On the facing of fears

Three years ago, I finished my masters degree and fell into the black hole that is unemployment. I lived in an eight square meter student room, was ill and borderline burned out to start with, sent out job-application after job-application after job-application. I received no unemployment pay from the government because I was under 26 and apparently when you're under 26 you're magical and capable of existing on air determination alone. I felt utterly, completely useless and, this being only the start of the crisis and the rise of the unemployment-rate, got told by many people that I wouldn't have any trouble finding a job if only I just 'worked harder' or 'got better at job-applications'. It was one of the darkest winters in my life and, when I finally did start finding both meaning and employment late that spring, the one thing I resolved never to do again.

This week I found out my contract at my current job might not be renewed due to unexpected, unrestrained, unnecessary budget-cuts. It was like the ground opened up and swallowed me whole.

I'd taken this job for the job-security of it. While IT-helpdesk work was never my dream-job, it gives me a steady income upon which to built my dreams and a group of people that I love working with. It gives me the certainty that even if the yellow-brick-road leads nowhere, my ruby slippers will still protect my feet as I follow it and my companions will catch me when I fall.

While I still think back to that winter three years ago and shudder, I hadn't realised how much I fear it returning until, this Monday, it became a very real possibility. Suddenly, it was like my throat closed up and I couldn't breath. Like I was back there in that tiny room with the walls closing in on me and nowhere to go. Like I was once again utterly useless, utterly worthless and utterly helpless to do anything about it.

Like I was stuck in a nightmare with no way to wake up.

It's an odd thing, fear. I know that this time around, things are different. I live in an apartment where each individual room is larger than that one room I had back then. I am much more balanced, emotionally. I have meaningful work that allows me to make a difference in the world, even if I don't get paid for it. I am 26 and thus the government acknowledges that I need food and a roof over my head to survive. Society is much more aware of the fact that not having a job doesn't mean you're incompetent, just unlucky. I am much more aware of that.

And yet, thinking of the possibility that come January 21th, I might not have a job, I choke up and freeze, the sheer terror of being unemployed again taking over my body and incapacitating it. I feel myself teetering on the edge of a cliff, nothing but yawning emptiness beyond. I know this is irrational, I know it's not even certain and I know that things are different now. That doesn't help any. The only thing I have, the only thing I cling to is this: I have survived before. I can do it again.

And only after I realise that, after I realise my own strength and capability I realise something else too; maybe, just maybe? I won't have to.

Listen!

The world darkens, the sun sinks away,
Listen, listen, hear what I say!
I'll tell a story, for everyone to hear,
So listen, listen, lend me your ear.

I tell of the sun, sinking away in the night,
I chirp of the stars, which I call with all my might.
I sing of the moon, her silver face in the endless dome,
And so I write, every night, the greatest love poem.

I live in the twilight, softly singing in the undergrowth,
Always wishing, longing, for just a little less difference between us both.
Always hoping for someone to listen, for someone to see,
You over there, so high and so mighty, do you see me?

I tell of the greatest desires, much too large for a creature so small,
But those are only dreams, hopes lost to time, though I treasure them all.
I tell of things I will never be and never have been,
Please excuse me, for I'm but a cricket, simple minded and green.

I wrote this poem ten years ago, though the original was in Dutch. Through the years, of all the poetry I wrote, this was the one I kept coming back to.

I never thought to question that until one evening, years later, I talked to a very wise young woman who told me that every person has a story, and every story has a message. A few days later, we were talking about expressing feelings through art in a training and I felt the urge to read out this specific poem. It was only as I was reading it to the group that I realized why this was the one poem I kept coming back to.

This, right here, is my message. The moral of my story. Since then, I've gone on to advocate youth participation on every level where ever and whenever I can. I've had a say on numerous meetings and panels, I've given talks to audiences and spoken up to numerous people who think themselves far out of my league. It's terrifying, every single time.

'Please!' I'll say, 'If you want to know what they think, just talk to them! Ask them what they feel!' and 'Of course they want to have a say! It's their life! It's just a matter of asking the questions that allow them to answer!'. Time and time again, I've felt like that little cricket: Someone trying desperately to be seen, to be heard, to be listened to, but too little and too unimportant for the high and mighty to notice.

Last night, I got asked to go to the Unicef International Children's Rights Summit in November, to take part in a round table discussion on fostercare and it suddenly sank in. People are seeing. People are listening. People are hearing my pleas and my story and they think other people, more important people, should hear it too.

Now, I am 26 years old and I have a masters degree in psychology. I have learned to be eloquent and well-spoken and was raised in a way that allows me to move in circles like that. I walk the walk and talk the talk. And in a sense, that makes it not half the victory that it should be, for I am not the one they should be listening to. They should be listening to the six-year-old with the stutter and the glasses, to the ten-year-old with the temper tantrums and the torn clothes, to the fourteen-year-old with too much black eye-liner and too much feigned indifference, to the eighteen-year-old with the unwashed hair and the joint between his lips. Those are the people they should be talking to.

Instead they are talking to yet another person just like themselves. And all I can really do is go anyway, tell my story and hope against all hope that just one of them will one day hear a cricket, and instead of dismissing it, will go down on their haunches, listen to its story, and make it feel heard.

Touching someone's life

This morning, my grandmother sat me down over tea and told me, very earnestly, that she'd been talking to my aunt about her funeral and what she wanted for it. She told me that she doesn't like speeches at funerals, but that there was something she really wanted instead.

She asked me if I, and if I didn't think I could do it, my mom, was willing to read out a poem I've written. It's a poem I wrote for my mother in which I ask a very fundamental question: What makes a mother?

I nearly teared up then and there and, of course, said yes. I'm still a little shaky just thinking about it.

My grandmother is an incredibly strong, intelligent, beautiful woman who'll be ninety years old next month and, her own words, still has some living to do.

I know that my poetry has touched her deeply. One of the very, very few times I've seen her cry was when I gave her a book with those of my poems she liked most, handwritten inside. To know that something I've written has touched someone this deeply though, this profoundly,  that is something else. And not just someone either, but this woman. This strong, intelligent, wise, beautiful woman whom I've spend my life looking up to and admiring as a role model. That my words, my sentences, my thoughts, touched her so deeply that she would have us remember her by them... That is something incredible and very nearly unbelievable to me.

This is a poem, mind, that I have never published. That I have never emailed to anyone. That I have written down on a card and given to my mother, and that I have written down in a book and given to my grandmother, and that is written down in my personal book of my poetry, but that has never been distributed otherwise. Because this is their poem and their story, and my story, written in my words. And to know that this poem is what my grandmother wants to be remembered by... That is something I have yet to find words for.

Idealism, activism and paying it forward to create a better world.

Imagine three demons gathering in an old cemetery. As they gather, what they do first is recount their evil deeds of the day: Those things they did to accomplish their final goal: gather more souls for hell. It goes something like this:

'Now we art all here,' said Hastur meaningfully, 'we must recount the Deeds of the Day.'
'Yeah. Deeds,' said Crowley, with the slightly guilty look of one who is attending church for the first time in years and has forgotten which bits you stand up for.
Hastur cleared his throat.
'I have tempted a priest,' he said. 'As he walked down the street and saw the pretty girls in the sun, I put Doubt into his mind. He would have been a saint, but within a decade we shall have him.'
'Nice one,' said Crowley, helpfully.
'I have corrupted a politician,' said Ligur. 'I let him think a tiny bribe would not hurt. Within the year we shall have him.'
They both looked expectantly at Crowley, who gave them a big smile.
'You'll like this,' he said.
His smile became even wider and more conspiratorial.
'I tied up every portable telephone system in Central London for forty-five minutes at lunchtime,' he said.
There was silence, except for the distant swishing of cars.
'Yes?' said Hastur. 'And then what?'
'Look, it wasn't easy,' said Crowley.
'That's all?' said Ligur.
'Look, people-'
'And exactly what has that done to secure souls for our master?' said Hastur.
Crowley pulled himself together.
What could he tell them? That twenty thousand people got bloody furious? That you could hear the arteries clanging shut all across the city? And that then they went back and took it out on their secretaries or traffic wardens or whatever, and they took it out on other people? In all kinds of vindictive little ways which, and here was the good bit, they thought up themselves. For the rest of the day. The knock-on effects were incalculable. Thousands and thousands of souls all got a faint patina of tarnish, and you hardly had to lift a finger.

This is an excerpt of a brilliant book called Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. While what it shows is that most demons are horribly tenuous and outdated, and that they're really not half as evil as they like to think, it has a deeper significance for me.

See, this idea of Crowley's, from the first time I picked up that book, has latched on to my mind. It ties in with the way I've looked at and have, indeed, tried to live my life ever since. That is to say: Kindly.

Let's rewind a bit. I've always been one of those activist types. I want to change the world. Make a difference. Leave it a better place than I've entered it. Most activists dedicate themselves to a cause. Either because they think that one cause really, really matters, more than other causes, or because they think their talents are most needed for that particular cause, or simply because fighting every bit of injustice, every bit of wrongdoing in the world is a fools errant and leads to burnout and madness.

They're probably right.

It also makes them a lot like Hastur and Ligur though: Dedicated to changing one small piece of the world and in the process forgetting the rest.

While I do have my causes and I do prioritise some things over others, I can never quite get this particular passage, this idea out of my head. And so, I make it a point to look the bus driver in the eye and greet him every time I enter a bus, and thank him and wish him a good day as sincerely as I can every time I leave it. I leave a street musician a note thanking them for brightening up my day, even if I have no money to give, and look them in the eye while doing so. I say hi to the cleaners and the cafeteria ladies and try and learn their names. I tell a stranger on the train that I love her dress, or his dreadlocks or ask them if they want to sit instead of me. These things cost me very little, or nothing at all. And yet they are rewarding. The startled smile, the surprised look of gratitude, the greeting and acknowledgement I receive in return. But it doesn't end with that.

If I brighten someone else's day, make it a little bit better, maybe they will be nice to someone else in turn, and that person in turn will do so for someone else. I know that doesn't happen every time I'm nice to someone. I might be an idealist, but I'm not that naive. But I figure, every day I brighten the day of at least one other person is a good day. It's a day worth living and a day worth aspiring to.

And if some days, I switch off my computer and never leave my house, just read a book and never interact with the outside world, well, I'll still have brightened someone's day. And that someone is me. And tomorrow, I'll pay it forward.

The next thing to learn

If I had my wish, I'd spend my lifetime learning. Nothing but that. Just learning, learning, and learning some more, like those Renaissance men of old: Learn a bit of psychology, a bit of mathematics, physics, sociology, biology, history, cultural geography, but also sewing, crafting, dancing, folklore... Anything. Hell, I'd go to France for a year and just learn the French language. Then Norway and then... Who knows where? It sounds like an amazing life to me: Nothing to worry about. Just learning whatever I can about whatever I want.

I had that, for five beautiful years I had that and I loved it. Dear gods how I loved it. Now it's done though. I'm an adult with a job and a rent and expectations and responsibilities and some days? Some days they press so hard, they weigh so heavy that it feels like they're crushing even that which might just be the essence of all things me: That endless, boundless curiosity. Some days I feel so tired of being someone rather than becoming someone (one day, in a distant future that I don't have to care about yet because I'm only learning to become someone) that I want to do nothing but to make it all go away. Become a hermit and live without anyone.

Because I'm smart and I'm talented and because I love to learn, I learn whatever I set my mind to. And that means people expect me to do something with that. To go places. It means I expect it from myself. While all I really want to do is sit in a little room somewhere and learn even more about the evolution of whales and particle physics and how to crochet an elephant and order four croissants and a bread in French and finally, definitely, completely understand why the bloody sky is blue and a table is called a table and not a chair or a chlskebub.

And then I sit back and really look and see that I am learning. Because there is something new for me to learn wherever I look and whatever I do. And that's what keeps me going. Not my wanting to be someone. Not other people expecting me to be someone. But the promise of one more thing to learn just around the corner. One new person to meet and to learn about and to learn from and who might, just might challenge my thoughts and notions and learn me something about me. That's what true learning is.

Some misery can only be expressed by truly bad poetry

Really Bad Poetry

Sun oh sun,
How could thy betray me so,
The morn was filled with promises,
That upon me your rays you'd bestow.

Sun oh sun,
How could thy hurt my fragile trust,
By letting raindops (teardrops) raindrops,
Fall down upon me with such lust.

Sun oh sun,
I would attack thee justly as a lover scorn'd
If, sun oh sun,
I were not too distracted by the internet to give you the beating you so earned.

When I grow up I'm going to be an absent-minded professor. I'm just practicing.

Als ik later groot ben wordt ik verstrooide professor. Ik ben gewoon alvast aan het oefenen.

My Happy Ending

My Happy Ending

This is not the movies,
And it's not some corny book,
It is not some pretty daydream

That you dream when you can't bear to really look.

Please just listen when I tell you,
Happy endings, they don't work like this.
They're not tearful reunions
Or even true love's kiss.

Happy endings aren't about forever
And most certainly not about right now.
Happy endings aren't about winning every battle,
No matter how much I might wish that was how-

But happy endings are the balance,
That you make up when everything is done,

And you wonder if the sacrifices that you made,
Are really worth the prizes that you won.

So please let me decide my happy ending,
Please let me put value on the things that I give up,

Because in the end it's me that has to make up the balance
And decide if I came out on top.

My happy ending,
The one that's only mine to live,
Can after all only be built on the sacrifices,
That are only mine to give.

I'd start a Procrastinators Anonymous group if I wasn't too busy watching stupid youtube videos. (Also, I should probably see about finishing those texts I want to write first...)

Don't think outside of the box. Take the box and make it into a castle. Or a boat. Or a tree house. Or fill it up with stuff. Or use it to stand on. Boxes are great for lots of things.

Ode to the one thing that makes life bearable

Ode to the one thing that makes life bearable
The sun on your face,
From where the curtains don't close,
Find your way through the maze,
That the sandman chose.

The night is long over,
New dawn broke hours ago,
You try to turn over,
But know a lost case when you see one and so;

Turn over one more time, roll over the edge of your beloved bed,
Warm feet hit cold, cold floor,
The tone for a new day is set,
And you stumble through your bathroom door.

Spray of hot water,
Right onto your sleepy (sleeping?) face,
Waking up will have to happen later,
For now everything remains a sleepy haze.

Down the stairs and set the kettle,
On the stove without a thought,
By the table now you settle,
Thinking that you really aught-

A sharp whistle tears sweet silence,
Of your early morning haze,
Breaks through thoughts with early morning violence,
And for the first time, brings a smile upon your face.

As you breathe in the stream,
Of today's first cup of tea,
For the first time it would seem,
Today might actually be a good place to be.

Today, I'm breaking up with you. I have a date with Tomorrow and it seems way more promising than anything you have to offer me. Please just leave me alone! I mean it! Don't contact me again, Today!