Wednesday morning, 21st April, 10.33 am

I'm in the foyer, 90 Collins Street, Melbourne.
Melbourne reminds me a bit of London. Eclectic, cloudy. There are similar trees.
I'm shaking. Maybe because I was up before 6 am and haven't eaten propery since then. But I think it's more than that.
Being here, now, is a significant step in the process that will change my life. It's strange that, as the indecisive person I am, I have not once doubted my decision to go to London. I'm calm. Confident. Even when people tell me that I'm being brave - words that seem calculated to send me into a panic - I easily brush the remark off.
I don't know why this feels so right, but I hope it's a good thing. A God thing. I hope that still, always, he stands next to me, with me, in me.
I'm not a brave person. I fear heights, exams, reality. I make decisions quickly or not at all. I fear the consequences of a poor decision, fear my inability to deal with those consequences.
Yet in some bizarre twist, this, the most life-changing decision I've ever made, the one that could potentially have the most difficult consequences, this decision sits well with me. It may be a mistake. But I don't mind that thought. It doesn't torment me as it usually would.
Perhaps my confidence is foolhardy, or perhaps I'm finally, finally growing up. Or perhaps God is as near to me as I always want him to be. Despite my everything, because of my everything. Because he knows I need him there always, even when I think I don't, especially when I shout at him to go away. Always, interminably, perpetually, by my side.
My watch ticks over to 10.42 am. It's time to go to the elevator. It's time to go to London, time to change my life, to stand as near to God as he is standing to me. Time to change.

Amanda in London

I've changed my blog site. I guess that means it's official. I am going back to London. And I'm not sure if that makes me crazy or masochistic or if maybe I'm finally learning to take risks, to trust my own judgement, to be willing to make a catastrophic (and expensive) mistake.
Visiting a place for a holiday is different to living there. That's what people have told me. I hope they're right in some ways and mistaken in others. I hope to always be excited just that it exists! London! I think I'll always love English accents, from North, South, East, West London. Diverse, delectable accents. I hope I'll always love Wagamama. I'm pretty sure I won't love the cold, the coffee or the loneliness. I'm still me, after all: complete crap at making new friends.
Maybe the loneliness will be so overwhelming I'll wish I hadn't gone. I'm sure I'll have those moments. But I'm equally sure I'll have moments of wonder and utter ecstasy at the sight of dear old Harrods, Trafalgar Square, Notting Hill. I am bursting even at this moment to see them all again and the moment I step off the tube into central London cannot come too soon for me.

Little Blue Pig

There's a little blue pig that stares at me from my desk. Eyes, beady. Ears, pointy. Body, spotty. It may seem a childish way to aid in my money saving efforts, but I respond well to stimuli aimed at less complex psychology. Which isn't meant to indicate my level of intellingence, but perhaps shows that I'm easily pleased.
My little blue pig is the physical presence that represents my dreams of going back to my favourite place in the world - London. London with it's grey cobblestones, black cabs, red phone boxes, terrible coffee. London that owns Trafalgar Square, Soho, Oxford Street, Globe Theatre. London that has plays showing in the West End night after night, that holds a thousand delights and more yet to be discovered, others to be revisited.
London, my love, my dream, my hope. I will see you again.

It's a perfect moment

that comes once in a while. The sun peeps out from behind a cloud onto an earth recently rained on. That's the first sign.
The second sign is the sound of crickets making music to which the whole of nature listens.
The third sign is the child in my lap, leaning casually against my chest, so unconscious of the delight he gives me by this simple action. Not knowing how I want to clutch him there, hold him by me in the sunlight so that he will never know darkness.
And then he turns slightly towards me and speaks words, so quietly it's almost as if he's talking to himself instead of to me. Words that seep into me the same way that sunwarmth does when I bask in it. The words are these:
'I love you, Auntie Manda.'

Words

It's dark outside
and in -
I'm out of words.
The most ironic, bizarre, unexpected thing
that could possibly happen to
me.
Words, the factor that has
(until this moment)
seemed the sum total of value in my life,
have in fact expired.
I love them still of course.
Words like bother, annunciate, superlative, clash.
I love the sound they make
in my head
on the page
and when I speak them aloud.
Words that settle inside me like a sigh
like the soft sensation of relief
that comes with crisp bed sheets.
They make the muscles in my chest relax
when I hear them
speak them
mouth them
imagine them.
But I am out of words.
I'm out of narratives.
I am no longer so intrigued by the pattern of my own thoughts
that I long to write them all down
before they can disappear behind me.
And I'm not sure how to tell people.
Should I announce it at a public event? On a website?
Or perhaps keep to myself for as long as possible
that this hobby I have talked endlessly about for the last decade
has worn itself out.
I have no more words to say
narratives to create
people to listen.

True Beauty

"If you feel your value lies in being merely decorative, I fear you might someday find yourselves believing that's all you really are. But time erodes all such beauty. What it cannot diminish are the wonderful workings of your mind - your humour, your kindness, and your moral courage. These are the things I cherish so in you.
"I so wish I could give [you] a more just world. But I know you'll make it a better place."
Little Women

Yesterday I got told by a colleague (and friend) that I am not a beauty - quite the reverse. I could "use some work" she said. Exactly what she meant she didn't elucidate, (perhaps plastic surgery). But the point is this. After my initial hurt and sadness faded, I started wondering about our modern definitions of beauty. This is a topic certainly not lacking in commentators, I know. Hollywood's depiction of the 'average' woman leaves much to be desired - something bemoaned by mothers, teachers, and feminists alike. And truthfully, by anyone with half a brain.
But I suppose I mean that I became thoughtful about my own, personal, definition of beauty. Affected as I am by media and common opinion, I do wish that I could look just a little more like Charlize Theron, Jessica Alba or Audrey Hepburn. Which may be why my colleague's comment upset me. It IS important to me to be found attractive, and I've tricked myself into thinking that I look okay - not all the time, but a fair portion of the time. And occasionally, that I might even look a little bit beautiful.
I'm not really that deluded about myself. I know the flaws - the slight doubling of my chin, the red patchy quality of my skin, the wideness of my thighs. But I hope that I have learnt effective ways of concealing these so that eyes are drawn more to my soft lips, expensive haircut, polished (albeit chipping) nails, slim wrists.
How is it that I've come to this - daily critiquing my appearance in front of the mirror hoping the world will not shun me for that which they do not see.
What did they do in the days before mirrors? Before expensive hairdressers, makeup, nail polish, prints? How was their beauty judged when women had no equipment with which to adorn themselves?
What if I was forced to endure such suffering - how would I cope?
As is always the case when something I think I need is taken away from me - I would at first rebel. I would rant and rave. But after a day or two, maybe a week, I think I would feel relief so fierce it would be like remembering how to breathe again.
And then, perhaps, I would remember the true measure of beauty. Not the appearance of perfection. But selfless thoughtfulness, generosity, love. Moral courage.
And maybe, just maybe, if I pursued these things in my own life, I could make the world a better place.

Silence

Lately, I've been trying to find time to be silent. And I don't mean just no speaking. I mean no speaking, hearing, listening, technological stimuli, nothing. Silence. And believe it or not, it is really hard. To someone who has a life filled constantly with people and entertainment, silence is dull. But more than that, it scares me.
Silence is as unforgiving as nakedness. Nothing concealed. When I exist in silence, I cannot withold information from myself the way I wish to.
I argue with myself in the silence. Constant, interminable, exhausting arguments about things that do not make me proud. About ways, for example, to show off my skills in order to obtain the admiration of those around me. And then I argue with myself about how I should not be concerned with self-gratifying goals but with actually helping people.
It makes me wish. And whoever thought I would come to this. But it makes me wish I wasn't good with words, good at speaking, or at least that I didn't THINK myself to be good at these things.
How do I separate them from myself? I am so exhausted with the onslaught of guilt that comes from my prideful moments, wishing that I could help other people instead of myself - painfully aware that every time I aim to bolster myself, I probably fail to help a person who needs it. And then the moment passes and it's too late.
Paul said 'when I am weak, then I am strong', because he knew that God used him most in his moments of weakness. But it feels as though the opposite is true of me - when I am strong, then I am weak. Because I focus so intently on my own strengths that God is unable to use me.
I stray from the central subject. Isaiah 30.15 says :
In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength,
but you would have none of it.
Maybe silence is something that becomes easier with time. Like exercise does (or so I've heard). If I persevere, perhaps I will be made stronger for recognising the depth of my own weaknesses.