Beloved

1994. My living room was filled with people, eyes glued to the screen, watching 'The Inauguration'. I was ten years old, sitting on the floor with a piece of white A2 cardboard in front of me. On it I was attempting to draw children of different races and nationalities, holding hands in a circle. This wasn't homework or a school project. It was the product of being swept away in the romance of a movement far beyond my comprehension.

In the months preceding this day I had been listening intently to the adults, through my child's ears, as they predicted, pontificated and even prayed. At school we were learning the new anthem, it was fun, it made us feel included in whatever was going on in the big, crazy world. Things were changing, there was electric excitement in the air and I couldn't understand why all these adults looked so serious. So scared.

I remember looking up at the t.v and seeing a smiling Nelson Mandela dressed in one of what was to become his signature technicolour shirts, waving proudly to the masses. I loved his gentle looking face. He made me want to smile too. He was our new president, our new black president and I thought he was brilliant. He was dancing! How could anyone be afraid of a man like that, dancing and smiling and waving to masses of happy people?

A year in and the subsequently unfounded fear had seemed to have (mostly) dissipated. White South Africans relaxed a little and the stocked-up cans of food collected dust in the garage.

As I grew up and I began to learn more about the history of my beautiful country I came to respect and adore this remarkable man. He fascinated me and his teachings of acceptance, unity and peace are codes that we can only try to emulate. The years of his presidency were filled with hope and peace and real progress.

This morning I read that Our Madiba, beloved of not only a nation, but millions all over the world is in hospital. For now there is only speculation, but I don't want to miss the chance to say that it astounds me that one person could do so many courageous, beautiful, meaningful things for the rest of humanity, in one lifetime.

When I have children of my own, I will tell them his story with reverence and humility. And when I think back on that day in 1994 I will feel lucky that I was alive in an era of hope and pride.

Apprehension...

I have no idea why, but I have been putting off (really) starting this blog for a ridiculously long time. Embarrassingly long, in fact, for someone who calls herself a writer. Yes... a writer. I've come full circle, and this is why.

I walked out of my college a freshly graduated copywriter, with my idealistic heart pinned loosely to my sleeve. I was going to do good things, I was going to do important things... I was going to be a creative director before my 30th birthday. Man, life really does have other plans doesn't it? Plans that just don't align with yours at all. No, you're right, I made my own bed, I won't blame poor life for my choices. I got a job before I had graduated. I couldn't wait to start creating award winning work! Not that I cared about awards (insert scoff here). A year and a half (and a few bad choices) later and I was on a plane to foggy ol' London Town - home of many a disillusioned 'Saffa'. I had a bad taste in my mouth and I couldn't wait to get as far away as possible from home to spit it out. I was going to tend bar, watch bands and float about, vagabond style. And wow, did I watch some amazing bands. Not on a bartender's salary though. No, I sold my soul to a corporation and went to work (9 - 5 nogal) as a copywriter. Damn, I had been so adamant about getting away from all of that. Bottom line: it was what I was experienced and qualified in and that certainly helps in the UK. Enter, once again, that bitter taste...

To my surprise, I loved it. I am highly creative (if I do say so myself) and I get bored so very quickly, but I loved my corporate job. I met some truly fantastic, diverse people working in the Woolworths PLC marketing department, I did, I just decided (quite suddenly, as I am prone to do) that I wanted to backpack around Thailand before I went home to the warmth of South Africa. So, I gave in my notice and off I went a month later with a full paycheck, Pounds Sterling - can you say shopping spree? Pity about all the bureaucratic HR red tape, though, other wise I might actually have some proof of the 10 months that I worked there. Oh, did I mention that 8 months before I had managed to destroy my hard drive, the only place I had stored my whole portfolio? That combined with my awful previous experience of the advertising world equalled my overwhelming feeling of  "over it".

I came back and decided to work with kids, teach pre-primary, do something noble. I was determined to find some meaning, some purpose to my life and naively I thought that turning away from my passion, the thing I have truly loved doing since I was physically able, would do that. It didn't. I have been banging my head against the proverbial wall and all it's done is give my a bladdy headache.

I thought (copy)writing was pretentious. I thought I was better. My confession? Really, I was afraid. Afraid of starting again, of admitting to my bad choices. Sure, I love kids! I plan to have some, someday. But I want to do what I am good at, in my own capacity. I refuse to feel any more self-imposed shame for it. So I am painstakingly building up a portfolio again and making every effort to make better choices.

I am a writer. And this is my comeback.

Also... I promise that my subsequent blogs won't (all) be this serious.