New every morning. 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

All I wanted was to live a life where I could be me, and be okay with that. I had no need for material possessions, money or even close friends with me on my journey. I never understood people very well anyway, and they never seemed to understand me very well either. All I wanted was my art and the chance to be the creator of my own world, my own reality. I wanted the open road and new beginnings every day.

– Charlotte Eriksson

I remember a time in my life I honestly believed that I got to try again tomorrow. I’m not saying be an idiot and then all is forgiven when the sun comes up. 

A new day would emerge where transgressions were not a well indexed encyclopaedia. I got to try again without question as the sun came up. I’ve not felt that way for well over a decade. 

Peace. Acceptance. Happiness. Fulfillment. Love. 

You cannot find everlasting hunger, fed and satisfied by humanity. There is no solution to be found inside others. People are flawed, they are human. Their mood and emotions blow as the wind. It is the nature of the beast. The wind blows intermittently. Unpredictable. Storm and sunshine. 

The Bible speaks about “New mercies every day”, “Come to me all who are heavy burdened and I will give you rest.” While I cannot pledge myself as a devoted Christian, I do believe that if once you were held in the palm of God’s hand, that He will not let you go. I find a strange comfort in that. A solitude. He knows my name. Inscribed in His hand, I will find rest,… eventually. 

I’ve read the Bible. I can quote scripture. I grew up with a strong Biblical background. My grandfather is a Pastor. This is not saying much as the devil is quite proficient in scripture himself. I do not often speak about religion because I do not live in a glasshouse. I am not fond of stones. 

I attempt to act in kindness, acceptance, toletance and love. I do not always succeed. I try. I am flawed. I run with the wind. I’m human. 

I wish you enough, 

Wenchy

This is her story.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

This post was written by Cara who needed a platform to let out her feelings about a baby girl she miscarried when she was 17 years old.

To my unborn child

I remember the day I met you and lost you all at once like it was burnt into the back of my mind with a hot poker. I remember thinking to myself that there is something wrong with me for not knowing you were there and for not being able to keep you there.

I am truly sorry for not listening to my body when the signs were there, and doing something when I did, instead of finding excuses.

But thank you. Thank you for the miracle and the adventure that you turned out to be. You showed me who I am, that I am not made of glass and taught me how to stand tall. You taught me how to stand up again when I couldn’t even find the strength to breath.

The thought of you is what has moulded me into the person I am today. The memory of you is my greatest inspiration.

I can say will full honesty that if it wasn’t for the loss of you, I would be a law student, fiancé or friend that I am today.

Your father wouldn’t be the man he is today, and I have never been more proud of who is and who he continues to grow into.

I love you with my whole heart and I miss you every day.

To my best friend and the father of my child

People have accused me of being many things but the mother to your child will be my greatest honour, no matter how many times it is said with the intention of using it as a weapon. No matter what, you will always be my greatest adventure, and I’m sorry it had to end this way.

There are many times that I regret how you found out that the only child you will ever have, is gone. I never regret that it happened though.

That is the thing about idolising someone so much. You dehumanise that person, creating something of a demigod. You could do no wrong. And it took the greatest tragedy for that to change. But im glad it did.

You have the most amazing fiancé that wouldn’t still be around if you hadn’t gone through the horror story of us. If you didn’t break down. If you didn’t show your vulnerable side. And im really glad you did.

To the fiancé

I will never be able to explain to you how deeply and truly thankful I am for looking after my angel boy. He will always be my first love and the person I go when things are bad, but I am grateful he has someone as strong and kind-hearted as you by his side building him back up in a way that nobody else ever could. I am sorry you had to go through the wreckage but I am truly grateful you stayed. You are the biggest blessing of this whole thing. Thank you for being the person who put all his pieces back together. Thank you for making him the man he is today. I’m sorry you got caught in the shrapnel. My heart will never be able to show you the gratitude for the guardian angel you have become and remain.

To the girl in the hospital room alone.

I want you to know there is nothing wrong with you, and you are in no way alone. This is a tragedy but it’s not the end. There is no amount of time that could change it and there is nothing that can be said to make it easier. But know that there is most definitely nothing wrong with you.

We live in a society where it has become normal to speak about traumatic events and the after effects but it’s not ok to speak up about a phenomenon that is happening in almost every household. The loss of a child.

1 in 4 pregnancies result in a miscarriage. There is nothing wrong with you. You are not alone.

You will learn to smile again without your hand drifting to your stomach and you will learn how to walk down the baby aisle without freezing and becoming starstruck at the possibility of something that was taken away from you.

You are allowed to grieve and mourn. Most importantly, don’t forget to breathe.

To my future husband.

I was 17 when it happened and the impact from the womb exploding has made it one of about 20 reasons why I will never be able to have children ever again. I am sorry.

I sit on the bed and I listen to the stories of how you will teach your son to play cricket. How to be a gamer worth of the internet, how your daughter will learn to play ballet.She will thave my eyes, your cheek bones and will be an angel.

Never lose hope. I am sorry you had to sacrifice the greatest gift on earth without having the choice to do it. I will never stop trying to make it up to you.

To the girl staring back at me in the mirror.

The stretch marks that now mark your body in places that live as reminders will soon be badges of pride. You will learn how to love yourself with them.

Your hair will frizz and curl in new and exciting ways than before, embrace the crown that frames your face.

The chubby cheeks and the soft edges around your curves is your new and improved body armour. You are a warrior and this is your battle. A battle you have already won.

You are alive and you are breathing.

Cara

Some of my best friends are male, but… 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

If you also feel like you have seen better days on multiple levels, offer to be the host of a hole at a golf day! 😆

I tell you, you will be reformed… okay you will at very least be amused, at worst, feel you need a bath. 

The young men, round my older kids age, so early twenties will call you “Tannie” Very respectful,  but then there is always one joker in the group.  Said joker will look at you innocently and will ask you if you have 69 tees in the bowl. 

Ag nee! I was just going to congratulate your parents on your good manners!… to which you will respond “Nee Ouboet. 42 is the meaning of life, 69 is entertainment, neither are the number of tees in the bowl.
The friends of the boy with the big mouth will laugh at how the “Tannie” just told the big mouth “waar Jacob die wortels begrawe het.” The joker will look at you sheepish and mumble “Sorry Tannie.” Ja my kind. Moenie so dof wees nie. 
… but the older (married) men I found much worse… They speak as if you are not present and then, when they finally devote their attention to you… you wish they didn’t. 

I would be delighted if I got paid to answer where all my tattoos are located. “Wys ons bietjie?” So common, ek voel skaam vir hulle, hulle se vrouens om nie eers oor hulle ouers te praat nie! 

Would you like it if men spoke to your daughter like that? Sexual innuendo and fist pumps. 

I honestly got asked if my breast is also tattooed or would I like it to be? Those are some of the less sexual slanted comments. 

Do men only do this when they run in packs? It is seldom that I’ve met a man on his own “wat hom so varklik gedra“. 

I wish you enough,
Wenchy

“And In That Moment I Swear We Were Infinite” 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Ouma’s room felt calm with soft light… she looked worse and better then I imagined – making no sense at all I am. She is nothing like the woman she use to be, but when I lay down beside her, she took my face in her hands and I felt like heaven had just touched me.

It was the most incredible soft, lingering, tender, loving feeling of adoration that came from her. Sweeping movement of her soft hand on my hair… such comfort I have not felt. She is the one dying and yet I felt she was giving to me… I was enough. I WAS ENOUGH!!

She spoke every now and again a few audible sentences… she said she is happy with the life she has had, that she loves me, that I am a ‘dierbare kind’… she told Noid that she raised me from the time I was one month old… that she was so happy when I was born that she cried for weeks… she said I was her first grandchild and her favourite, she told me over and over again how happy she is to see me, she asked if I was happy with Noid and if we will get married.. she asked me if he will look after me.. she specifically asked to see Kevin.. my heart was sore for him because him and I did this together not so long ago with Oupa…. She said she is so glad that I came, she loves me.. I said I love her and thank you for everything and and and ….and all the while I didn’t want her to stop touching me.  It was the most tender and intense love I have felt in a very long time – as in overwhelming complete peace and contentment – healing. I wanted to drink it in and have it run smoothly inside my body, fill me up with tenderness and love. It was beautiful.

I never want to forget how I felt. Ever.

It does not matter to me what is physically wrong with my gran. I don’t mind her dying because I saw her LIVE.  I don’t know if she will be with us for a few more hours, days or weeks… I feel content in knowing that she loves me and that I love her and that’s enough. I will miss her so much, but I am so glad she was my Ouma Chrissie… and the person who I slept next to, holding her hand for the first eleven years of my life.

When we got home, I lay in the darkness. Craving the silence, seeking that contentment, I climbed under the dovet in an effort to feel more ‘protected’ – snug – a hug almost .. . I closed my eyes and pretended the fan was raindrops and that I could almost smell the cinnamon from the pancakes.

As the wind blew the curtain, I hoped there was a life after this one… one in which Ouma will find Oupa waiting and they will once again walk hand in hand as they did for 57 years.

“Love is stronger than death even though it can’t stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can’t separate people from love. It can’t take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.” – Unknown

Written 11 Feb 2009… Ouma died on the 7th of March 2009, and was buried on this day, 14 March 2009.

I wish you enough,

Wenchy

♡ “And In That Moment I Swear We Were Infinite” is a memorable quote from the 1999 coming-of-age novel “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” by Stephen Chbosky. It is one of my favourite books ever.♡

From  Koesiestes to Kneidlach

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Tayla-Jade and I saw Chantal Stanfield in her new play at Auto & General Theatre on the Square “From  Koesiestes to Kneidlach” last night.

The true story of how the girl from the Cape Flats met and married a good Jewish boy, RJ Benjamin, living happily ever after, one Shabbat meal at a time.

It is absolutely delightful! Relatable. Funny. Romantic. Current. A personal, truthful and vulnerable performance by the talented Chantal.

Highly recommended !

You can follow #K2K on Twitter :

  • @KoesKneidlach
  • @chantalstan
  • @TheatreOnSquare

I wish you enough,

Wenchy

Bacon.  The story of a pig. 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

It started when the x person and I bought a house just after my 18th birthday. I realised I could have a party! 

Hosting a party carried on into my second marriage, where it became more church and family focussed. Gatherings,  afternoon teas and surprise parties.  I remember my (step)  Dad’s dad,  Oupa Bert saying I was the most gracious hostess ever and what a treat it was to visit. 

My childrens birthday parties were well attended,  every detail perfectly planned celebrations. As soon as a party was finished,  the birthday boy or girl would start planning their next birthday party. It was something I excelled at. I loved it. 

Then the sickness came.  May 2011. 

Since our move from estate living, where the river ran through it, to urban living in an area for the newly weds and the nearly deads, @SirNoid and I had totally stopped entertaining at home. 

Our previous residence saw me effortlessly inviting fifty of our closest friends for a catered chef cooked meal to perfectly cooked steaks by the resident chef, @SirNoid. 

Any reason I could ever come up with would warrant a dinner party.  My Mammie said to me she has no idea from whom I got this “let’s entertain!” flair from, but I loved it. My Mammie is a very private person and doesn’t need people the way I do. 

The only thing I miss about having a big house with a garden to groom and a pool to keep blue, is the space to entertain. 

Yet….. Do I want a big house again? I don’t think so. The rain would have turned the garden into a jungle and the pool into a swamp. I did not enjoy having to colour chart those things.  

I love that we can pretty much “lock up and go”. I have no security fears where we live. We have enough space not to share a bathroom, and @SirNoid still has a “man cave” to smoke in. 

Now our entertainment is meeting our friends at restaurants (without play areas). Watching a football match in a pub and drinks before a show. Movies and arranged events. 

The circle of life. The difference between raising a family and being a couple in the urban jungle? 

Oh yes. I need to buy bacon. 

I wish you enough, 

Wenchy 

Some walks you take alone. 

Dear Kev, Liam James and Victoria, 

It was Mother’s Day. Taken during a time I never want to revisit. Yet, we somewhat smiling. We always did try. 

As a person, but specifically as your Mom, my faults are immense. Some of my actions over many years,  I cannot comprehend or explain, yet you have loved me. You have tried to understand, when I myself could not.

The days I shouted instead of listening, when I was preoccupied instead of present, fell apart instead of being strong, put what I thought I wanted before what you needed – I am deeply sorry. My regrets are many. 

You have been my joy and celebration in life. You have been an anchor I do not think I always deserve. 

You have not had an easy life. Especially Kev who as the eldest, had to experience my every flaw. Two divorces, three marriages, expectations met and dreams broken. You have overcome and I am very proud of each of you for very different reasons. 

I always wanted to be a Mom. Always. I wish I had known how totally unprepared I was… or how inadequate I would still feel sometimes now. 

Some walks I have had to take alone, as it should be. 
While life may not always have been cookies from scratch, jungle gyms and laughter…. know that I have always loved you and that nothing you do could ever make me not love you in abundance. 

You may not always have liked me, but you have always loved me… that relationship dynamic kinda folds back on itself. Forever we are linked. Always interchanging. 

I miss you all so much today there is a physical ache in my chest. You growing up was never a thought. What happened Peter Pan?

I love you more than Strawberry Pops and Country Music. 

Nancy, Mother, Momma 💜

What is a blogger? 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I have found it more and more difficult to align myself with the Blogging community as a whole. It has been a struggle between wanting to fit in, run with the cool kids, or my more inherent need to be recognised for who I am and my belief of what a Blogger is. Maybe I will just declare myself the cool kid. 

I have never fitted into a genre and there is no niche to my writing, except that I write my truth. My personal, human experience. Joyful or destroying. 

What was an online journal to many has turned into a Digital Marketing space. In my mind Blogging is personal. Marketing is selling. Makes sense?

I have endorsed products, places and people on this blog. I have never endorsed anything that is not truthful to me, but marketing on my blog is not #wenchytude. Authenticity is #wenchytude. Forgive me as wrap my mind around being both.
Is it authentic to tell you about a show I loved (#WestSideStorySA at Joburg Theatre is a must see. It excites my soul to *feel* the music.) or the truth about a restaurant I visited or movie I saw? What products I enjoy using or which book I think you should all read?

Off course it is. I was doing this by nature long before Twitter or Facebook came to be. Before stats,  sponsored content and rate cards.

Having an online presence and being called a “Social Media Influencer” certainly has exposed me to greater experiences, people and places. I am extremely grateful and humbled.  A tad in awe when being partnered with a brand, invited to Social Media events, meeting people I admire and visit destinations I may never have enjoyed otherwise. I’ve been incredibly blessed and I am very thankful. 

@SirNoid constantly reminds me that at times my wonder at it all, has left me vulnerable to my online space being exploited, that my time, effort and personal brand has worth in the digital arena. 

I acknowledge that I’ve worked hard at my personal brand. Perhaps because I enjoy being the Diva,  I do not always recognise what I do, as “work”?  

I will go forth believing I am one of the lucky few who get to do what they love, and love what they do. What an exciting time to be alive! 

I shall grow with the changing times, while keeping it real. I still identify Blogging as being a writer at the core. For me the tipping point remains authentic content, not forced to a schedule and truthful reflection. 

Not having published a book, I feel I cannot claim a stake at that exclusive word. Writer. 

Perhaps, it is time?

I wish you enough,

Wenchy

Watch “In the Heart of the Sea” on @mnetmovies NOW! 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

I have a hamper of goodies for the M-net Sunday night movie tonight, “ In the Heart of the Sea ” to give away! 

In 1820, crewmen (Chris Hemsworth, Benjamin Walker, Cillian Murphy) aboard the New England vessel Essex face a harrowing battle for survival when a whale of mammoth size and strength attacks with force, crippling their ship and leaving them adrift in the ocean. Pushed to their limits and facing storms, starvation, panic and despair, the survivors must resort to the unthinkable to stay alive. Their incredible tale ultimately inspires author Herman Melville to write “Moby-Dick.”
Answer the follow question:  Which book did Herman Melville write,  inspired by the tale depicted in the movie?

Please enter the competition in the comment section below with a proper  e-mail address and the correct answer to the above. 🐳 Entries close on Wednesday evening! 

I wish you enough, 
Wenchy 

Darkness my peculiar friend.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Being afraid of the dark did not come with Pappie’s death in 1984. I’d never been comfortable in the dark. I feared what I could not see.

Growing up with my Ouma Chrissie and my Oupa Mike I slept next to my Ouma on a mattress on the floor. She would hold my hand until she fell asleep. It had nothing to do with poverty or lack of space. My Ouma had grown up in an orphanage and without meaning any harm, projected her need for comfort onto me. A co-dependant, very loving and caring relationship followed. She said the day I was born was the happiest day of her life. Imagine being loved so deeply.

The passage light was always left on at night. Oupa Mike got up at 3am daily to leave to work on the mine. His former racing pigeon clock stood in the passage on the floor so he could see it from the bed. There was no alarm, but Oupa always left on time.

With pride I am the keeper of the much loved clock in my family.

On windy nights I could hear the door going into the garage workspace banging. It scared me. I asked Oupa why he doesn’t fix the banging door. Oupa winked and said the door isn’t worrying anyone, so why am I worrying about the door? It was the wind that was my problem, not the door. 🙄

After Pappie died and I came to live with my Mammie and my sister in the city, the darkness held new fears. I was eleven years old. I desperately wanted to dream about Pappie, I didnt want to forget him, but was petrified he would appear to me at night. Like a ghost. I was scared my Mammie may die and I did not know how to reach my Grandparents. Life as I knew it, had changed forever.

A lot of therapy and money later I now know that the feelings I experienced was quite normal for a child of my age.

It was the first time in my life I had to sleep in my own room. My anxiety intensified. Every day held new experiences in the big city of gold. All I wanted was to go home! There was no return, so I had to cope and thrive …. and quickly.

I didn’t tell anyone about my feelings. I didn’t want to be a problem. My Mammie was heartbroken over my Pappie’s death. It is only now as an adult that I realised she was only 30 years old at the time! They were so young.

My sleeping habits didn’t improve. Instead of the banging door and counting the hours on Oupa’s clock, I now listened to the muffled sound of my Mammie crying. It was not a good time for anyone.

I’m 43 years old now. My anxiety remains my most faithful companion, but I’m no longer afraid of the dark. The darkness is now a place to hide tears, a space I can think my thoughts without an audience. Somehow the dark holds a sacred silence… weird because the inner city life is alive at all hours.

I don’t know why it changed exactly. I think it was when my Oupa Mike died, very peacefully of old age, almost a decade ago.

Standing next to.his open grave, I clearly remember thinking, this was my worst day. If I can make it through that day, I can face any day, or night that followed.

It is only now, when a lie awake in the dark of night while my mind wonders and visit the triumphs in my life, the dissapointments and often the self loathing for things I cannot forgive myself for, that I know the sun will rise again.

The night is only so long.

I wish you enough

Wenchy