Sometimes...

Sometimes I worry that I'll die unexpectedly, and no one will ever have understood the confusing jumble of thoughts inside my head.

Occasionally, I picture the inside of my mind as a teenagers bedroom.
Clothes strewn across the floor...
Piles of open books piled high upon the desk...
and no one ever cleans it.
I find lots of things there...
but so rarely what I'm looking for.
That one thought that escapes me.
Always.
And sometimes, I worry that I'll never find it.
The room will never be cleaned..
and eventually I'll forget.
And that will be it.
That scares me a little.

No one will ever have wandered in the jungle that is my imagination.
That scares me a lot.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever find my place.
If I will ever wake up one morning with no doubts lying next to me,
that I am where I'm meant to be.
So no matter where I go or what I do.
that place will follow me.
Inside me.
Always.

Sometimes I wonder.
But sometimes I don't.
Because I know I'm still searching,
And with every step forward I know where I am.

I'm getting closer.

Sometimes I think those are the greatest 'sometimes' of all.

 

That thing...

Have you ever done that thing where you notice a stranger walking past you down the street, and you think to yourself...

'That person has been lonely before. They have sat down and cried their eyes out. They have been overwhelmingly happy and indescribably sad. They have known what it's like to be disappointed, loved and forgotten. I mean, I don't know them or anything, but chances are they've known and felt all these things. Just like me.'

Then just like that, you realize how unbelievably human we all are.
And just like that, you love them.
Because they're just like you.

 

 

Why only two strings?

It has occurred to me recently, that the title of this blog may seem a little random.
Why only two strings?
There is a reason for that...

When I was still in high school, there was a youth in our community who was always making music.
It amazed me how, no matter where we were or what we were doing, he'd always find a way to do this.
I don't know how he managed it, but he did.

One day, he picked up a broken ukulele.
It only had two strings, but despite this fact he started to play.
And it was music.
Just like that.
The instrument was far from perfect, but that wasn't important.
The music was still there, as beautiful as ever - and it was anything but broken.

It really made me think about how music is all around us, all the time.
No matter who or where we are, what our circumstances may be...
There are always ways to be creative.
There is always music.
We just need to find it.

And this is how I named my blog, so I would remember.

I think often in life, it's so easy to create barriers between ourselves and the things we want to do.
Whether it's writing in a blog, recording a song or simply having an important conversation with someone.

It's scary to do these things sometimes...
To pour your heart into something and share it with the world.
What if people judge you for it?
What if people think you're 'trying too hard', a 'bit of a show off' or simply 'not good enough'.
Because 'God forbid' you present yourself as anything less than perfect.

But I'm going to tell you something truthful now. You're not.
I'm not.
None of us are...
And that's okay.

If you want to sing or dance... or you have a message you want to share with the world, go (right now) and do it in the best way you can.
Don't be afraid.
Shout it from the rooftops.
Maybe your work will be flawed... you may stumble a little or sing out of key.
But at least you're singing.

None of us are perfect, but that doesn't mean we can't still make music.

The Lonely Painter (June 23, 2012)

Imagine a painter.
A painter who loves what he does with all his heart.
A painter who loves mankind.
This painter decided a long time ago, that he was going to dedicate every waking hour of his life, to painting, not just so he could enjoy it, but so the world could. He taught himself to paint, he taught others, he painted walls and canvas and skies, all so he could TOUCH and INSPIRE people. His heart had a lot to say, and it was loud. For a long time he did this, and he was happy.

Now imagine he was taken out of this world and put into a new one, a world where nobody could see.
He could still feel his love for the colors on the canvas, and for the world around him, but his inspiration was gone. No one could see him. He was lost in a world of darkness, alone with a love in his heart he could no longer share.

It made him feel empty, like living in a glass cage in a world where no one understands.
How could they? They can't see.. they don't understand what a painting is in this world, and why should they waste much time on trying? After all, what good would it do them to spend their time trying to understand this lonely painter, who just can't figure out where he fits in?

He doesn't want their pity,
he just wants to be free.
He wants to break the glass so people could see him again,
but he can't.

So the painter's alone. Alive, but alone.
With nothing but an empty canvas.

What makes a hero?

Teenagers are wonderful.

Sandwiched between their childhoods and their careers, they happily live their days as their choices take them.
Some of them know exactly where they're going.
Some of them don't, but either way it doesn't really matter.
As a teacher, I know that the most important thing is that they follow their hearts and discover pathways that make them happy.
Because as cheesy as it sounds, our hearts often know where we're going, even when we don't... kinda like a GPS for life! (Except maybe a little more reliable.)

Somewhat recently, when I was teaching in an all-boys school, I asked a class of grade 9's to write a short story. It could be about anything, but needed to have at least 3 unbelievable things happening in it.

I found it interesting how a lot of the stories were very similar, and there were a couple of ideas that were consistent with approximately 70-80% of the class:

- The hero was always male.
- The hero was always really tall and extremely good looking.
- The hero was almost always capable of great physical acts of strength, such as possessing the ability to run and swim all the way around the world, or the ability to lift up people's houses with one hand (this was almost always one of the 'something unbelievable' elements of the story').

It makes sense that the main character would be male. They were boys after all, and this kind of character would be someone they'd be more likely to relate to. But tall, strong and good-looking? Reading these stories, these were overwhelmingly considered the ideal characteristics for a main character.

It got me thinking about how, from such a young age, these are the first things people seem to think of when imagining a hero. No one thinks of a short, nerdy fellow, who's never so much as set foot in a gym! Which I think is a little sad, because not everyone is tall or muscley or what society deems as 'extremely good looking'...
That doesn't mean they're not special.
That doesn't mean they can't change the world.
Actually, when you think about it... it doesn't really mean anything. At all.

So what is a hero?

This is one of those things that means something different to everybody, and this is fine.
But I like to think that one day in the future, children will grow up understanding heroism to mean something different to 'superman'.
They won't imagine someone tall, dark and handsome, but someone kind.
Someone who is steadfast in their beliefs.
Someone loving and respectful to everyone they encounter in life.
Someone who outlines the silver-linings of every cloud and spreads seeds of joyfulness and positivity in peoples minds.
Someone with a beautiful heart and character.

Because, when it comes to striving towards an ideal, who someone is on the inside is SO much more important than how they are physically.

And everyone as the potential to do great things, they just need to believe in it.

When things resurface...

So I was scavenging through some of my old notebooks this morning, looking for some empty pages, when some old scribbles caught my eye.

I never told anyone this, because I was afraid I would fail (which I totally did, apparently!) but a while ago, just for fun, I was working on a YA novel. I never finished it, and eventually got distracted by other things, but when I came across the pages the other day I couldn't believe I'd forgotten about them!

I was never really confident in my writing, but as I was reading through some of these it just brought back to me everything I was going through 2 years ago. My main character, Mabel, has her voice stolen from her one day and essentially goes on a mission to retrieve it... I know, not the most creative sounding storyline, but it pretty much reflects where I was at this time. :p

Here are some bits and pieces! Maybe they won't make much sense without any context, but I thought I might share anyway. :p

"I know," wrote Mabel.
"But what do you want?"
Her fingers quivered as she placed the bottle on the table, but when she looked up he'd already turned away.
"A conversation," said the Djinn.
"I need a conversation. For the love of my Master, give me just one... where for a minute, you need not the earth to shake nor the oceans to rise. Where you're not thinking about all the mistakes you've made or need to erase. Where the flowers can die and the kingdoms can fall and for just that minute, everything is how it is and how it needs to be. Tell me that your only wish is to say this to me. Look at me girl... and tell me this isn't all for nothing."
Mabel felt the hope dying on her lips as she looked down at the crippled creature. How could she tell him she was happy, when she'd spent all this time seeking him out.

*

"So that's you huh? That girl. They've been saying much about you they have. The girl with hair like fire..." He eyed her thoughtfully. "You want your words back."
It wasn't a question. He knew who she was.
"Powerful magic, not to be messed with."
"But you can do it. We were told that you could," said Flynn.
"Perhaps," he said with a shrug. 
"There's just one thing. You see, you humans can't be trusted with words. I mean, you hardly even think about them, do you? I notice these things, sitting on the sidelines. You live your lives hoarding them up in those little brains of yours, then just throw them around without a second thought. You could hurt yourself! And do! You choose bad ones and wrong ones and go about playing with them like it's the most insignificant thing in the world. But it's not you know. We make our words. They mean things."
He eyed her carefully.
"Powerful magic, not to be messed with."
Mabel looked back at him. She understood. She'd seen it walking through her neighborhood. Cars beeping at each other and their drivers screaming out their windows to go a bit faster. Families bickering during their yearly get-togethers and school kids spreading hurtful rumors about their friends. He was right, it wasn't fair. But neither was this, and so Mabel decided in that moment, she would never again misuse her words. She knew their power.

*

"Interesting,"
He pried it from her fingers and she listened tentatively.
"So, you left them then."
She nodded.
"They needed help,"
"They needed to trust in someone."
She watched as he understood.

Mothers Day Song

Happy Mothers Day Muman!
So we wrote this song together, and I filmed it on mothers day to make this video. :)
Enjoy! x