You cannot rush a painting

/ RCRuiz / 3 Comments

Soon after I completed my short course in painting portraits with acrylics, I got my first commission to make one. As it was commissioned by close family, I’m not sure if it qualifies as proper commission, but I agreed to make one for the equivalent of another course on painting portraits with watercolours. I don’t know why I had the idea that I could complete a portrait in a week when it took me almost five weeks to work on my class assignment, but hey–time is like an accordion to the neurodivergent mind. So, I delayed starting on the portrait. I did a couple of studies and for some reason my brain registered this as: I have completed the assignment (which of course is far from true).

Anyway, the start of watercolour class was announced and in the lead up to it, I found myself completely immersed in this completely new to me medium. Of course, I had played with watercolours as a child. But I never quite liked it. I found out that it wasn’t my fault, but it was because I didn’t have the proper tools for making good watercolours. Ha! I find myself wondering how many children give up on artmaking because they just don’t have the right tools. Of course–as people say–artists will find ways and means to make art and when I look back, I realise that I was always making art. It wasn’t art in the conventional/traditional sense of how people in my surroundings defined art (art=painting). I wasn’t painting, but I was constantly busy with cutting and pasting and layering things. I was curious about things that were discarded and what could be done with them. When I was a teen, I started using threads and cast away materials. I dried weeds and made cards. I collected pieces of thrown away marble flooring and tried writing on them. Eventually, I combined these with other things and the small projects I started in my parents’ garage bloomed into quite a hectic business. (I confess, I didn’t like it as much once it became hectic business and that probably says a lot about me.)

So anyway, back to the title of this blogpost.

The reason why I was asked to make this portrait was because the portrait I made in class came out so well. Getting it there took me sitting at the easel almost everyday. Carefully observing my reference photos and decided which colours were best. It was me also remembering the way my cousin’s smile looked and what it was about her character that I wanted to capture on the canvas. And the portrait succeeded because I knew my subject really really well. I could close my eyes and see the way she walks, the way she tilts her face to the side, the way shadows play across her face and most of all, I could see the gentleness and the joy shining through her eyes. And that’s what I put on the canvas. As one of my classmates said: she makes me want to smile back at her.

Back to this portrait. On the first day, I did the drawing and filled in light and dark hues. I had my colour palette, and yet somehow it wasn’t working. At the end of day one, I had a stern looking figure on my canvas and another figure who looked like an alien. Skin tone was nowhere near anything human. I stared at the portrait and thought: I think I’ll just go back to using pastels and watercolours. Those are more fun.

Second day: I’m one day away from my self-set deadline. Anything I layer on makes my figures look even more alien. They no longer look anything like the reference picture. Even worst, the main figure looks so unlikeable and scary, I want to throw my brushes on the floor and burn the canvas. I don’t do these things, but I admit I was pretty close.

Self-set deadline day: The portrait is not finished. I don’t know how I’ve managed to turn two humans into beings who look like they’ve come from Mars. I no longer think of them as people. I think of them as subjects–characters who refuse to bend to my will. My paints and brushes keep going, but good grief, my instruments are not making magic happen.

Thankfully, I’m given a reprieve. I don’t have to deliver the portrait just yet. But the person would like to see an in-progress work.

I’m crying. I can’t show this horrible canvas to anyone.

I go to bed and pray. Dear God, I say. Please (please please) I know this is such a tiny ping in all the important things happening around the world, but if you could send me a dream–something that will help me resolve this, I would be ever so grateful.

Here is a detail I remember from my dream. I’m a child crying over this portrait and I’m sitting at the feet of this big person. You need time to make a painting, the big person says. Each layer makes a painting richer, this is why you can’t rush a painting. Look, you should try using yellow ochre and don’t be afraid to mix your colours with white.

I don’t know if there was more, but when I wake up, that remains with me.

I head up to the attic and start squeezing colours onto my palette. Yellow ochre and white and my basic colours. I decide to not use the flesh coloured paint that I’d used previously. I don’t know if it will work, but I start painting. And somehow, things just click into place. The main character now looks kinder and more approachable–just like the person I see when I leaf through the album in my head. The second character looks kind and inquiring–and his skin looks human. I mix in some cadmium yellow, a bit of red…it’s coming together. Burnt sienna and ultramarine blue and some of that white for my shadows. It’s intense, but looks natural. I’m not quite there, but now the painting has more flow.

I think of how the things worth bringing into the world cost time and effort and energy. The act of creating something asks something from us and gives something to us as well. Maybe AI could make a painting much faster than I could, but I wouldn’t be getting the same insights I get from making this painting myself. Everything worth bringing into the world is worth the journey that it takes to bring it into being. And this is why we can’t rush art. We can’t rush stories. And I can’t rush a painting.

To you who have taken the time to stop by and read this, I hope you find something to inspire you on your own journey. Thank you for reading and may you be blessed.

The study I made in preparation for the painting. 🙂

Create and co-create

/ RCRuiz

On my wall, there’s a postcard with the words: Create the things you wish existed. It’s a card that came with an order of art supplies and I loved the words so much I pasted it up where I can see it as a reminder.

From one of the mailing lists that I subscribe to, there’s a link to the work of an amazing artist named Leilah Babirye. If you have time, click on the link leading to the video as it’s so inspiring and a great reminder that when we are engaged in art, we can’t be afraid.

I’m thinking about this as I think about LIMBO and the participants who come to share and create together. More than the things that we produce or make during the time together, it’s about how we hold space for one another and create together the kind feeling that exists in that time. When it’s my turn to give the workshop, I step into the space and think about who’s here and what do they need. Where Leilah talks about reading and listening to the piece, facilitating means listening to the space and reading with the heart. I bring to the workshop all the things that I have learned from other practitioners and I bring also what I have learned from my own journey.

Yesterday, we engaged in making rhythmic combinations, dance steps and improvisations as well as song. I had in mind this idea that we needed to give an answer to the wishlist that had been presented by participants sometime at the start of the season–the wish to create a LIMBO dance as well as a song that comes from us and expresses us.

There was laughter, there was singing, there was lots of body movement and dancing and there was a beautiful musical rendition gifted to us that afternoon by one of LIMBO’s participants.

I love how moments like these give rise to spontaneous sharing. It’s a testimony to how participants feel safe to talk about what they’re going through and what they’re feeling in the moment. To me, it’s this precious quality that we need to take care of when we talk about community.

Today, I am thankful for the privilege of being invited and included in this community. One of the things I’ve learned and continue to be reminded about in LIMBO is how it doesn’t matter that there are moments of discomfort and unease–that sometimes topics can become fraught–that people will have differences. But this is okay. I think of Aminata Cairo talking about family gatherings and how there may be that uncomfortable relation who can get argumentative and you think: Oh, I will just keep a distance. But even so, if we believe we are all connected, then there is still space for discomfort. We don’t always need to resolve it, but we can acknowledge it.

(I want to note here that I do think it’s important to draw a line at abusive and harmful behaviour.)

At present, I’m already looking toward our next gathering which will be on the 1st of June. I’m thinking of how to approach this workshop as we prepare for the launch of LIMBO’s second booklet. For the launch, which will be on the 20th of July, we’ll be going back to FramerFramed as a podium has been offered to us for use against the backdrop of an exhibition about transformation. It’s so very apt. I’m thinking of festive feelings. Of glitter make-up and shiny clothes, of dancing and singing and color and joy. We’ll be creating this programme together, creating this launch, creating this space and holding it for one another.

To you who read this, take time to listen to a beat and move your feet. Thank you for stopping by. Blessings and peace be with you.

Sniff: a funny short dream

/ RCRuiz

I woke up from a dream this morning and it had me laughing. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been thinking a lot about how to continue my stranded work, but I dreamt of homes built into a rock face. In this weird dream, I realised that those dwelling places formed a word. I was so amused by it that I woke up laughing so I thought I would try to recreate how those letter dwellings looked like.

It’s a bit of a sniffy time as hayfever season has come again. Alas.

All the things and how do I choose?

/ RCRuiz

In my previous life, goal setting was a little bit like this thing I would do in intervals. Like at the start of the year, I might set a couple of things for myself and at a certain point a sense of panic would creep in when I realised there were still things I hadn’t done.

Yesterday, as I was reading through the life after treatment module, the goal setting part of it had me thinking. For instance, if I say I want to travel more. What exactly do I mean when I say that? If I say I want to spend more time with my family, what do I really mean by that? And what about getting back to writing and finally finishing that work in progress? What about leaving a legacy and creating space for others? How and where do I even start? That familiar sense of panic came over me–that sense of I’m not sure I have enough time to do all the things.

To be honest, I didn’t actually think about these things when I first listed things down. I basically just filled in whatever and went on my merry way. But yesterday, I realised that I had a rather long list of things I want to do and it’s probably one of the reasons why I’m feeling a bit out of breath because how does one choose and where do I even start?

Thankfully, the module provides the following questions in support, some of which are:

How far along are you in regard to this goal?

What do you need to accomplish this goal?

Do you have all you need to get there?

One of the things on my list is to plan at least one weekend every year when all of us spend time as a family in one house. Last year, we went to Spa in Belgium. We are rather fond of Formula One and I’ve always wanted to visit a race track. Not only is the Spa circuit legendary, it’s also a beautiful track surrounded by lots of nature.

As I was in treatment at the time, my youngest spent most of our visit to the famous Spa circuit pushing me in the wheelchair. I didn’t get to climb up to the viewpoint tower but I loved that the kids got to do that and see it for themselves. It was only for a weekend, but we had a lot of fun with time together as well as time separately.

This year, I’m thinking of a place closer to home with more possibilities for going out into nature and taking walks because I’m more mobile than I was last year and I have more energy than I had.

But while I can plan things and organise things, while music and artmaking and teaching are proving to be quite friendly and within my grasp, I’ve discovered that getting back to writing is a lot more challenging than I had imagined.

Do I struggle with the writing because my brain isn’t quite up to it yet? Or do I struggle with the writing because writing (even when it’s fiction) feels very close somehow and I’m not yet ready to go there? It’s telling that I’m writing about not being ready because that’s actually probably what it is. Will I be ready to go there?

Writing even when it’s fiction has often been a way for me to work through whatever is weighing on my mind at the moment. I doubt that my work is commercially appealing because writing to an audience has probably been the last thing I’ve thought about. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad writer–but basically I write things that tug at me and call to me and make me take that deep dive and a lot of times the dive is personal and involved with the body and how the body moves through society and navigates all these questions that arise. What impact does space have on the body? How does society impact the body? And can one body have an impact or influence in the space they occupy? If so, in what way? (Yep, that’s one example of the process my brain goes through and maybe it’s helpful that I’m writing about it because this is probably a step towards getting there.)

I wish that answers were easy, but often answers are complex and require time and patience and a lot of times solutions to problems are never easy. The concept of good or bad and black and white is simplistic when we live in a nuanced world where many different shades go into what we imagine is one color.

So, this leads me back to goal setting and the objective of it.

Perhaps it’s so we don’t get this feeling of empty hours or days that we must feel. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s to give us a sense of purpose. Perhaps it’s to make us feel useful or accomplished. Oh hey, I did this task and that. I cleaned the bathroom without breaking down and I still had the energy to iron some clothes. That’s a win.

Now that I think about it, this sense of time running out is an illusion. We get caught up in the rush of “I must do this” and “I have to accomplish this” or “I must be useful” or whatever narrative we say to ourselves.

I think that we all have the time we need/ to do what we need to do/ and /time never runs out/. We may think that time runs out when we close our eyes in final sleep, but actually time keeps on running and what we accomplish as warm bodies reverberates even after our bodies are gone from the timeline.

Writing about this has helped me shed the rush. What needs to be done will be done and if it’s not done perfectly or as exactly as I imagine it could be, it will be enough. When I look at the timeline, I realise that actually what matters is now. From a minute ago to this minute to the minute that follows after this one. These are the moments that I can make count. Maybe I can give my son a hug or by practice my brush strokes (I’m learning how to use watercolour), or I can go out and find rocks to use for an exercise with the group. Maybe it’s something else. There’s no rush, there’s no panic. Time isn’t running out. I am moving exactly as I am meant to move within the time I occupy.

As usual, this is me thinking out loud on the page. I hope that it’s helpful to someone. Take time to do what matters to you now and if you’re feeling rushed, breathe.

Thank you for taking time to read this. I wish you blessings and peace. Maraming Salamat.

Oh hey! It’s another Tuesday post

/ RCRuiz

Sometimes the words just flow and sometimes they don’t. Today, I was working on the module that comes with the a new program from the physiotherapy class that I signed up for. This class is an intensive three month program which usually is offered after active treatment and it includes not only the physical rehabilitation part of things, but it also offers a module which walks you through a process of reflecting on what’s happened and what you would like to happen moving forward. It’s a module divided into six sessions and signing up for the module includes a page where you list down everything from the moment of diagnosis up to your last active treatment.

It was rather something to look back and realise that from 2022 up to the end of 2024, I was in constant treatment and my days were marked by hospital visits. It’s also good to recognise that I’ve been out of active treatment for five months.

I find myself no longer planning in terms of “if treatment will allow” to thinking in terms of “Oh hey, I can do that thing and take that course and I can play together with the band and go to workshop”. It seems like a small change, but it is actually a huge change from not knowing to some sort of knowing and where planning can now occur in two month stages instead of the one week when I feel good stage. I actually had this idea that I’d dealt with the stages of grief during those three years, but having looked at the dates reminds me that it wasn’t nothing. So here I am thinking on it and feeling thankful that I made it through all those treatments. I am thankful that I’m still here.

I’ve learned that even when we think we can’t, we still can and there is nothing more precious than today and if there’s something worth doing, there’s no sense in delaying the doing of that something.

There was a short period after treatment when I had a sense of “Oh, my days are stretching out now” and “so what do I do?”

Lately, I’ve been filling my days with watercolour practice. As I said to my therapy mates, I didn’t have the opportunity to learn how to use all these different materials when I was young, but I’m learning them now and it’s like a world has opened up in front of me. I didn’t know, for instance, that getting a good result in watercolours has a lot to do with the materials that you use. Of course, it’s the same for all other things, but watercolours are pickier than pastels and acrylics and if you use bad paper, it’s a given that your watercolours will look more grisly than if you used something that’s a better grade. I’m practicing on Aquapad paper which is thick enough and satisfying enough. (Arches are the best, but I feel like I need to get to that point where I can justify spending lots of cash on Arches.)

I’m happy that I have art making to keep me company, because it seems my fiction brain isn’t quite ready yet. I did the thing last week where I decided to just grit my teeth and open the work in progress and after reading the first page, I just had no idea. The sense of overwhelm was such that I decided to close the document and re-think my strategy. Maybe I’m not ready yet to face a work I left at 70k words. Maybe I need to section it up into smaller units that my brain can focus on in small bursts. I’m not sure yet. The work is niggling on the edges of my awareness, it’s just getting down to it that costs more than I can spend at the moment.

In the meantime, the watercolours are spread open on my desk. Brushes and pens and paper with some grisly attempts at portraiture. For the first time, I did manage a reasonable study in values. Not bad, I thought. I put a date at the top. Maybe I’ll look back at it in a hundred days and say: Oh wow. I started there, huh.

For you who have taken the time to drop by and read this, I want to say thank you. Blessings and peace and may your days be filled with good things.

I’ve fallen quite in love with Daniel Smith’s Green Apatite Genuine.

Recovery and balance after cancer treatments

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

It’s a sign of recovery that I’m updating this blog more often. That I have the energy to finish writing a post on this blog is a big thing. Back in December, I would start writing and then end up not finishing because posting any kind of update cost so much effort. I still have some of that fatigue–but then in social situations where I think up words and then go–ah, it’s too tiring to say them.

One thing that’s helped me a lot through treatment has been the surprise called art making. I didn’t know just how much it would help me through the difficult days when I had no words, through the days when I couldn’t do more than sit on the couch or putter around the living room. A lot of times, my art making was me throwing color on canvas while I argued out loud with God. I think of the kind of upbringing I had were I had this idea that one was supposed to sit quietly in church and be really respectful when talking to God and use your best words because everyone else was doing that. But I have grown more convinced that God actually doesn’t care much for our pretty words.

I’m writing this as I wait for the results from my most recent scan. It’s funny how there’s always this feeling of tension after a new scan–it’s a moment where I tense up before I think: Ah, what’s the worst that can happen?

I mean, I had the “we cured you” talk, three years ago. And then three months later that changed to ” we thought we cured you, but actually we didn’t, and we don’t know if we can ever cure you. But this is the plan.”

I’ve had conversations where the scans were iffy. Where the results were non-conclusive but I was a good candidate for a clinical trial where I might get a chance at a new (as yet unavailable) drug. I’ve been through two trials and in none of these trials did I get the trial drug.

My last drug was Doxorubicin. It had this distinct characteristic of being red and in the lead-up to November, I saw some fake dextrose bags with red liquid being sold for halloween in shops. I made a joke about how my drug was the ultimate halloween drug. Doxo is scary in its strength and in its side effects and most days I was just out for the count after an infusion. The funny thing though was how it made me so hungry that I grew by 12 kilos in the months I was having the infusions.

I had six infusions of doxo as that was the trial requirement. By the sixth infusion, I was so relieved I felt like crying and cheering all at the same time. I just wanted to finish treatment and thankfully it looked like doxo did its job. Once again, we had the “we really can’t say you will ever be cured” talk. By that time, I was like: it doesn’t matter. I am so tired of hospitals and needles. I mean, I love my oncologist, but I would love if a time comes when I don’t have to see her anymore except for a social catch-up.

I’ve been out of active treatment for more than three months, but have to have a follow-up scan every two months. Each time, I almost forget until a reminder shows up that I have a hospital appointment.

I’m doing so well at physiotherapy that I’ve been moved to a program called Recovery and Balance. It’s a 12 week program towards recovery and at last night’s information evening, I had this feeling of: Oh dear, I didn’t know it was going to be this intense. I admit to being a little bit annoyed when I realised that I would have to rearrange all my planning around this program for the next 12 weeks.

But studies show that people who have gone through life-changing diagnoses such as cancer and its ensuing treatments, benefit a lot from programs such as the one I have signed up for. So, despite being annoyed, I have duly rearranged my agenda to make sure I can complete those 12 weeks.

Our physiotherapists tell us that it’s not just the physical that needs time to recover. Recovery is also psycho-social. It takes time to work through what’s happened and often people think it’s going well, but it turns out that there could be an underlying depression brought about by so much change and trauma.

I have to say that it’s when you’re going through hard times you’ll find what matters to you most and also you’ll see the people who will stick no matter how tough things are. It’s also in the aftermath of everything, when the busyness of hospital visits are over that you discover that there are people who were just waiting for you to have the energy and time to re-connect. I’m so thankful for those people. For friends and loved ones and for partners and fellow collaborators who refused to write me off because I had cancer. I’m thankful for people who kept me writing and who made the extra effort to reach out and ask me to submit and remind me about calls for stories. (By the time I was doing Doxo, I was just so out of it, I couldn’t even understand emails though.)

During one of our talks, I said this to my oncologist: Doctor, my life isn’t cancer.

Yes, my oncologist said. You are more than cancer. Your life is so much more than that.

I am thankful for an oncologist who sees that and who says those words to me out loud.

This post is a lot of personal, but I hope it will help someone out there who reads it.

To you who read this, thank you for reading. Blessings and peace.

Thoughts after LIMBO

/ RCRuiz

We are nearing the close of another season of LIMBO. It’s been a good season and watching LIMBO flourish as more participants come to the workshop meetings has been a source of joy for all of us who are involved.

It’s a privilege to bear witness to how participants discover and grow in their strengths–remembering that they carry all these talents and gifts with them and they have the right to be here and actually, they haven’t yet showed us all that they can be. During yesterday’s session, one of the participants painted a beautiful image of a butterfly breaking out of its cocoon–saying in their own words: “this is me in my former life and this is me in my life now, carrying some of the same colours from before, but I am more me now.”

The conversations in LIMBO are a reminder of why spaces like these are needed.

I worry a little as I think about the precariousness of LIMBO’s future. Will we still get funding for the next season? Will we be able to continue? How can we bring LIMBO’s participants into existing networks? How can we support the community of LGBTQ+ asylumseekers who have come to LIMBO?

I am then reminded that we can only do what we can do, right now. We can’t control the future. We can’t control circumstances or events, but we can do what we can do in this time that’s available to us with the resources that we have right now.

During yesterday’s workshop, Rafik Opti, our wonderful guest facilitator, invited us to visualise through painting, the kind of world we want to see. Maybe visualise through the use of animals, they said. And they used the example of how they like to visualise their self as a friendly dinosaur. It was such a beautiful sunny day and I was happy to be in LIMBO again after missing the last meeting because I was sick. I wanted to capture the brightness of the sun and the light I was feeling. I wanted to just smear colour on the canvas. I discovered that it doesn’t always work as I imagine it should, but I thought I saw a pterodactyl emerging from the mess I made, and flowers blooming amid the morass and then one of the participants said: ‘but I see an eye. I see an eye looking from the canvas and there is a flower blooming from its eye.’

I thought of how beauty can be found even in messiness and how art isn’t about perfection–just as life isn’t about perfection. The true art is in the ability to see what is hopeful and good and beautiful when we think there is none. I think that’s what we do for each other in LIMBO. Everyone goes through difficult days, but we can be there to remind each other that there are also sunny days and flowers can bloom in unexpected places.

I hope that you who read this entry will find flowers in unexpected places. Hope and joy to carry you through days that may sometimes seem grim and dark. I wish you blessings and peace and thank you for dropping by.

*If you have time, visit Rafik’s site. Make sure to watch Black Joy. Rafik is paving the way for others to follow in their footsteps.

A poem happens

/ RCRuiz

Spring 

and the trees aching 

In their beauty

reach towards the sky. 

Bare branches carry waiting leaves. 

And above, shades of pale blue and gray 

stained with 

shining white–we think it is yellow

but it is really more than that.

It is the colour of day

Spreading its light

Over houses thatched with grass.  

And the landscape 

blooms

with shades of yellow, gold and green;

turned earth 

and shadows breathe relief

while rows of knotted willows

guard the lanes

like sentinels waiting.

Today is my sister’s birthday

/ RCRuiz

I’ve been thinking about my sister in the in-between hours, all throughout the day. Perhaps it’s one reason why I felt somewhat agitated. It’s not until I took the time to sit down and think about the day that I realised it’s because I didn’t get to talk to my sister.

My sister and I were born almost exactly a year apart. Both of our birthdays fall in April. Hers falls earlier in the month and mine closer to the end of it. I think about my sister and the unexpectedness of her passing and what a gift it was that she was able to come to us and spend time with us in the months after Jan passed away. Little did we know that she would leave us too.

For a long time, I couldn’t put a name to what it was that I felt when my sister died. I was able to carry on after Jan’s passing, I was able to push through and still keep going, but when my sister died it was like the world stopped and I sank into a deep dark place. I’m not exactly sure how I got out of there, but time helps a lot and it helps when someone picks you up and says: you don’t have to do anything for a while, you just have to keep on living.

In the days when I was going through treatment, when chemo was rough and I didn’t want to even get out of bed, I thought of my sister saying: Come on, Rochita. Don’t just lie there. Fight.

And I would get up and I would make myself go downstairs and eat breakfast even if I didn’t feel like eating. I decided I wouldn’t die, but I would live.

Because there was so little of a gap between us, my sister and I were often mistaken as twins when we were kids. And my Mom liked to dress us up in twin clothing. There are loads of black and white pictures of the two of us twinning. For a long time, there was just me and my sister. We had to wait another seven years before the first of my brothers was born. My sister and I were each other’s best friends and confidantes. We could fight like cats and dogs, but we were each others’ allies. (It’s kind of impossible to remain hostile when you’re sharing a room.)

I want to honour my sister today. To remember the sound of her voice and the way she smiled. I’m thankful my sons have memories of her. That they know who I’m talking about when I talk about Tita Weng.

In 2022, when I was preparing for surgery, I had a dream about my sister. We were playing together under a big tree in the garden, and I was so preoccupied with what I was doing that I didn’t notice that she’d stood up and walked away.

Today, I remember my sister whose light I carry with me.

(Collage made in 2022)

Spring is in the air

/ RCRuiz

It’s been quite a busy period as not only is it exam week for the youngest one, it’s also been a week of appointments and events. I visited the municipal hall last week and handed in my application for a new passport along with a new id picture. It’s probably the first time since I’ve had a passport made that my passport picture doesn’t look like I’m running from the law.

A few days before I went to the municipal hall, I had new pictures taken. On my walk to the shop, I found myself ruminating on my previous passport picture and I decided to ask the photographer if it was possible to have one that was somewhat friendlier. As tends to happen, I walked into the shop and blurted out my thoughts to all and sundry including two surprised customers who burst out laughing when I announced that my last passport picture had me looking like I was a fugitive from the law.

It made for a lighthearted moment and I can happily say that for the first time, I have a passport picture that is somewhat friendlier.

At the municipal hall, there was some difficulty registering my fingerprints. I learned that intense treatments like chemotherapy has this effect of where fingerprints become a bit more hazy. It made me wonder if we ever lose our fingerprints.

“It happens with old people too,” the lady behind the counter says to me. “Not that fingerprints are ever erased, it’s just they don’t register anymore. But we also see this in people like you who have undergone chemo.”

And it somehow strikes me that she hasn’t tagged me as an old person but as someone who has undergone intense treatment.

On Saturday, I travel to Rotterdam. I’m headed there to support the project called Project Take Away. Take Away started as a neighbourhood initiative led by friends Marielle and her partner at ook_huis. It’s a lovely initiative which started with refugees and neighbours coming together to share coffee and talk about coffee and different ways of making coffee and as time progressed it evolved into something more. To celebrate their third year, Take Away released a book documenting three years of work. It’s an impressive volume with beautiful images but most importantly it reflects the vibrant life of this group of people who have been working together, caring for this community and for the neighbourhood and growing into this rich and beautiful art collective.

I think of how we forget the power of small movements like these. How practicing care in the community setting is a radical act in a society that’s grown more and more disjointed and disconnected. It’s not the size of the movement that matters, that we are doing a movement with intention is what matters. The intention drives the movement, drives momentum and leads to change.

I think of how these small movements are so vital when it comes to changing perceptions. When it comes to changing how we see each other and when it comes to making space and holding space for one another. I understand the antipathy that exists on one side of society towards asylumseekers, but I also want society to understand that if it were possible to live humanly where they are, people would not be seeking asylum. Living means more than surviving, living means being able to grow and thrive and fulfil your potential as a human being. This is why we can’t turn our backs or close our eyes to the circumstances that cause people to flee the countries of their birth.

It’s callous to say: ‘go back to where you came from’, when we don’t know the full story.

After the meeting at the Take Away space, we traveled to where Marielle was holding a reading/talk around a book she’d collaborated on together with the artist Chen Yun. This book, titled 51 Personae:Tarwewijk was five years in the making. It’s a unique and beautiful work documenting walks around the Rotterdam neighbourhood of Tarwewijk. What I love most about this work is how in the final publication, it contains the text from these walks in Dutch, English and Chinese. Not on separate pages, but these texts exist side by side on the same page or as extensions of each other.

It made me think of how it’s beautifully representative of the multicultural nature of society and how the world is made up of many different people speaking many different languages and there is room for all of us to live side by side.

Copies of this book are available at Available & The Rat.

I feel like I should write a little bit more about Available & The Rat, but I will do so another time. It’s a space that’s definitely worth visiting.

Spring is in the air. Out in the garden, things are growing. Our prunus tree has grown a bit more sturdy and is spreading out its arms. From the small seat by the water, I have a lovely view of back gardens with tulips coming up, a magnolia tree in bloom and a cherry blossom tree.

I have resolved to go and sit out beside the water as much as I can. For now, I’m ending this lengthy post.

Take some time out of your busy schedule to just sit and reflect on how you want to greet this new season. Life brings with it unexpected things, but when you take time to connect to what’s strong in you, you won’t be easily shaken.

Blessings and peace to you who read this and thank you for dropping by.