Bursting with capacity & restlessness

Seems like life has decided I should go through labour pains once a year! 😄 What am I talking about? 

In June 2021, the company I was working for announced its next round of retrenchments, which took me on a journey from being petrified that I'd be chosen, to volunteering to leave. After three stressful months, I left.  People don't realise just how much is involved in retrenchment, and how much grieving takes place, even when you volunteer to leave. You grieve the loss of your income, the loss of routine, stability and employee benefits, even the loss of the place in which you worked, especially if it was aesthetically pleasing. You grieve the loss of access to a diversity of people, because we're still in our silos, as South Africans, socialising with people from the same "ethnic" group, as prescribed by apartheid. But the biggest grief involves close friendships. As much as we say we'll stay in touch, we'll meet for coffee, etc. .... life has a way of adjusting, eventually, so you get used to being without certain people, and all you're left with is the odd phone call or text message. I missed colleagues when they were retrenched, in former years, but with my own retrenchment, my heart ached with missing the colleague I'd worked most closely with - Fatima. She and I worked like a well-oiled engine. We had to deal with so many challenges, but we grew to rely on each other, to think on our feet, and launch into problem-solving mode. We had each other's backs, professionally and personally. There was give and take. We complemented each other. I miss her. I wish she and I could run our own company, with that same irrepressibility and never-say-die attitude. 

Then, in August 2022, in a subsequent job, after months of dealing with a challenging working relationship that was affecting my mental health, I put in writing that, if we didn't sort out the unhealthy communication, I would leave at the end of that payment cycle. The response was that I could leave immediately. Stupidly, I had not signed a contract, so I had no recourse to UIF, etc. I had learnt yet another lesson the hard way. Losing that job catapulted my life into one of the most challenging periods I've ever experienced, and one from which I have not yet emerged.  

On Easter Sunday, this year, my mood dipped so low, that I shook with fear at where my thoughts took me. It shocked me that someone like me, who loves writing bossanovas and drawing daisies, could plunge that far into the abyss. Only one thing ensured I'm still alive today - my love for my children.

What I'm going to write about now has not been put into the public arena yet, but I need to write, and since so few people read my blog, anyway, I'll write it here - I'm going through a labour dispute. It's bizarre that you can be a person with a strong moral code - honest, hardworking, professional - and yet find yourself in the middle of something like this. The only thing that makes it somewhat bearable is that I'm one of seven people going through this together. And that's all I can say, for now. 

But... the most amazing energy has surfaced, in the midst of all of this strangeness! I am bursting with a sense of how much I have to offer! I love teaching, and I believe I'm good at it. I love writing, which is arguably my strongest skill. I love composing and performing music, which I'm relatively good at. Besides being a compulsive writer - and an unintentional proofreader - I have a wide range of work and life experience, including years of personal development, so my so-called "soft skills" are strong. Funny how easily those are dismissed, even in the way they're named, yet there is not one situation where humans do what humans do that does not require them. 

And so, in the interest of moving forward, as an empowered woman, and in the pursuit of joy, peace, fulfillment and the feeling that I'm making a contribution to society - and because I've had enough of struggling financially and living my life at half mast, like I've got something to be ashamed of - I will use all my skills and steadily get myself to where I want to be. I have never let my age hold me back, and in fact I regard it as my greatest asset, because I have so many years of life and wisdom within me. I know myself much better than I ever have, and I will continue to let that self-knowledge guide me when it comes to what I say Yes and No to. 

I am my greatest resource. My networks are my second greatest resource. I am steadily identifying the niche that sees me applying my skills where they are most needed. One thing I'm sure about is that I will not align myself with, or surrender to the inevitability of, mediocrity, unaccountability and corruption. There are enough people with integrity in this world for me not to have to settle for the ubiquitous alternative.                    

     I photographed these trees that I pass, on my way to town. I'm inspired by their beauty and tenacity. 

Ridiculous, or sublime?

How do you vent, rant, whatever the word is, without giving specifics?! 

Right now, I'm experiencing the emotional version of having my guts lying next to me.  I'm going through something which is tearing me apart, emotionally. As much as I'd like to shout it out to the world, for public exposure, all I can do is compartmentalise, and deal with the different aspects separately. 

Oh my word! How frustrating!!!

Every now and then, I come face to face with what is known as institutionalisation. If you've spent most of your life within some type of institution, you are most likely part of this phenomenon. Many teachers, for example, went straight from school to college or university, then went to work in an educational institution. Unless you have other things in your life that expose you to different structures or disciplines, or even less formal pursuits that allow you to have fun and explore the lighter side of life, all you will know is the institutionalised life. Another  example of this is long-term prisoners who, once released, cannot function in the real world. Some even purposefully commit crimes, to be incarcerated again, because they know how to function within those painfully prescribed parameters. 

In 2006, I went back to teaching in a state school, ten years after having left that kind of job. It was slightly different, because this time it was a high school, whereas my previous teaching had been at a primary school. I had never felt more like a square peg in a round hole! My six-month post turned into 18 months, after which I returned to the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) industry, where I worked as an Assistant Centre Manager until my retrenchment, in late 2010.     

I knew, by then, that my tolerance for certain ways of thinking and operating was limited, and that I'd struggle within rigid hierarchical structures, where flexibility and a caring form of communication were absent, even frowned upon. However, financial need forced me back into the state sector, from mid-2012 to early 2016, after which I worked in the corporate sector, in philanthropy, for five and a half years. Until I took voluntary retrenchment. Even corporate structures can be suffocating. 

But here I am, again - teaching part-time. I love teaching English to my adult students who are completing their matric. And I love teaching part-time. But... there are so many things I wish I could change. I've learnt the hard way, throughout my life, and as recently as August 2022, that, when you speak truth to power, you suffer the consequences if there's no-one or no structure powerful enough to protect you. 

I believe that the decision as to whether I speak out or go quietly into the night was made when I was in the womb.    

Who knows where I'll be in a week's time... in a month's time... in a year's time?    

Maybe teaching English in Mauritius? I've heard they accept over-60s. 

Reflecting, after Solo Session 8

It's hard for me to ease back into the everyday flow of life, after a Solo Session. I've been like this for years, even after gigs where I've done covers. I think one's brain changes lanes, so to speak, when one is immersed in one's passion, lifting one to a different spiritual plane, almost; reverting to the mundane, less inspiring part of life - which for many of us is the bigger part - takes a while.  

Even though I feel like this after all performances, there's something about doing an entire show of my original work, as a soloist, that heightens the intensity of normal pre- and post-gig emotions. The personal investment is so much higher. You're making yourself vulnerable in front of strangers, which can be terrifying. Many years ago, my then-husband told me that I shouldn't sing my songs in public, because they were "too personal". More than twenty years after our divorce, I'm more astounded by the fact that I allowed him to inform my decisions and limit my scope, than that he actually said that (and other things). In different relationships, including platonic, I've often taken a long time to see someone's unpleasantness as being all about them and not about me. As a young adult, I was completely unsuspecting in the presence of spitefulness and manipulation. I'd immediately reflect on my behaviour and what I must have done wrong, amend my behaviour to appease the other person, then be shocked when the verbal attacks didn't stop. 

Two main issues, which I wish we'd learnt about at school, come into play, in the many iterations of this phenomenon: one is a sense of self-worth, and the other is a sense of boundaries. If you have a healthy sense of your own worth, you won't easily believe someone who tells you you're useless - you'd get a sense that they were wrong, or at least that something was wrong. Similarly, with healthy boundaries and the all-important ability to articulate them (as opposed to just withdrawing), you would be able to stand up to others who put you down, and let them know when they've crossed the line with you.    

But, I digress. Or do I? 

Many of my songs were written as part of my journey towards healing - I could often write in songs what I hadn't had the courage to say when the emotional abuse was happening. In fact, the more I sing my songs, immersing myself in my own compositions, the more I lean in to the healing process. 

My set list for this Solo Session included songs I'd already done in this series, as well as others I hadn't. I enjoy the process of letting the set list come together over a few weeks. I'm basically sharing my life story, in these sessions; because the stories are told through music, I try to vary not only the rhythms and tempos, but the mood that each song evokes. This aspect of what I do is not understood by everyone. For some people, if your music is not danceable, they feel something's missing. My music's also not opera, it's not gospel, it's not heavy metal - we could spend all day saying what it's not, but that merely dilutes what it is. In fact, it undermines what it is. This was a lesson I had to learn, in my broader life - to calmly affirm who and what I was, and not to constantly apologise for what I was not. The saying "You do you!" sums it up nicely.      

In one of my songs, I sing, "You looked at me disapprovingly / Your lack of comprehension / Like a solid door / Slamming in my face / You can't stop the flow / You will never know / You never did."   I then go on to sing about how I feel when I sing. It's an empowering song, and one of my personal anthems; I hope that, as I sing it, others start to feel how important it is for us, especially as women, to own what we do, and stand proudly in this world, despite all the restrictions and judgement we face. 

In another, written about the joy I felt in doing ordinary things after leaving my unhappy marriage, I sing: "The sensations are so clear / There's absolutely no fear / Mother Nature when you're near / There are no sharp edges here."

I also sang a 12-bar blues I wrote in 2017, to sing before Cape Town's version of the Sister March, which was happening all over the world, after the USA chose an unapologetic misogynist as its president. The lyrics include: "We don't stand still / We are women on the move / You can't silence us / 'Cos we've got something to say ". 

In a more light-hearted vein, I sang another 12-bar blues, this time a tongue-in-cheek song called Lucy, written after breaking up with someone who was a commitment-phobe: "Now one day Lucy asked him / What happens after this? / She asked him the next year and the next year and the next year and the next year / What happens after this? / And the man said, 'I like it like this / Nothing happens after this'." 

Also light-hearted was a samba called What's What, about how difficult it can be to know what love really is. Some of the lyrics are: "Love has given roots and wings / Sambas. bossanovas, swings / Still I don't quite seem to know what's what."

Two of the more serious songs were "In the Shade of Table Mountain", about forced removals, and "Afternoon Tea", about misogyny. Every song that goes into the set is specifically chosen, to take the audience on a journey that encompasses a wide  range of emotions.

In this concert, I sang a song I'd never sung in public before (as far as I can remember). It's called "Girl In The Mirror", and was written about 40 years ago, when I was in my early 20s. It is about a woman who observes herself changing, to fit in, and does not feel she's being authentic. I hauled it out from a pile of old, old songs, and decided to include it this time. Most of the people who came to speak to me afterwards spoke about how that song had resonated with them.  

Like I did in my 7th concert, I started with the song I sang at age 6, when my teacher made me stand on the table to sing for the School Inspectress. It was a religious song, in Afrikaans. And, like I've done for most of my solo concerts, I ended with what is arguably my most popular song, "Joe". 

There is so much more I could say, but I'd like to share two more things. Firstly, I find it extremely interesting and exciting, doing these sessions. This concert series is something that was brewing inside of me for years, but there was always something holding me back - mainly, fear. But when I did start putting it down on paper, jotting down the elements I had in mind, the particulars that felt right for me, I got more and more excited about bringing it into being.  The systematic, process-orientated side of me knew that, like every other process, things would have to be experimented with and tweaked, over time. I knew that I'd need to be patient - with the process, but especially with myself - to allow the journey to unfold as it inevitably would. I'm at peace with the decisions I've made, and I'm grateful for the help I get with publicising my events beforehand.  I still have the same budget I had for Solo Session 1: zero! All my overheads are covered by ticket sales. You have to start somewhere, if you want to follow your heart. I could've waited a few more years, until I got sponsorship, but that was not an option. When people my age started dying in big numbers, during Covid, I knew I had to seize the day and stop procrastinating. All we have is now. 

And secondly, I knew I wanted these to be intimate sessions, with about 30 people, I knew I was going against the grain, going small. I knew my income from ticket sales would be capped fairly low, with this model. But nothing could have prepared me for the absolute magic of a small, engaged audience! In fact, when I rehearse, day after day, I cannot wait to share what I'm rehearsing with my audience. I want to give them my most well-rehearsed and sincere performance, because they choose to come and be part of my journey, for that hour. And Saturday's audience once again reminded me that what I had to offer was relevant, appreciated and treasured. Even though I didn't set out to put out a message, it seems I am, based on the feedback I've been getting. I feel the energy of the audience, in these intimate settings, and it ends up being a collaboration; in fact, it closes the circle in a way I could never have anticipated.

I am so grateful to be doing what I love so much. Thank you, universe, that I stopped procrastinating, that I stopped limiting myself because of the cruel and judgemental energy from others, and that I finally trusted my instincts and gave myself the benefit of the doubt. It took me a while, but there's no stopping me now. 

My next one will be on Saturday 3 June; I will announce the venue as soon as it's secured. After that, I return to Café Societi, in District Six, for Solo Session 10, on Saturday 8 July.  I did my third session there, in October 2022. 

And now for the bigger dream: I would love to do my show in a professional space, with professional sound and lighting, without the responsibility of marketing and ticket sales, and with my full focus on the performance itself.  Ooh, and while I'm dreaming (the universe wants us to be specific, right?!) I'd also love someone to sort out my outfit and make-up! Who says you can't have dreams at age 61? And who says they can't come true? 😉

                                                     Photo at Solo Session 8, by Jenny Esau