Un-settling down.

As kids, right when we were in the thick of running wild and having the time of our lives, an adult would walk in and ask us to settle down.

Settle down, or you’ll hurt yourself.

Settle down, and stop making a mess.

Settle down, it’s getting too loud in here.

Just. Settle. Down.

Settle BB

When we left our home in Melbourne almost a year ago, we were very excited to start a new adventure. It took a record-breaking 3 days for the question to burst out of tightly clenched lips: When do you plan to settle down?

We had no plans whatsoever. We just wanted to enjoy being free. But as responsible adults, we simply must not feel free for too long. We must settle down.

For someone who doesn’t have commitment issues, I have major settling-down issues. There’s something very permanent and dreary about that word.

Yes, I’ll set up our home, get our lives into some semblance of a routine, and maybe even plan ahead for our next meal (I’m not making any promises). We all need to do that. It’s called being an adult. But settling down simply cannot be the only way to adult.

Nope. Turns out, it isn’t.

My Facebook feed is rife with stories about “This Couple Travelled The World With Their Toddler” and “Follow This Amazing Family As They Drive From Your Neighbourhood To Where You Don’t Have The Guts To Go.”

They’re farking heroes, these people. Why can’t I be part of The Couple That Visited 20 Countries In 6 Months With Their Babies?

Not gutsy enough? Perhaps.

Not my cup of Carpe Diem? That’s more like it.

I’d love to see the world, but I’m not an impassioned traveller with a wanderlust tattoo on my ankle and a world map as my screen saver. I’m fascinated with the world, and I hope to live in different places and visit many more. In my own sweet time.

On one end, it’s been drilled into us that we need to find a comfortable spot and stay. So we work hard every day to get to that glorious finish line; some days, we question the finish line, but persevere none the less. Because for many, success equates with happiness.

On the other end, it’s is being drilled into us to drop everything we’re doing and go live our life! Because for many others, experience equates with happiness.

But who’s to say what my life should be? I’m not settling for someone else’s dream. And you shouldn’t have to either.

Stay where you are. Pack up and leave. Buy that house. Take a one-way ticket to the other end of the world. Make a baby. Throw a rooftop party.

Just. Don’t. Settle. Down.

Settle JL

So my answer is: No. Even if we find our dream jobs, perfect home and stay for 20 years, I hope we don’t settle down. I hope we’re still restless and looking forward to our next big adventure.

My rainy day

I reach out into the open, spreading my fingers wide to catch a few drops of the light drizzle. Some long-forgotten force pushes me out from under my protective cover into the drizzle. 

The soft rain drops fall on my cheeks and finger tips, and after a very long time I’m not worried about running for cover. To protect my hair, my bag or my precious shoes. This time, I’d like to give in to my free spirit and keep my superficiality locked away, instead. 

Not many things compare to the blind joy of running into rain. Rainwater falling over your hair and trickling onto your face before seeping in and leaving your hair in the happiest bunch of clumps. Cold, squishy toes. Little stubborn droplets that refuse to flow off your shoulders. 
 

Photo cred: m @rnanoj

 

During our summer holidays in India, on the first sign of rain we’d be outside. It was a privilege beyond permission or fear of pneumonia. We danced under the open sky and jumped in puddles and found corners of the house where the water collected and poured down in a rush. We made paper boats with wet fingers and watched them awkwardly catch the wind and dodge raindrops, in the shallow puddles. We fell over each other laughing, we shook water off the plants, we drank in every drop of the fun. 

Oh the freedom! 

I think I just had an “Aha!” moment. 

Correction: a “Doh!” moment.

I reminisce about the glories of my younger days as if someone took them away from me. Obviously, and embarrassingly, I’m the idiot who permitted limits and fears into my head. In my pitiful effort to hold on to aforementioned glories, I temporarily forgot how to have real fun.

We say it’s the little moments, yet we waste these precious moments waiting for that big one. 

We know it’s the thought that counts, but we make-do with a brand-spanking-new phone.

We want to laugh till our sides ache, but cynicism. 

We love talking to the people who make us happy, but we can’t find time to talk to them.

Geez.

I suddenly wish the drizzle would turn into rain. And maybe if I step into it, it could wash away some of the faux grown-up-ness and the carry-on bullshit excuses. 

Live a lot, ya’ll! 

Happy New Year!

If you’re happy and you know it, click the link!

I’m still figuring out how to use WordPress and it’s awesome features. Like, tagging. It’s like hashtagging, but for people who are just not cool enough. So you list the key words along the side panel like a good little child.

Yesterday, I also discovered that you could see the most highly searched-for tag.

And there it was: Happy.

How cool is that?

We’re all looking for happy. We’re trying to find it, keep it, create it, spread it, share it and reinstate it.

 

smiley

“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.”

                                                                                                                          John Lennon

In books and movies, it’s all so clear to us. If only the heroine would pick the life that makes her happy. If only the hero could see the woman who truly makes him happy.

Isn’t it obvious? In the mad rush to get to work, pick up after the kids and catch up with friends, we see ourselves as extras who provide comic relief or a side story to someone else’s life.

We need to be the protagonist. The one who turns heads. The one for whom all the stars align. The one who gets the guy or the girl or the job or the throne or freedom.

Make today the day that you, the hero/heroine, have that “A-ha!” moment and go for life. Catch that flight, call that person, quit your job, get that other job (because bills), sign up, sign out, let go, give it a go, start thinking about it, stop thinking about it.

tick

Back in the day, I was one of those annoying optimist with an I-just-found-God smile plastered across my face. What was there to be unhappy about?

Loving crazy family, check.

Coolest friends ever, check.

Good food, check.

Safe home, check.

Healthy body, check.

Active mind, check.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, none of this is good enough. Not loving enough, not friendly enough, not healthy enough. And that’s ok. Contrary to what I thought when I was younger, you can’t just snap out of it. It takes time and thought, and that’s what makes your joy last longer.

When it’s not good enough, re-check your list and find happy.

 

flag 

I’m guilty of internally fighting happiness.

It’s not the same, we say. Same as what? When we were young, carefree and sans responsibilities?

School days would come with asking for permission to step out of the house, asking for pocket money, having a curfew, explaining ourselves, and exams.

Pre-baby years would mean, firstly, no cuddles and kisses from the little person you created. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, the way looks pretty empty. As much as I loved my life before my son, I don’t feel like erasing him just right now. Let’s chat when he’s giving me a migraine. Besides, back then we wanted to go back to being children and being loved unconditionally.

Nothing is ever going to be perfect forever, and that’s just perfect. Learn to love the low lows as you do the high highs. Happiness may come under the guise of a lacklustre old relationship or a predictable lifestyle.

love

We’re so consumed by this globe-trotting, sky-diving image of Carpe Diem, that we think anything less means we’re not nearly as happy as we should be. I enjoy travelling and seeing new places, but it’s not my calling like it is for many others. And that doesn’t make me any less happy than they are.

Yet, no matter how level-headed some of us claim to be, there’s a pang of jealously when we see stupidly happy photos on Facebook. Of people living it up, travelling the world, having the perfect relationship and eating the best food across the world.

We tell ourselves that it’s just a photo and we don’t know anything about their troubles and worries. (I do hope the people in them are really stupidly happy.)

My loves, choices and dreams brought me to where I am right now, as yours did for you. I wouldn’t change any of them, which makes this life pretty damn special.

There are a lot of people who lose sight of their loves or are given no choice or have their dreams shattered by war, illness, disasters and cruelty. I’m not saying count your blessings. But make your blessings count.

If all we have today is rushing to work, crawling in traffic, picking up after the kids and paying bills, it’s where we really, really wanted to be. And it’s ok to change your mind, but while you think about it, try to enjoy the ride. Smile.

If you’re happy and you know it, dwell on it!

Look at me, I’m hideous!

I looked at my reflection in the mirror this morning and was heartbroken with the head that stared back at me. A crown of glossy jet-black hair rudely sat atop my head. Black hair that was steadily replacing my halo of gorgeous teal hair.

Teal hair that used to be vibrant blue. Sometimes Jared Leto’s Joker green. Other times shimmering aqua. And once, a madness of blue, green, purple and mint. Teal hair that once made me thrilled to find a stray hair in my food.

And now the blackness that is cruelly tearing through my scalp and spreading through my glory like hay amongst a rainbow orchard, is threatening to eat away at my very core.

Believe me, I’ve toned down the drama.

I’m unsure about a lot of things, mostly pertaining to myself.

I’m a copywriter with an unreasonable fear of words. I’m a Gen-X-er who can’t hashtag or vine (that’s a verb, right? I just made it worse, didn’t I?). I’m a mum experimenting with my very own Jon Snow Parenting. My lower half is half a dress size larger than my upper half, which is testament to how deep my confusion runs.

Through all of this, the one thing I’m sure of is my hair. Even when I hate it, I hate it indubitably. When I love it, you’ll know.

So when I fell madly in love with a shade of blue, I knew exactly where to put it.

Two days of strand tests and six hours of bleaching, colouring and toning later, there I was, blue as the day Cookie Monster was born. No amount of ‘feeling blue’ puns could drag me down from the blue-sky-high (sorry) perch I was perched on. I could barely tear myself away from the mirror. For days afterwards, I couldn’t wipe the blue dye off my nape or the big grin off my face.

bluenette

Photo credit: M @rnanoj

Five months later, as the black crept in and started edging out the blue, I turned the whole thing blue, green and purple.

I was on a high. The kind of high where it’s not only possible, but it’s also poetic to see My Little Pony, Little Mermaid and a 90’s Troll doll in a psychotic threesome on my head.

hairey

Photo credit: The beautiful Indu @quirkyeye

But, people! People have so many questions to shake you out of your high.

“Are you tying to stand out?”

“Are you trying to fit in?”

“Mid-life crisis?”

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

“How bored/drunk were you?”

“What statement are you making?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?

Lucky for me, I don’t need to answer them. You see, they’re all rhetorical questions and the questioners have already made up their minds.

Here’s my question: Why isn’t “because I felt like it” an acceptable answer? Everyone wants a story. A Carpe Diem moment of clarity when I decided it’s now or never. A drunken misadventure. A calling. A lost bet.

I’ve got none of that. Just a woman-child and her desire to have peacock cotton-candy hair.

Try as I may (I don’t), I cannot peel my eyes off myself. In photos with my sweet child, I zoom past him to analyse the scintillating shades of blue and green in my hair. Every elevator ride turns into an exercise in self-admiration and every mirror reflection into a fascinating work of art.

The many colours in my hair are so mesmerising that strangers on the street walk into one another staring at me, so why can’t I lose myself in it?

When babies spend forever admiring their reflection in the mirror, it’s called self-awareness. When I do it, it’s vanity.

Like Carrie Bradshaw would’ve asked: Why is it impossible for us to absolutely, unequivocally adore ourselves?

This isn’t a serious issue like feminism or body image; it’s about not taking yourself too seriously. About doing what makes you feel good. About loving what you see in the mirror because it’s fun and it makes you smile. About being your own pick-me-up.

Sometimes, superficial is the way to go. Do because it’s pretty; it makes you laugh; it makes you pay attention to yourself for a minute longer; it’ll make a damn good story someday.

And when the colours fade, makeup washes off and magic underwear stretches out, it’s just you. The you that dared to colour, toiled to makeup and held your breath long enough to squeeze into that underwear. You didn’t just love the superficial, you loved it on you.

Which is why I’ve decided to embrace the black as a new and intrusive shade in my hair (as of the last 3 minutes). It adds character. Plus I’m an ocean away from my hairdresser and I don’t want to think about it. And even at 40% colour, my hair is always greener on my side.

Rama

No mother should ever have to bury her child.

Before she turned 60, Radha buried her first born, her precious boy. Before she turned 70, Radha buried her youngest son, her little baby. Her husband stood by her side the first time, and on the other side the second time. Long before that, she lost her youngest one at birth, and almost lost herself with it.

She stood outside her body and watched as her mind slipped in and out of sanity. She watched as daughters-in-law were widowed and grandchildren were left without their father. She watched her two heart-broken children left behind grapple with one hard blow after another. She ached for them, she ached for herself and she ached and she ached.

Then she got up, rearranged the cushions and went to check if dinner was set.

Life tried to break her, and life lost.

No one radiates as much hope and belief in life as Rama does. Her eyes shine with the kind of love that we all crave, all-consuming, fierce and loyal. Her smile has a curiosity and mischief that is unheard of in women her age and situation. Her hands, her bejewelled hands are comforting like that’s their only purpose and purposeful because that’s what comforts her. The food that appears at the end of her magical wand-like hands could solve world peace if only she had the time for it. A heady mixture of Fair & Lovely Fairness Cream and Ponds Talcum Powder announces Radha’s arrival into the room and lingers on long after she leaves. The mattress under her, the clothes on her and the air around her carry the scent like a halo. The halo only a real human can carry. Her superhuman strength is carefully wrapped in delicate silks and diamonds. Her mind is always racing, her feet not far behind.

I must confess, as I write these words, I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I promise you, I have a story to share.

 

Rama

Her name is Radha, and she lets me call her Rama.

Rama is far from perfect but everything she does is. She makes friends, enemies, memories and mistakes in a minute. She feels love, hate, joy and pain with an unparalleled intensity. She dislikes dirty places, people and words. Her saris are starched and spotless and timeless. If it smells sweet, looks lovely and tastes good, she’ll accept it. She chases a fly out of her home with the same ferocity with which she welcomes a compliment. She is superficial and sincere in the same breath. She’s generous with her time and attention, but her special brand of blind love is reserved only for her siblings, children and grandchildren.

Nothing gives Rama more joy than seeing her family together. She never shushes or restricts kids from running wild. She’ll get us afterwards though, to scrub off the dirt before we step into her heaven (not haven), her home.

The home her husband and children built for her is her everything. The fact that her husband and eldest son never made it past the housewarming only makes her home a heaven more than ever.

She was treated like a princess till the day she wed, and like a queen every day after. Her home is her palace and she rules fairly.

The rooms are cushioned with music and sunlight, kitchen bursting with aromas, veranda decorated with flower pots and backyard with freshly washed clothes. Not a bowl out of place, not a cushion, not even a sound.

Remember how I said she rules fairly? Not if something is out of place. In the event of such monstrosity, there’s a very small chance that she will quietly go about putting it back in order. Rama has a – how do I put this mildly – she’s a control freak, a cleanliness freak and a broken record when it comes to running her home.

If you’re on an overseas call with her, she’ll put you on hold in order to fluff the cushions. She never entrusts anyone else to clean her bathroom, she does it herself every day, and believe me when I say you can eat off the floor in there. A Dettol cloud surrounds everything and the silverware doubles as mirrors. Her little army of housekeepers work with a steadfast loyalty that you can only get from an iron-fist wrapped in duck-down feather and glitter.

It was in this home that Rama taught me my first and only bedtime prayer. Together, we prayed that we would have sweet dreams and wake up early with fresh hopes and dreams for a better day. We prayed that we would be kind and respectful. We prayed for ill relatives and travelling neighbours and the homeless people we couldn’t help. We prayed for peace and happiness and love.

We didn’t pray to a God with a name. We prayed as a reminder to ourselves, to wake up as better versions of who we were that day.

Then I fell asleep, her prayers and arms keeping me safe.

That was when I was a child and she was my fairy grandmother.

A million lifetimes later, she falls asleep safe in my prayers and arms.

I move into an apartment in the city with Rama during college, and she takes about 32 seconds making the place hers. While I was away growing up and figuring out who I was, Rama perfected her unique brand of her-ness.

She brings along her little army of housekeepers and her her-way-or-the-highway-ness. She hates being away from her home, but she is unbreakable in her optimism. Deaths in the family and near-death health scares for herself and her loved ones can’t shake her faith. In rare moments of solitude when she lets herself reminisce, you can see it. You can see it in the way her fingertips touch her face, you can see it in her soft, faraway eyes. Raw, agonising pain.

On nights that I stay up late, I find her asleep with her arm reaching across the empty bed as if to clutch the husband, babies and siblings she lost and the family that’s scattered far and wide.

Born into a family of 9 children, alone was not a common feeling. Married to the eldest among 8, she instantly doubled her family. Then she built her own brood with 3 boys and a girl. Then there were in-laws and their families. She lost count after the 6 grand children; nothing else mattered.

These are the numbers that run through her head when she lies in bed at night. These are the numbers she aches for. These are the numbers that give her strength. She counts and recounts, wondering where so many of the numbers have vanished.

She wakes next morning, full of fresh dreams and hopes for a better day.

These are some of the many memories of Rama deeply cemented in my heart. There’s no obvious storyline here. No moral. Just that no matter how small or short life is, make your mark and leave your scent, so people speak of you as if you never left us 11 years ago.

The refugee crisis within

Refugee

We’ve been in transit for seven months now, in search of our next big adventure. I keep trying to document my feelings about it, and I keep coming back to the same thought.

Imagine stepping out of your comfort zone, away from all that is familiar and routine. Every morning, you wake up not knowing what’s in store for the day; whether this is the day you fulfil your dreams and live to tell the tale.

While we’re venturing out into the unknown to live out our dreams, it’s gut-wrenching to see people forced to run away from their homes in search of life. Not a better life, but life.

Now re-read the second paragraph.

I’ve been moving around so much it’s been hard for me to follow the refugee crisis on the news, but I follow Humans of New York and somehow HONY’s stories of the refugees is all that I needed to see. No political games, no war machines, no power struggles. Just people like you and me, real and unedited, scared and lost.

We were labelled refugees once. When we fled from Kuwait during the gulf war.

I was born and raised in Kuwait, it was the only home I had ever known. It was my normal. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. My friends, teachers and home. All mine. All tossed aside like some inconsequential childish fantasy.

Two months into our 3-month summer break, I remember waking up to see my family standing outside the apartment, staring and pointing into the distance. We’re not a quiet bunch, my family, and yet that morning you could hear the smoke rising in the distance.

After that, everything was a haze. Spending nights together with family and friends couped up in a deserted top-storey apartment. Playing cards and board games, watching movies, reading books and eating junk – it was a week of slumber parties. It was the only place my parents could find to hide their little girls.

I remember my last glance into the home I was born into. The soft brown carpet, the cream wallpaper and my Barbie refrigerator filled with Barbie shoes that didn’t make it into any bag. There was a big warm glow in the middle of the living room, like sunlight that got trapped inside when the windows were sealed shut. To me it was a ball of pure happiness and that didn’t make it into any bag, either.

Too young to grasp the weight of what was happening around us, this was an adventurous road trip. The men with guns along the roadside were there because something serious was happening further up. The vacated apartment complex we stayed at overnight was just a break from the long drive. Its long, empty corridors were perfect for roller-skating with the cousins. The hoards of people lined up along the border just didn’t get hotel reservations yet and would probably pass through within the next few hours.

We drove from Kuwait, through Iraq to Jordan in a convoy of 3 cars; 3 children, 2 women (1 pregnant) and 4 men. We were some of the lucky ones who knew someone who knew someone else who could help us out with a work permit of sorts. The little piece of paper made all the difference. Our own car instead of a bus. A room instead of a tent. Canned food instead of handouts. A bathroom instead of a hole. (Except for those few times we went on the side of the road in No Man’s Land between the borders. Not a person, not a light as far as the eye could see. Just a billion stars and eight frightened refugees.)

At every checkpoint (or soldier-with-a-gun point), my sister and I pretended to be asleep as a game, and maybe as a defence mechanism to avoid having to look a man with a gun in the eye. Not like they were looking for our approval or for our consent.

I always imagined that the hardest part for my parents in all this was getting us to safety. But now I see that that wasn’t the hardest part, that was the prayer.

Imagine getting in a car or a bus with your family – your world – and driving into a war because it’s the only way out. There’s no guarantee that you’ll get out, but if you stay, you’re in the war. You become collateral damage.

What if the only way out is by a rickety old boat? Stay and hope for a painless death or leave and give your children a chance. Even if it’s a slim chance.

But what do I know? We were going back to our motherland; our parents were taking us back home. To our families, ancestral homes and open doors. To India. And there she stood, strong and loving as the day when we left her for a better life. Now we were back, running for our lives, and she welcomed us with a kindness only a mother can have.

Not the refugees of today, they’re not running back home, they’re running from it. Begging someone to show a little kindness, to make the world a safer place for their children.

It’s not boats that arrive at our borders, it’s lives. Daughters who were saved from rape, sons who were shielded from mutilation. Men and women, desperate to breathe and love and sleep one more time.

I remember my parents knocking on a stranger’s door somewhere in the middle of war and peace. The kids needed a glass of water and to use the toilet and to get out of the car that was now a portable oven. I can only imagine their relief when the woman who opened the door greeted us with compassion.

I now know that there was a government order to not entertain refugees. It was a punishable offence.

That day the Iraqi woman, in her floral dress and loving home, gave us bread, water and a lesson in kindness.

Yet we find it hard to trust these men, women and children knocking at our shores. To open our borders, to share a meal, some space and maybe a kind word. We worry that maybe war changes even the good people. Creates monsters out of men.

I’m not a monster, but war did change me.

I learnt about rape before I learnt about sex. I knew what torture was before I knew what bullying was. I feared smoke rising from a distance more than a monster under my bed.

We found our way to safety soon. Parents tried to shield us from pain and horror as best as they could, but these things have a way of seeping into your very fibre. Through ashes in the air and fear on the faces around you.

I wasn’t a child anymore, but I was frightened like one.

Of things I couldn’t fathom, couldn’t believe and couldn’t even spell.

And I was one of the lucky ones.

Calling Dr. Seuss!

Among other things that I’m constantly hungry for, inspiration is the one thing I perpetually crave; which kind of explains why I was such a teachers’ pet in school. I may not remember the chapters they taught me, but I will never forget the life lessons.

From the moment I read my first Dr. Seuss book, I knew I had found my life coach.

If I could’ve added a hint of his magic to my childhood, I would’ve. Oh I so would’ve. I stumbled upon the books in my late 20s, and they came everywhere with me – work, cafés and trains. Upstairs, downstairs and stairways. Inside and outside, right side and left side, good side and bedside. Under a tree, over a hill, through a problem and across a table.

In case you didn’t get it, that was me trying to channel a bit of Dr. Seuss and failing miserably.

At the risk of sounding like an obsessed fangirl, I have to confess: I’m an obsessed fangirl.

The first time I read ‘Oh, the places you’ll go’, I wept. I wept happy tears for dreams and hopes and life. If every young adult in school were to read his books, we’d have more secure and confident youngsters. If every adult would peruse through just a few pages, there would be no better restoration of faith. If every world leader would glance over a story or two, they would get a hint as to how to make this world a better place.

Yep. Fangirl.

I rely on the Doctor’s counsel like people in the 90s took Oprah’s. Blindly and gratefully.

How? Glad you asked.

(Imagine me having a giant whine-face and imagine Dr. S’s voice having an echo with crazy folk music playing in the background.)

Me: What do I do with my life?!

Dr. S:

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

Me: Wish I was smarter, a better writer, a kinder person, a half-decent daughter/ wife/ mum/ human.

Dr. S:

Today you are you, that is truer than true.

There is no one alive who is youer than you.

Me: There’s so much sadness in the world, so much turmoil. Someone needs to do something.

Dr. S:

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot,

nothing is going to get better.

It’s not.

Me: Why didn’t anyone ever teach me how to do this?

Dr. S:

You can get help from teachers,

but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself

sitting alone in a room.

Me: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh *violently pushing the panic button*

Dr. S:

But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready, you see.

Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me.

Me: (Blank)

Dr. S:

Oh the thinks you can think!

Me: Should I say something to the person staring at their phone while talking to me?

Dr. S:

You’ll miss the best things if you keep your eyes shut.

ME: Put. The. Goddamn. Phone. Away.

Even as I type these words, I feel stronger inside. Maybe because these are the words I needed to hear many times in my life. Maybe because these will be the words I share with my son to help make him a better person. Or just maybe because, in today’s world of increasing impatience and fluctuating intolerance, we need to simplify the way we think – the way a children’s book author does.

Imagine if we understood this back then…imagine if we understand this now.

Fame! You’ll be as famous as famous can be,

with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.

Because, sometimes they won’t.

I’m afraid that sometimes

you’ll play lonely games too.

Games you can’t win

‘cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!

Whether you like it or not,

alone will be something

you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance

you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.

There are some, down the road between hither and yon,

that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go

though the weather be foul.

On you will go though your enemies prowl.

On you will go

though the Hakken-Kraks howl.

Onward up many a frightening creek,

though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike,

and I know you’ll hike far

and face up to your problems

whatever they are.

Do yourself a favour and read a Dr. Seuss book today, be it Fox in Socks or Greens Eggs and Ham or The Lorax or Oh, The Places You’ll Go. Because you wouldn’t want to get stuck in the Waiting Place!

The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or the waiting around for a Yes or No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for the wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

NO!

That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape

all that waiting and staying.

You’ll find the bright places

where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,

once more you’ll ride high!

Ready for anything under the sky.

Ready because you’re that kind of guy!