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Wednesday, February 15, 2006 


Winter is endless. The frost on each blade of grass every morning when you wake up. The snowdrops along the borders of the garden. The churning grey clouds that cover the sky as far as the eye can see in. There isn't even a hint of the daffodil in the air. Spring is a time for new beginnings; birth and rebirth. Spring is an emerald green. But winter is a time for reflections; for coveting the old and harbouring your memories. Winter is a gun metal grey. We long for the spring to arrive, but without the winter we would never appreciate it's arrival. We would never look back and contemplate on everything that has been. We need it as a contrast to everything else, and we need it as a time to rest. It can be harsh, it can be cruel, but it's unchanging. It's as inexorable, as unstoppable, as an avalanche.

I wrote a letter to my mom. It wasn't any great literary achievement, it was just unusual. She hurt me a lot. But upon reflection, the time when she really hurt me wasn't when she left, it was when both her and my dad hurt me. It was when they excluded me from their lives, separated me. By the time she left everyone, I already felt exempt from her heart. But that rejection didn't come from just her, dad was equally responsible, yet somehow I forgave him. Hating her had turned to habit, something I had to do, just because. I've always blamed her. Blamed her for all my weaknesses; my overpowering fear of rejection, my inability to love just for the sake of it. I blamed her for every time I looked over my shoulder to check that no one had a knife to stab me with. And that isn't fair.

Had I been a stronger person from the start, maybe I wouldn't have been affected. Had she stayed, had their marriage worked and her lack of maternal feeling not been a problem, I would still be as insecure. As sure that something had to go wrong because it is completely impossible to be happy. I don't mean for me to be happy, I mean for anyone. I'm a cynic, but I'm cynical in the way that only someone truly messed up can be. There are layers. On one layer there is the constant amusement, the joy from anything new, or merely old but forgotten. And on another layer lurks the cynicism. The belief that I have to take joy from the simple things because they are the only constants. The only things I can keep close to me without fear of them suddenly disappearing, leaving me.

I've had a lot of time to reflect. It's too cold to do anything else. And she hurt me, she always will. For everything she did, for everything she said. But maybe I can forgive her for a while, move on at least. She hurt me, but I can't hate her forever, it just isn't in me anymore. Things change.

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  • An albatross can fly for thousands of miles without getting tired. I've always thought that love is similar to flying, therefore we should aspire to be like the albatross.

    I don't know if I can do that. So far I haven't been so lucky. But one day I'll test my wings with someone, and flying won't be so hard after all. Or so painful.
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Save the Albatrosses


    * In 2001 one New Zealand fishing boat killed over 300 seabirds in just one trip, while fishing for ling.
    * Each year over 300,000 seabirds are killed by longline fishing.
    * Over the past 60 years some albatross populations have declined by 90%.
    * Annually around 10,000 albatross and petrels are caught in New Zealand waters alone.
  • Save the Albatrosses
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