipating the holidays. It is everywhere - on TV the tear-jerker (I know, I know... I'm a cry baby), patriotism-inducing ads, flags flap in the (rather polar at the moment, despite a beautiful huge blue sky) air from every lamp post, cars are adorned with flags and ears (nifty SA flag bonnets you tie onto your side view mirrors.) All over the place there is a frenzy of it. World Cup spirit. It's contagious, and delicious.

Despite our national team being, well, not on the top of the list at the bookies, the spirit is palpable, we love our boys, despite their rather dismal performances of late, because they're OUR boys, and if there's one thing this country is good at, it's mustering up spirit. We're a nation that loves singing and dancing and occassion and we are gasvry (an Afrikaans word that just doesn't have a good English translation, it basically means we are welcoming, we like visitors, we want to make them love it here.)

I'm not a huge soccer fan, but this seemed too big to miss, so it was with great excitement that I went down to the FIFA ticketing office to pick up my tickets on Friday (lucky Shiny is going to three matches.) There was a long queue, the 'system had gone down', a queue awash with bright yellow football t-shirts, of old and young, every colour of our nation, all smiling and talking to each other. That spirit hovering and singing and dancing amongst them.

It's just, well, fabulous really. How can anybody not get sucked into it?

My morning

Sometimes the beauty of the world literally makes me unable to breathe. It's as if the beauty has long fingers that burrow into me and squeeze my heart so tightly, stopping my blood flow, crushing my lungs, simultaneously filling them with air and rushing it out, leaving me gasping.

I had to be at Real Work very early this morning. It was pitch dark, I was completely alone (except for the hundreds of spirit creatures who I'm sure wander the halls of this rambling old building that used to be a hospital), here in my Ivory Tower with it's huge window that looks across the flat, city-filled plain, to the mountains way over there, that lead to the rest of Africa. I wrapped myself in it. The aloneness.

Then I put on music, loudly, and watched the beauty unfold, through my huge window. As the whispy cloud-filled sky lightened from black, to navy, to blue and then spectacular pink, as if somebody had woken up and thrown an enormous bucket of pink into the sky. It made me think of the Washerwoman in The Faraway Tree. It may have been her who threw her bucket of water... it was pink so she must've been washing her new red knickers or something. I hope she remembered to separate her whites out.

Then I realised I was not alone in my awe. Just next to me, on the ledge outside, a pigeon friend was staring across at the sunrise too, her pretty grey feathers lighting up, her little pink eyes blinking at the upcoming sun.

And I wondered if her little pigeon heart was squeezing at the beauty too?

Creatures

I went after work and sat quietly, observing the creatures from behind my magazine. Caged animals, wild and beautiful and strange and amazing. A pink butterfly flapped past, making other passers-by smile. A mother hen scrabbled in the dirt next to me, collecting scraps for her excitable chicks, three of them.

Then a smooth leopard, his spots gleaming, his muscles rippling, ambled by, eliciting a purr from the young female he passed. He didn’t even turn to see her. She did, though. Up in the enclosure above, I could see eight little hamsters, whiskers twitching, running-running-running on their hamster wheels, others waiting next to them, for their turn.

Lots of birds – from common garden types to birds of prey to the preening brood of young peacocks who squawked as the leopard passed them, again paying no heed to the twitters of admiration.

And then, in the water, my favourite bit – a seal, a dolphin, a skinny eel, and the sweetest Cape Otter you’ve ever seen. Splashing and splooshing as the water flowed over her body, soothing it. She was beautiful.

I was only there for half an hour but the glimpses I got from there, behind my magazine, were spectacular. We left the zoo gym and went to a better place.

Is it just me that finds gyms so fascinating?

A little love story

I wish to hold it, gently in my hands, life throbbing through it. I will cover it carefully, inch-by-inch, with a layer of tiny kisses. The ones that make a little sound – not a ‘smack’ or a ‘mwah’, more like a little, crystal click. Lots of them. I will take care not to leave any part unkissed. A layer of luminous love.

Then I will wrap it in silvery spider web thread, so delicate that you almost can’t feel it’s there, except that it keeps it warm, and safe. Around and around I will wrap it, sealing in those kisses with its shimmer, no gaps that will let any cold breeze in.

And then, puffy cottonwool made from pure cotton that I will collect directly from the cotton plants and manipulate until it is so soft it feels like warm breath. A big layer of that, to keep it safe. And another layer of kisses to seal it all in. Then I’ll tuck it in, close to mine, so that they can feel each other beating, and be comforted.

Because that’s what your heart deserves.

Rugby

No need to keep rubbing your eyes to check that the title of this blog is 'Rugby', because it is, indeed. I'm writing a post about rugby. Me, Shiny, of the not-so-sure about the fun factor of watching a bunch of neckless brutes chasing a ball that's not really a ball up and down a field while engaging in blatant man-loving, in public. (I have nothing against man-loving at all, I just find the denialism in the rugby sphere particularly funny.)


Yip, I have some things to say, after going to watch The Big Match (Super 14 - it's a big thing here on the tip of Africa). There is always a Big Match I have discovered. Two weeks ago was one too, and now, apparently, there's another next week. Personally I think it's a conspiracy to get the likes of me interested. My rugby-loving friends need not use this ploy on me however - I don't need to be persuaded by the Bigness of the matches... just promise me beer, and I'll be there. I'm a sucker for spirit (spirit, not spirits... although I may be persuaded to have those too. What's a rugby match without a Klippies and coke?)


Anyway, on Saturday night, H and I reminisced on our varsity days by parking the car down by the sea and drinking a cider each while watching the sun set. Being more responsible than those errant varsity days we just had one (and knowing, now, that we are not, in fact, immortal.) We watched as a child bride and her child husband had photos taken on the beach, in front of the seaweed, and then in the dusty carpark with our beautiful new stadium (all World Cup-ready) in the background. Wouldn't be my choice of bridal background but it's good to see such keen spirit! Vaguely surreal really.


Then we went off to meet H's man, M, who had patriotically been sitting at Very Old Pub since 11am to secure a spot for the 5pm and then 7pm matches. We arrived, very fashionably, at 7:20pm. I don't know why everybody clucked at us, as we made them move out of our way to get to said spot, mid-first-half. The place was heaving, friendly, spirited, and full of testosterone.


The first 'conversation' I got to have was with short-legged blue t-shirt guy. As we went past him, he patted the spot next to him and said:


"Come sit here next to me. I'll get you drunk."


Tempting offer, but thank you I'll be just fine over here with my friends and, luckily, if I so wish, I am quite capable of getting drunk. All by myself. He spent the rest of the evening short-leggeding over and cheersing my glass. Harmless really, and I had to give him points for being friendly.


We wedged ourselves into our little corner. This entailed H squishing up next to M (not a problem considering they're 3 months into a relationship and are all doe-eyed and stuff), me squished next to them, and the next table squished next to me. The bench consisted of short-legged blue-stripe t-shirt boy, very gay Sommelier, Big Brute Guy and English Guy, all in very close proximity to each other, and me. It was close enough that I could almost feel English Guy's breath in my ear. Luckily only almost, though, otherwise I would probably have objected and been, well, beligerent.

I watched the row of boys and decided in my head who was who, who was with who, and who wanted to be with who, but wasn't (of course, while concentrating closely on the rugby.) Blue-stripe t-shirt boy was definitely the target of The Sommelier's affections who seemed to be snuggled up to by The Brute, who, surprisingly, seemed to be married to the English Guy. A fabulous menagerie of man love, perfect for my head to create stories about (again, while concentrating closely on the rugby.)

Anyway, as is the nature of me, by the end of the match (we won!) I had established the full story after becoming best friends with The English Guy (happily single, and straight. Unusual for me to be wrong on these things. Not, in fact, English but more Irish, though has been living here in the south for 16 years) and The Brute (married to a sweet blonde girl at the end of the table.) That left The Sommelier who is, indeed, a lovely gay boy, showering his affections on blue-striped t-shirt boy, of the short-leggedness and bad pick-up lines. I didn't stay to see how that story ended, but I fear it didn't entail them walking hand-in-hand into the sunset. You never know, though.

Now that's what I call a good rugby match, don't you agree?

Glimpses of me

Do you sometimes feel like you haven’t actually, really, seen yourself for ages? I do. It’s like I just get caught up in everything around me. The rushing people, ringing telephones, snakes of cars hooting and tooting impatiently, watching the robots change. Green, orange, red. Wait, wait, wait, mind blank (it's just easier so.) Back to green again.

And then, suddenly, I have a rush of blood to the head and I stop as I see a flash of me in the mirror. I look at myself. From the outside. Often Sometimes I don’t like what I see. Then I pick through my fibres and sinews and raw nerves and try and weed out who the real me is. Not the bricked in, razor-wire-topped fence one, the one the world gets to see, but the other one, the scared inner one. The one few get glimpses of every now and again (and that includes me.) It reminds me why I started this blog, something that I have been wondering, and dwelling on. I suddenly feel exposed, and think of stopping here.

And then I look again, and realise it’s all me – with my scaredy-cat innards, bedecked with razor-wire. I cannot fight who I am, but I can fight for me. With my imaginary chain-mail and sword, my head filled with dragons (it’s so much easier to give problems beautiful, scaled skins and fire-breathing mouths), I can be brave, I think, I can push through this wanting to abandon this blog. Can’t I?

Almost disaster

I couldn’t remember one of my best friend’s phone numbers this morning. A number I dial almost daily. I got to the third digit and then… nothing. Not an inkling of an idea what the next one was. Panic. This is one of my oldest friends, she's a lifeline, I've known her for over 17 years. And now, I will never, ever, be able to speak to her again, because my brain has turned into salty mush. I sat very still and wondered how I would get over this terrible conundrum.

Luckily she phoned me a little while later, waking me from my still-sitting reverie. I told her my tale of lost-headed woe and the tragedy that could’ve resulted. Her answer:

“You could’ve just looked it up on your phone. It is in there.”

She makes a good point. Pity I couldn't come up with it myself. Perhaps I shouldn’t be sitting here, at work, not even pretending to look busy, but with responsibilities that need attending to, hmm?

Garage sale

So, all this thinking can, essentially, spiral down into teen-angst-like self-flagellation (I have never claimed to be more than a 9-year old boy internally.) I swing through emotions like a toddler - from being fine, to being numb, to not being able to breathe from such missing. But, today, I am going to list some of the things I am thinking, rather than whinge (or try to).

When I read Eat, Pray, Love a couple of years ago, one of my first thoughts was that Elizabeth Gilbert got it wrong when she wrote: "I am the planet’s most affectionate life-form (something like a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle).” What she should've written (or would've, if she knew me, and was writing a book about me, as opposed to about her) is: "Shiny is the planet’s most affectionate life-form (something like a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle).” It's the barnacle bit, though, that I can imagine can be quite stifling for whoever I am suckered onto. Just something I need to work on.

Other things I need to do: Buy a Lazy Boy, to spend more time in my lounge. And wood, so that the time spent there can be beside a crackling fire. Cook more in my kitchen. Sell my car. And my extra bed that's been sitting in the garage, largely, for months. And that wierd electrical exercise, shock-thing, that's been sitting in the cupboard for, well, years (damn you TV infomercials.) And the kite-surfing kite of a friend who's been overseas for two years. Basically, I should have a garage sale. Or a swip-swop garage sale...

Anybody know somebody who wants to swap a kite-boarding kite, electric shock exercise thing, old double bed and a car, for a Lazy Boy and some wood?

I'll think of you tonight

I lay there as he cut the back of my neck, my skin dulled with drugs, the radio blaring in the corner, inane twitterings of a radio DJ, adverts for sickly-sweet cooldrinks made to hype up your children and send bursts of caffeine to your heavy brain. The harsh light of the surgery forces its way through my eyelids as I shut them, feeling a pulling and pushing, scalpels, swabs, stitches.

A tinkley song comes onto the radio, stopping the DJ, phew. This sterile place is blocked out. I am in that song, it was written for me, today. I am flung back so fast that it takes my breath away. To my room, the fat, pale moon trails her silvery fingers over my skin, the room glowing.



It takes two to whisper quietly, doesn't it?

Miscellaneous ramblings

I was lucky to be brought up in Small Town, South Africa, in the '70's and 80's. It was, for a child, idyllic. I am lucky to have parents who loved, and love me, an older sister who I adored despite ferocious sibling hair pulling and fighting (she broke a brush throwing it at me once, thank god it missed me and hit the cupboard behind... My pudgy little nose might've been pudgy, and skew!) Four years difference is a lot when you're 11 (and want to wear the same as her) and she's 15 (there's NO way I'm being seen in public with my little sister, let alone in matching outfits.)

I spent my days outside, in the sunshine, barefoot. Riding bikes, swinging in the park, running wildly, having snail races, rearing chickens, you know... childhood stuff. And, now, in my mind, that was a time of eternal and enormous blue skies. Like the one today (thus my rambling post.) It is the blue of a child's painting, and the air is so still that it feels as if, if you blew a feather into the air, it would just stay there, floating. It would be a white one, from an angel's wing.

I would spend hours, as a child, lying on my back on the grass staring into this same blue sky (slightly younger, and slightly more north), watching clouds, seeing shapes, dreaming of the places I'd explore, the things I'd do, the loves I would have. How I wish I'd written those childhood dreams down.

I am going to reminisce about childhood days and keep my other thoughts separate for now. That sad elephant is still sitting, heart-breakingly in the corner, wishing, hoping, fervently willing it to turn out that love wins and everybody gets to be happy. And by that, the elephant really means everybody. Because, ultimately, doesn't everybody deserve to be happy, to love, and be loved?

Blergh

I'm not going to talk about that enormous elephant in the corner because, right now, it just seems too private, so forgive me for the silence. My mind is a swirling tidal pool of emotions, I'm trying to keep my head above it, and so hoping we can fight for this. Right now, though, I shall try to regale you with silly tales of a more mundane variety.



My car blew up this morning, or boiled over, or something. Just here, on the hill (luckily this time not in the fast lane). It was the last thing I needed. There we were, mindlessly heading up the same old hill I've headed up every work day since 1998, when the car made a nasty little noise, almost like it was throwing up, and promptly, well, threw up... water and steam billowed out of the bonnet. Zzzzz. I'm boring myself with this story.



My throat is sore. Those little buggy bastards with their spiked soccer boots are practicing for the World Cup. In the back of my throat. Silly things, considering the beautiful stadiums we've made here at the tip of Africa, especially for the occassion.



No, I'm afraid my wit and sunny disposition evades me. I think I'll crawl back into that corner with the sad elephant, shall I?

Big, fat, tears

All this wittering of glee and honesty. I should've known. Did I speak too soon? It's just that I am of the Pollyanna temperament and try oh-so-very-hard to truly believe that it'll all be okay and everyone will land up with the one they love and happiness will abound and good will always beat evil. And then, WHAM, it doesn't always. Sometimes big lurking monsters leap from behind a tree and knock you flat, smothering you in their dank, gray fur. The reality of it is too much to bear.

One conversation and my heart crumples. The air leaves the room. It is suddenly too hard, I know why, I feel it too. One part of me says run, get out, leave now. The other says stay, you can do this, you're stronger than this, but only together. And then the other part - a dull throb, the tears drop, fat and heavy, uncontrollable, throat-tightening. I can't breathe.

This sadness, this confusion, is like a hot iron, branding me at every turn. An impossible choice, or so it seems. It isn't though. We both know it but it's a more difficult decision than seems bearable. It will be a week of sole (and soul) contemplation, a time, 8 months down the line, to decide. A time to test this thing, it hangs in the balance, my heart is breaking. For her. For me. For us.

There is no question of the love, the question is just whether it's enough to weather this storm?

Computer geek

Yip, you are seeing right. Two posts in a matter of two hours! I just couldn't leave this unwritten. Here at Real Work (long, boring story about why I am here on a Friday), we are updating our access-based database. This involves my having to deal with one of those geek boys who do computer stuff and talk unintelligably about interfaces and blah blah blah...

He's just come in and rattled off at me about the changes he's made. I caught (maybe) every third word. Those were 'and', 'if' and 'perhaps', mainly. I did catch something that sounded like 'parrot', too, but I think I might have misheard. I just nodded, and smiled.

What I did hear, right at the end, though, was: "It's turned out well. It's got a great feel to it, doesn't it?"

He was talking about an access database. A database! And a boring, medical one at that. Is it just me, or are these computer types just wierd? I think I should get him to go outdoors and stroke a velvetty donkey's nose to understand where it is appropriate to use the sentence "It's got a great feel", or am I the wierd one?

Gleeful

I had a conversation the other day that resulted in a discussion on the merits of jumping up-and-down on your housemate’s bed when they’re out, wearing only a pair of your knickers. Preferably on your head. Clean ones, of course… this was not some weird fetish thing, purely a conversation on the feeling of boundless freedom, and great glee.

It got me to thinking about things that make me gleeful. Of course the above-mentioned activity would, definitely, be one (why else would it have come up?) The second one, which I may have mentioned before, is that little hole that happens when you let water out of the basin. Like a little water hurricane. It’s not just the look of it, though, it’s the feel, when you stick your finger in it. I. Love. It.

Donkeys. There’s another. I love them. Always have. My passion peaked at university. Our dusty little university had a plethora of donkeys, just, well hanging about. Many dark nights, stumbling home in our merry packs of happy students or huggy-kissy couple-pairs or just alone (in those days it was slightly safer), one would come around the corner and look down Bathurst Street, into the dip, and see a donkey, gently perusing the dustbin contents, sometimes even two of the lovely velvet creatures.

Our third year digs was across the road from the graveyard (a tragically beautiful place, good for thinking) and beyond the graveyard was the township. It was the perfect place for me, and had a steady stream of donkey passers by (some of whom I coaxed into our garden with carrots. K wouldn’t allow me to keep them, though and I always had to return them to the street.)

So yes, a little post on glee-inducing things. Perfect for a Friday, don’t you think?

The bear/bare necessities

I have a problem. A very serious one it is. I don’t know how to spell bare/bear, like in I couldn’t bare/bear it if I was told never to eat chocolate again.

I am very sure about the naked one. That bare I can do. And the fluffy cuddley bear I am certain of, too. I should be, I spent years kissing him on his golden nose, tucking him in, and wishing him sweet dreams. He was my mum’s bear before he became mine, and I still have him. I don’t do the whole tucking in thing anymore though, and he’s moved from prime place on my bed. His name is, very originally, Teddy (I also had a donkey called Donkey, a mouse called Mrs Mouse, and a penguin whose name I forget. I’m thinking perhaps he was called Penguin.)

I stray. So, being as emotionally erratic highly emotional sensitive as I am, I often find myself unable to bare/bear things, and, frustratingly, unable to write about it because I don’t know how to spell it.

Is it obvious that I remembered I know how to do the crossed-out-words thing?

The Wedding and, finally, The Blurt Revelation

So there we were, in all our finery, about sixty of us, waiting, watching the door, anticipatory, supping on our champagne, all sophisticated-like. I wore sequins. Lots and lots of them. And sweet little diamante earings. And eye shadow. It was An Occassion you see. Deserving of everybody's finest. My love looked amazing. And how lovely to go to our first wedding together.

We were squashed into a smallish room because The Weatherman blessed the happy couple with some beautiful rain, necessitating a move in from the courtyard outside. Lucky the bride it rains on and all that, except we need to modernise it slightly, and get it up to speed... Lucky the grooms it rains on. The room was full. Of people. And love.

And then, the music changed and there they were - fabulously gorgeous, blue-silk-tied and black-suited, looking more handsome (both) than any childhood prince I'd ever imagined. And glowing, with love, that coursed its way through the already love-filled room. Incredible. A beautiful ceremony, my one tissue not nearly enough. I always cry at weddings and never remember to bring tissues. Thank goodness for C remembering. Poor thing had to make do with one, being kind enough to give the other to me, thus allowing me to keep my dignity and not have to wipe snot on my sleeves.

The reception was gorgeous - delicious food, lovely people, incredible speeches. All of them. It is seldom that you find every speech at a wedding is good. There is normally (at least) one that drags on, or has cringeworthy inappropriateness. Not this wedding. They were all carefully thought out, funny, short enough and, again, so filled with love.

We sat at a table with a fantastic set of people. A gay couple to my left - gentle, sweet boys, the kind I'd like to invite over for dinner (if they didn't live so far away). They seemed to have a wiseness about them. Next to them, the youngster, checking his phone every five minutes (at a wedding!). He was aghast with horror at my challenge for him to try not having his phone for a week. Next to him a wonderful Fag Hag and her Fag - beautiful cleavage in a fantastic lace dress, foreheads as smooth as a baby's, both of them. Botox parties - they have Botox parties in The Big Smoke. Seriously. They all get together at somebody's house and the doctor comes and injects them all. My turn to be aghast. It's a different world up there in The Big Smoke. And then the Robbie Williams lookalike.

Food, wine, more food, they met on Facebook. My first Facebook wedding, my first wedding with my love, my first wedding with two boys doing the wedding-ing. And all so fabulous.

Then there was 'gift time', when each guest got a feather boa, and the dancing began with the following announcement: "The first dance is for everyone." Brilliant. And even brillianter (poetic licence - my blog, my vocabulary) music. The dance floor was full. Every. Single. Person. Was on it.

My highlight? When the groom (A) stood up and said his speech, a beautiful, heartfelt declaration of love. He had been nervous of his Dad's reaction you see. His Dad had accepted that his son was marrying a man, and come to the wedding, but I think he was still worried. It's one thing to be accepting of your child's sexual preference, but quite another to be fully exposed to him kissing a man, in front of you. And fifty other people. Well, mid-speech, he spoke about just such things, and of his Dad, and his Dad stood up, walked over to him, and hugged him. Awe-inspiringly beautiful moment.

It was just the kind of wedding that inspires faith in humanity. And reinforced my belief that love doesn't see gender. Or race. Or religion. Or any of those other things that people use to try and quell it. It just doesn't have any boundaries. Or stipulations. Or rules. And we should just be so grateful if we are the lucky creatures who have it. It is SO precious.

Which brings me to my revelation, finally. Seeing the openness, and joy, and beauty of their love has brought me to this, exact point. Where I feel like I can say it.

My love is a girl. A wonderous, beautiful, amazing woman. I am, quite possibly, the luckiest girl in the world, to be loved by her. There is more to all of this, of course, which I may (or may not) bring up. It is not a lifestyle either of us has openly embraced before, and not really something we have chosen (honestly). There is a lot of angst and uncertainty and complication involved, but we both believe you fall in love with a person, and not a gender. And we did.

Phew.