Dear Beloved...WE are forever newlywed

I’ve been silent. Words evaded me.  Concepts and ideas filled my mind but the excitement to share had escaped.  I’ve been faced with a conundrum; do I write the known story or do I write the unspoken story?  The known story – the comfortable truth that has been learnt before that will conjure up the usual smiles, gentle words of encouragement and a couple of likes on facebook; or the unspoken story – the uncomfortable outpouring of my heart, unadulterated with no bars held.  

Writing my blog each week is like you asking me: how are things?  I don’t want my answer to be like the ‘church howdy’; when a well-meaning fellow church goer asks ‘how are you?’ and even if your house has been the sole target of the worlds’ onslaughts, you simply answer – ‘fine, thankyou’. 

So, how am I?

If I’m completely honest it’s been foggy over here, cloudy with a downpour of ‘the miserables’.  The most frustrating thing is that there’s nothing new about what we’re facing. It manifests itself in different ways but, it always boils down to the same issues.  Same story with the same stars just a different front cover. 

Many marriages are the same.  The issue is never really the in law visiting, it’s that your values on how to treat family members are different.  The issue is never really that there’s no money, it’s that your approaches to financial planning are polar opposite.  It takes maturity to look beyond the symptoms and find the root cause of the problem.  What’s the point of curing the headache with paracetamol, if the root cause is dehydration? Yes, the paracetamol will cure the headache but eventually another symptom will arise that paracetamol can’t cure.  You can both increase your salaries but, it doesn’t change cause your mindsets to align.  That takes time, time and effort, with a whole heap of perseverance. 

This time can be days, it can be months or years, a minute is too long to wait for someone who’s hungry.  During that wait it’s hard to see that glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.  So, I’m painting a picture of the future.  I’m creating the dream that will warm your heart when bitterness freezes the home over. 

Dear my beloved,

I’ve not been myself lately; I know, you know, these four walls know. My head has been caught up, trying to use my brain cells to cook up theories, strategies and methods to get you to understand me.  My efforts have been fruitless, forcing me back to a dark place of doubt.  I can only imagine how this has appeared to you.  All the time focusing on what should be and not what is.  This time has taught me that I have to let go of comparison. We can’t keep up with the Kardishians and we don’t bend it like the Beckhams. If we were to chase the dreams of Hollywood, we’d end up facing the treturous heartache of a divided home.

I’ve not been fair to you.  Expecting immediate changes at my say so.  You’ve been you in all your splendour for much longer than you’ve known me and all my complex complexities.  I guess we just have to allow each other to ‘be’.  I beg you to please be patient with me, I’m still learning. I’m fallible. I react too fast and forgive too slowly.  My heart is still adjusting to this walk we’ve embarked on.  It’s still beating to the old tune and it occasionally misses your steps and sometimes has to sit the entire song out. 

So, today, I’m taking to our life like Michelangelo to an easel because the sky is our beginning, there’s no Sistine ceiling.  I’m painting a new picture, one that allows me to focus on what lies ahead and not the missed opportunities or failures of the past.    

I see us walking hand in hand, with our palms entwined and partnership of mind. I picture us as best of friends, sharing thoughts, ideas, hopes and aspirations of building a legacy.  And in those times when we don’t agree, we won’t force our hearts to disagree. We will be able to separate the issues from the love we have for each other. No longer will we compound our issues, confusing arguments with that of the past so that our future is spoilt. We will no longer punish the future for our present state.  The truth will be spoken in its purest form and our hearts will be prepared to accept it. 

In me there’s a renewed, dangerously fierce resolve to not allow the devils’ divisive devices and distractions to claim this home.  We’re not going to stand up and be counted in the world’s woeful wedded statistics.  Despite what the world tells me, I am equipped to love you. I didn’t marry you on a whim or without watchful eyes because I didn’t marry you in isolation.  It was a prayerful decision so, in that case, all I need to love you is already in me.  The power to forgive and forget, the strength to overlook offence, the grace to give when it seems all has been given, it’s all here and more. 

I see us old and grey, still painfully passionately in love surrounded by our children – those who came from us and those we have raised to be part of us.  They will all be inspired by our love for each other; using our marriage as a blueprint for them to build their own family from. 

We aren’t there yet but, it doesn’t mean we won’t get there.

I’m saying goodbye to forever complaining, endless measuring up and comparing with internal and external expectations.  Goodbye to wishing, wanting and praying for change to occur in you.  And to the past (in the words of Taylor Swift); we are never ever, ever, getting back together.  That’s the essence of being forever newlywed; ever evolving, ever renewing.   WE are forever newlywed.

D.A.T.E : Romance Keeper

Baby J dropped off, heels forced on and lipstick sexily applied; I was ready for our first baby-less date night. Putting the finishing touches to my date night face, I was relishing the idea of holding hubby’s hand without a baby limousine between us. It’s a night that is a weekly tradition that we have carved into our marriage for the past 5 years.  So strong is the tradition that our family and friends politely avoid calling / visiting / messaging / emailing / facebooking / whatsapping / tweeting / skyping (many are the ways to contact human beings) on date night. And on the rare occasions when we can’t make that particular night, it becomes breakfast on a Saturday morning. The usage of phones or any electronic device is frowned upon and missing it for any reason bar health, results in penalties! It’s amusing to think that something which I STRONGLY opposed to at the start of our marriage has become a much anticipated and fully enjoyed pillar of our marriage.

Yes, I opposed it. Strange but, sadly true. Prior to marriage I strongly believed that routine was the killer of romance.  Over time I’ve come to understand that having concrete plans on when ‘romance’ will happen doesn’t snuff out romance rather, plans give romance an opportunity to breathe. It removes the ‘has it really been 4 weeks since we last spoke’ from the equation.  It means that you can focus your energy on a particular day. It’s once during the week that you’re guaranteed a conversation, that isn’t centred on red bills or family drama. This isn’t to say that my beloved and I go through the rest of the week with our hearts on mute. This is to say that we are each of assured of devoted, unadulterated attention for each other on that one night – date night.

True romance for me at that time, was meant to be spontaneous. It would be born out of an insatiable desire to please your beloved and it would be demonstrated in an elaborate way; a single red rose delivered by a singing telegram, tailed by a pure white dove with an invitation in its beak to a candlelit dinner on a roof terrace with a view of the twinkling picturesque city skyline.  I know, I’ve watched far too many soppy movies; Hollywood had done it again by creating unrealistic expectations.  But isn’t this true of most of us?  Haven’t we all based our notions of what romance really is on what we have seen and read? 

As I drove to pick up my beloved from the station, I wondered where HE was going to take me, what HE had planned, what HE would like to eat.  It suddenly hit me – why was HE setting the scene, why was HE the romance keeper? In the self-directed movie that I had conjured up, I always ensured the spotlight was always on me, the only receiver of the rousing romantic gestures. I am not alone in my directorial ambitions; most romantic stories are filled with chivalry and demonstrations of love all from the man. 

Surely, in a world where women are campaigning for equality, we should jump at the chance to partake in romancing.  Any feminist takers? Equality in the workplace and politics – yes please. Equality in romancing and wooing – err… #hehasgottoworkforitbecauseiamnotcheap. The truth must be uttered.  For decades we’ve seen many relationships suffer because the man has failed to meet the romantic expectations of his fair lady, possibly citing irreconcilable romantic differences. There are thousands and possibly millions of women who are masterminding punishments for the husband who is zoned into their football frenzied evening instead of, whisking their beloveds to a love filled evening.  I wonder if the longevity of relationships would increase if they would both take the responsibility of keeping things fresh.  The immeasurable soul destroying pain of a divorce/separation outweighs the pride lessening effort of planning a night of love. 

Rewinding our marriage back to our courtship, I remembered how my beloved had always initiated dates and romantic gestures. I was surprised with gifts and constantly being dined.  To my embarrassment I don’t recall planning anything elaborate or as thoughtful.  And as we crossed over into matrimonial land, there are few occasions where I have been the romancer.  I question now whose job it really is to create the romance. I believe this role of romancer should be as fluid as who washes the dishes or who drives the car. In society, the traditional roles and duties of husband and wife are not set in stone. It’s not unusual to see the husband as the cuisine technician or to see the wife as the domestic DIY construction manager.  Should it then be taboo for a wife to sometimes take the lead in keeping romance?

‘Me? Initiate romance? Make some effort?’

Yes.

I dare you.

This needn’t be a daunting and arduous task; romance defined is a feeling of excitement and mystery associated with love. I’m a strong believer in keeping it simple and tailored specifically to the likes and dislikes of your beloved; playing snap with a bowl of popcorn and dimmed lights, surprising your beloved at work with his favourite take away meal, doing something they always asked you for but you were previously unwilling to do (wink wink). Date night has taken on many forms during our journey. In times of financial famine we have; picnicked on our living floor, gone for a long walk, put a thousand piece jigsaw together. It doesn’t always have to be the same thing and in many respects it doesn’t matter what you are doing – so long as what you’re doing is Devoting Attention To Each other.   

Afrodisiac?

It’s 4.30am in the morning and I’m wide awake…why? Because I’ve had a traumatic trip to the hairdressers and I keep wondering if when I take off my gorgeously sexy make shift hair net, if I will pleased with what I see. Will it remind me of the cunning hairdresser with whom gave me a bish bash hair job for hard earned cash? Will I count the days until the monstrosity is removed from my head?

It’s 4.35am…still can’t sleep, replaying my hair journey in my head. Every niggling painful plait and stitch, every word of idle gossip her over arched eyebrow friend laced her ears with and then the utter disappointment that struck me when she’d finished. With each replay, my voice is the commentator, telling me what I should have said, should have done. As the drum and bass beats of my husbands snoring fill the room, I decide that the classical sound of birds in our humble living room would be a better soundtrack to my early morning insomnia.

Switching on the laptop, I run to my solace of hair wisdom, the encyclopaedia of hair, my ultimate consultant of all consultable – you tube. Just as my heart is getting reassured with remedies of how to fix my small but majorly relevant hair issues, I think to myself – why do I bother? After all, it’s just hair.

I blame my husband.

There are a number of things that we do, simply because of our beloveds. These do not include the basics like basic hygiene – these things I hope you would do for yourself and the rest of humanity particularly, if you are boarding public transport. I am referring to going that extra mile even, when it is out of your comfort zone, out of things you do or like to do. Personally, this goes into the precious area of my hair.

Prior to marriage, I would have a different drastic hair do – each month. One month, it would be very short and edgy the next long and wavy. Last year, I made the drastic move to chop all my hair off and go natural – no relaxer. My hair is like barb wire; my big sis refers to it as indestructible. I’ve broken countless blow dryer afro pics and had hairdressers looking in need of a cocktail of ibuprofen and paracetemol after trying to relax it. When I first cut my hair, my hubby and I concluded that I looked like a village African school girl. I promptly decided to grow my hair out with the help of braids and I was pleased when my hair grew long enough to rock an afro – big and proud.

To make my hubby feel involved in my hair journey I asked him one day, ‘how would you like my hair?’

To my hair and I’s horror, he replied ‘long and straight’.

My hubby had landed a Muhammed Ali sized punch on my dreams. They came crashing down to the floor harder than Joe Frazier. All sorts of thoughts came to my mind. Did he not understand what I was trying to achieve? Did he not watch the Chris Rock DVD on Good Hair close enough? Did he not appreciate my natural beauty? And my mind just rocketed to all sorts of thoughts till it landed on Neptune.

‘But you didn’t meet me that way!’

That thought rattled in my head for a while. The Martians and I were walking around on ‘Nonsense Thoughts Neptune’ questioning if my hubby had forgotten who I was. Had he forgotten my creative hairstyles? Was he comparing me to some fantasy he had or something he had seen somewhere? Did he not find me attractive in my natural state?

Resentment brewed strong within me, so decided to do just the opposite to what he’d so innocently said. I wanted to be ‘Miss Nubian Queen’ so badly that, I was prepared to risk being Mrs Emina. I relinquished my hubby’s hair consultant partnership rights and just informed him of appointment times and dates.

Having enjoyed the summer experimenting with afro styles and surrendering to a short curly scarecrow looking like weave for my sisters wedding, Christmas/New Year hair ideas had started to formulate. I caved in and finally out of a selfish, bitter, angry and full of attitude heart, I thought ‘I should give the man what he wants’.

There were many who appreciate this new look but, some who were encouraging me in my natural hair journey questioned me.

‘Where’s the afro gone?’ they’d ask. And I’d feel as though I had betrayed my natural sisters, I’d answer with guilt and impassion,

‘My hubby doesn’t like it’.

I’ve lost count the amount of times, I said that. I’d see someone else with a big bushy afro and immediately start hungering for my own. I’d look over at my husband with dagger eyes. Last weekend, I’d taken my hair out of my weave and inspired by one of my all natural colleagues from work; decided to dye it deep red. To my disappointment and my hubby’s gratitude to God, it didn’t work. My black brown wild hair, just stared back at me as if to say ‘are you dun? do sumtin!’

‘But, I don’t like red hair.’

If only my hubby could see the colour of my anger when he uttered those words ever so sweetly. I awoke on Sunday morning, twisted out my twists and magnified the size of my fro in defiance. I got to church and someone who is an admirer of my hair questioned why I didn’t just rock it all the time. Again, those bitter words came out…

‘My hubby doesn’t like it’.

Those words followed me through to Valentines Day. After being wowed by my most amazing Valentines Day gifts ever, I rushed to get my hair done accompanied with the ‘let’s do what the man wants’ attitude. Later on in the evening I was asked, what happened to the afro and yes you can guess what I said…

With my hearts paced slowed down from its Hussein Bolt’s speed and the back drop of Thurrock’s birds symphony playing, I’ve somehow been cleansed of my hair nightmare. Instead of my hairdresser glossophobia (inability to express dislike to hairdressers) taunting me, those defiant words and my behaviour is pulling on the reigns of my valentine heart.

‘My hubby doesn’t like it’.

I must admit how terribly wrong I was, how silly and close minded. Retracing my steps I can see that my hubby never wanted me to change. He didn’t insist. He never complained about the extra large, Cleopatra style braids on my head or the Bob Marley length twists. All he had expressed was a preference. The same way, someone can prefer scrabbled eggs over poached eggs, or sleeping with the light on or off, music or silence. He didn’t love me any less or any more with my hair straight, afro, curly or uncombed.

Love is a conscious decision and many times, it requires of us what we are not prepared or even what to give.

Sometimes, it may mean letting someone watch re runs of CSI, sometimes it may mean doing your hair in a particular way, washing the dishes, tidying up the house or sending a card. It is costly and it can be painful but that’s love. Granted there are some requests that go out the acceptable limit – appetites in sex or physical abuse. The vast majority of them though, will be perfectly reasonable.

It’s 6.09am in the morning and I’m signing off. With my mind and heart, safely landed on Planet Earth, I am prepared for whatever I see underneath my head scarf…with my straighteners, hair products and you tube on hand.

Miss Independent, the obituary.

‘Miss Independent was laid to rest on 4th October 2008. She was a woman who sought no permission prior to making any decisions, beautifully driven and centred on carving her name into the pages of this life. She didn’t want to lose her life but knew that in order for her to live a better; she’d have to lay this one down.’
I come from a line of incredibly strong independent women; women whose backbone shatters the tenacity of the acrylic nails our generation adorn themselves with. Naturally, I have become a product of what I have seen; fiercely ambitious, aggressively focused and determined to often the point of stubbornness. I am surrounded by women who have refused to see the absence of a man (husband or father) as a handicap, excuse or limitation but who have used it as motivation instead. But this incredible strength that I so greatly admire has become a double edged sword. It has gradually formed the backdrop of my worst nightmare. For as many strong women I have seen, I have seen the men around them slowly shrinking to ‘yes’ men. These are men who have retreated to their wives shadows, whose ambitions have been ignored. Their opinions are the last their wives consult, their thoughts and feelings totally irrelevant to their beloved. I would hate for my husband to fall into this category, to hear whispers of ‘how does he cope with her?’ after I leave a room. I have all this in the forefront of my mind. I know that I am not supposed to wear the trousers in my marriage yet; there is a constant internal struggle with the spirit of independence. It’s like a drug that my mind has been hooked on and marriage is the process that is weaning me off it and onto co-dependency. It’s almost as if some issues in our marriage that came to light were a demonstration of my independence withdrawal symptoms.

It’s not easy making the transition from making decisions independently to co-dependently, especially when you have been in the driving seat for your whole life. Having to share your plans, dreams, ideas and decisions with someone else, can be challenging. It’s as though you acquire a back seat driver overnight, who you are happy to have as company but not as the navigator. Your plans, dreams, ideas and decisions can be quite personal and sharing them can make you feel extremely vulnerable. The fear of rejection plays on your mind and when you should open up, you close yourself down. There have been many times during our marriage when I would embark on projects without informing my hubby or asking for his opinion. I understand now, that this is wrong and if care is not taken we could very easily become intimate strangers. I don’t want us to be in a position where my colleagues at work and friends know more about my life than my beloved. I had formed a selfish habit and fear of rejection had totally consumed me. Alarm bells rang clearly when the sentence ‘you didn’t tell me that’ became my hubby’s mantra. Please understand that it is not that I need his permission to do anything, I am not under an oppressive regime as I live in a co-dependency state. I share my dreams and plans with my beloved because I respect him and want him to be part of them.

Submission in this day and age is a swear word, a phenomena. So much so that during wedding vows brides have said the words ‘obey’ and ‘submit’ through clenched teeth. I don’t blame them; they are merely a product of the environment they live in. It’s just a shame that we choose to see submission as an infringement of our human rights rather than a blessing. I understood the theory of submission sometime ago but the practical realisation of it eluded me until now. In theory it seems an unfair advantage to submit to another. If we look at it logically (yes, Miss Sometimes Emotional is daring to be logical), to submit can mean that you are willingly allow someone else to lead you and have absolute responsibility for the consequences of their actions. I know it is not always that easy or straightforward but surely there is a blessing in that. Miss Independent enjoyed having responsibility but sometimes felt weighed down with the number of decisions that needed to be made and things that needed to be done. Surely in a life where co-dependency and submission exists, there would be another set of capable shoulders to place responsibility onto.

This drought of submissive wives is not helped when we have seen the definition of submission distorted over time, its meaning has been abused and stretched. Submission in marriage is not simply ‘do what I say’. True submission is when a woman makes the choice to fulfil what her husband has asked or desired, above her own thoughts and opinions. It is a conscious decision and not the passive door mat mentally, some would lead us to think it is. It’s like when my hubby wants to watch an hour long documentary on the habitat of ‘South American Spotted Owl’ and I want to watch re runs of ‘Dragons Den’. I could argue that watching the daily activities of the spotted owl is not going to help me build my empire or just simply hand over the remote control. (Don’t let my hubby know but more often than not I do gain from the programmes, even if it just to be in wonder of the awesomeness of nature.) Some may see this as a trivial problem but it’s the small things that can build animosity. All of a sudden, my not allowing him to watch the owl picking up sticks in the Amazon can become ‘you always have to have things your way’. It can gradually build up a mindset in him that will be disruptive and ruin the balance of our marriage. That is not to say that we are permanently watching the discovery channel as, he also has a responsibility to not to abuse my gift of submission and demonstrate love (as that would be absolute punishment for me)! The test of real submission is not when you are not bothered with the outcome of an issue; it is when you have a real opinion concerning the outcome. Your ability to submit is proved when you believe wholeheartedly in your decision or opinion, when you are convinced that you are correct. If in those times you can submit, then you are truly exemplifying the character of the kind of co-dependency that exists in a wife of old.

There may be some women who read this that are raging, annoyed that I have abandoned the Destiny Childs ‘I bought it’ attitude. The truth is, I have many dreams and I have not put them on hold. I am only changing my focus. It’s time that I am just as driven and focused on his dreams as my own. It is not say that I won’t achieve them, I will. I just want my husband my side rather than in my shadows. It’s time that as Mary J Blige put ‘Share my world’. RIP Miss Independent, we had good times while they lasted.

‘As Miss Independent was lowered to the ground, a wife arose.’