Every day is a good day.

Who comes up with this crap? In la-la-land maybe.  In the real world there are shitty days, so-so days, lazy days, brutal days, lemon days, veggie days; and, okay I'll give you that - good days. But can everyday be a good day, or are there more good days than bad? I guess it depends who you're speaking to and how it applies. Over the past while I've had more of the latter and lamented at the unfairness of it all.  But where the bad has become good is when I have chosen to turn it on its face and given it the finger.  Therein lies the answer; well, for me anyway.  It boils down to choice.  And yes, we do have choices. I choose to make margaritas out of lemon days.

Our greatest strengths are our greatest weaknesses.

My strengths: kindness, embracing life, lots of energy, interest in people, being fair, to love with abundance of spirit, to articulate my feelings, endurance, loyalty.

My weaknesses: too giving of my time, intensity, expectations that are out of whack with reality, involvement in other's lives, unselfishness, to love with abundance, quick to temper, easily frustrated, letting go.

Even to the untrained eye, a pattern seems to emerge.  And yes, just by outlining the above, it is clear to me that our strengths can be our greatest weaknesses; especially where an imbalance takes hold, where the one is out of kilter with the other.  For instance, it is good to love with abundance.  But it is not good where a dual road is not established with those you are eschewing that abundance to.  Then it becomes necessary to receive love with equal abundance.  Funny how I can be kind to others, but find it so difficult to exercise that same kindness on myself. Rather the opposite applies - I am exceptionally hard on myself, much harder than I would ever be with anyone else. And I justify this harshness by convincing myself that I am capable of more, that I should rise to greater challenges.

Mmmmm: strengths, weaknesses - an intertwined, complex web that lends definition to how we conduct ourselves. My quest, to let the strengths outweigh the weaknesses - oops, there I go again. See what I mean?!

Try a cliche

For some time I thought that when people resort to cliches it's because they have run out of ideas or original thought and the cliche becomes the convenient cop-out. However, the more I think about it the more I realise that there is more to cliches than first meets the eye.  Even though it may have been repeated countless times to the point that it so far removed from the original thought, it can offer some comfort, meaning and even context to a situation.  For instance, when things appear bleak and desolate the cliche, 'every cloud has a silver lining' is often proffered. I've had that one thrown my way a few times, and admittedly it may be trite but at the time I felt somewhat comforted and a degree of hope took hold. And the other firm favourite, 'time heals all wounds'.  Cliche?  Maybe.  Experience, however, has shown that it has some measure of truth to it. There are some cheesy cliches doing the rounds though.  My "eeeww" is 'two peas in a pod'.  Why? Well, I hate peas and just the idea of two of those horrible little green things sitting together in a pod...sorry, no - the mental picture has me freaked.  Do I use cliches?  Of course, I do! I'm a mother for goodness sake.  Show me one mother who doesn't, and I'd say that's as 'rare as hens' teeth'.

That dude, my dad...

Whenever I think of my dad, I think of Christmas.  My dad was that, my Christmas.  He had this wonderful childlike quality. He seemed to live in a spirit of awe.  Yet he had an enigmatic, somewhat innocent air - of not really being touched for most of his life by the harshness of what was sometimes presented. I adored my dad and was mesmerised by the way he drew people to him with that roguish, charismatic way that was so uniquely 'Wally'. That wicked, devilish cackle that melted my heart each time I heard it.  Everybody loved my dad.

Like Christmas, there was something almost magical about my father. But magic can have its dark side. It has a way of singeing those caught it its dazzling light. Yet the pain was never lingering.  That certain smile, that certain word could make you forget whatever disappointment, hurt or anger he may have caused.  Quickly forgotten.

The legacy my dad left me has no monetarial value, but the richness of heart and soul he bestowed on me has left me immeasurably wealthy. For he had that in bucket loads, heart and soul.  Yep, that dude, my dad he had a lot of soul and the hugest heart.

The part that I didn't quite get though was how this larger than life dude remained emotionally unavailable to us, his kids.  He was brilliant with other people, with other kids.  Yet to us, his own, he was this large persona  but always distant. He never really allowed us to get too close. Towards the end of his life I got the sense that he had been damaged by his own parents, his life experiences and that closeness with those he loved deeply scared him; that in is mind would make him seem vulnerable, almost weak.  Sad in a way, because I always felt that we kinda missed out, my dad and I.

And now on Father's Day as I reflect back on the last four years since my dad passed on, there is a part of me that feels somewhat cheated.  That if he had been less intent on being the dad he thought society demanded of him, less a product of his time, then maybe just maybe he would have been more of what I needed.  More giving of himself, more open to receiving my love.  His apparent detachment however left me not knowing if it would be welcomed or not, and I in turn therefore did not go there.

But would I want it any different if we had the chance to go back and change things.  I don't know.  Maybe.  I guess that's the thing with retrospect, it gives you the wisdom to look at things more squarely; and yes, I suppose some of it would be done differently. However, would I ultimately have changed my dad for any other?  Hell no, for that dude, my dad, is what God meant me to have.  And all things being equal, he did okay, he did the best he could - and I've come to accept that. Even with his limitations, my dad was a good person.  He was the best dad he could be, rather than the best dad I would have preferred.

Feelings follow behaviour.

Every action has a reaction.  What we 'sow we will reap' kinda thing.  So in a nutshell, I think it is always important to be mindful of what we do, of how our actions affect not only ourselves but the people around us.  For the way we treat others is inevitably how we will be treated.  Would it then be true to say that feelings follow behaviour?  Well, my take on that would be that the two are interactive.  At times, behaviour can provoke feelings.  I go back to my opening pundit of 'every action has a reaction'.  It could however be said that behaviour can follow feelings.  Feeling sad or unhappy can lead one to behave badly or even destructively.  To me the two will always be interlinked and a guiding principle of how I conduct myself and engage with life.

It is better to practice a little than talk a lot.

Blah, blah, blah. The world has become such a noisy place.  So much talk, so much noise.  There are far too many people who say so much and do so little.  Our wonderful politicians for instance, promise-makers who deliver so little.  I really wish they got to the point of "walking the talk" so to speak.  That they actually put into practice all the promises they continue to make to our people. Rather than the buffering of egos and politicking they do on the endless campaign trails and vying for position and power.  It is no wonder then that the poorest of the poor continue to languish in dire conditions while these political buffoons blow their noisy trumpets, in effect doing very little for the very folk that voted them into those positions of power.

And all we need is to see the practice, see the inroads being made, see the deliverance on those noisy promises. For practice will win the hearts of the masses, and give them a better life to boot.  Talk, no.  No, talk will serve to feed the wind and the airbags who take up such unnecessary space.

Wedding cake-in-the-middle-of-the road.

Life as I know it has been peppered with lots of 'wedding cake-in-the-middle-of-the road" moments.  Those 'wow' moments that have defined me as well as given me direction when lost.  

Meeting my man, dudester-numero-uno, is one that stands out.  I didn't know it then, but he would become the one sure thing, that one person whom I could turn to when the chips were down.  For those who know us, this may come as a surprise since he is known to have disappointed at times.  But if push comes to shove, I know he has my back and for me that is enough.  

My son, oh what a fabulous wedding cake he is. A great fruit-cakey mix, a heady concoction of spirit. I remain inspired by his resilience and drive to go beyond, regardless of the crazy curve balls life had the bizarre need to throw at him. My daughter, the zany, caring spirit of this amazing child reminds me of the frosting on a wedding cake - sweet, decadent, tough, crackly, dreamy, yummy.  

The family I was born to: my mom, dad, sister and brother.  Oh my goodness, how could I even begin to describe how these layers of my wedding cake have not only shaped me, but given my life so much depth and meaning.

The mentors, the friends - people who have taken me down paths I would not have imagined possible.  Where delight and joy have shared centre stage like the grooms and brides they are atop my wedding cake.  

And yet at times my wedding dance with life has stumbled and become warbled.  The brandy-soaked wedding cake leaving a rather nasty aftertaste. But those blights are just an affront to my taste for life.  Moments that could be swept away with the crumbs and carelessly abandoned wedding decorations after the festivities were done. What always followed was another 'wedding cake-in-the-middle-of-the road'. Renewed hope, renewed vows, renewed life, renewed relationships. And my dance continues.

It is a poor idea to lie to yourself.

Mmmmm, but do we do it?  Of course we do; everybody does.  It's so much better to munch away on comforting slice after slice of decadent cake and convince yourself that there's nutritional value to be had rather than admit it's a horrid kilo-loader.  But those hips don't lie, and sure enough the repercussions of that overindulgence will punch its fleshy little reminders before long. And then there are those ego boosting mumbo jumbo moments that we sometimes sell ourselves.  You know, the "Wow, I think I can hit a home run and speed around the diamond in double quick time"; when you actually hopelessly unfit and the likelihood of it happening is probably second to none.  Is it healthy to kid yourself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, you could do the impossible.  Why not, I say.  What's the worst that can happen?  Hell, you may even pull it off.  So a little bit of lying is okay, it could yet be the motivator to more than we think ourselves capable of.  Maybe what's key is keeping reality in check over the imagined. In other words don't make denial your reality.  That would just place you in a somewhat lonely and derisive world. And who needs that, right?!

The sound of one hand clapping.

This one really got me thinking.  Is it even possible for one hand to clap and, if so, what sound could it possibly make? I guess this could mean different things to different people.  For me there would be no real sound coming from the lone clapping of one hand.  That one hand would be flapping from side to side as it tries to find something to bounce off, to wrap itself around.  Rather, the motion could be representative of an inner struggle, a constant need to find meaning to my inner being, of what matters to me.  The motion would eventually be still and permanently silenced only once the peace and happiness that I continually journey toward is found.  I'm by no means there yet, so my one hand continues to clap. But is there sound? I contradict myself, as the more I think about it the more I realise a whooshing sound does permeate my existence.  The sound of my one clapping hand reminds me that I am alive and vibrant.  And that maybe that quest for inner peace and happiness should not be a struggle.  That for the hand to be stilled, I should be still and let it come to me.