Who Am I?

It’s a question I return to often. Who is Tanya and how does she fit into the world, what is she doing here? I started asking this question of myself, with great seriousness, when I was about thirteen. And I asked myself this because someone asked it of me.

I was in a bus, going to the Performing Arts Workshop after school. PAW (as we affectionately called it) was a school for children gifted in the performing arts. It was a school after school, where we learned singing, dancing, acting, music and stagecraft.

The other kids were talking about what they were going to do when they left school. One said she would start a band, someone else was going to do TV work, still another wanted to make off for the States and try their luck there.

Then it was my turn. I blinked a few times and answered, “I want to become a doctor.”

Then the kid who started the whole conversation in the first place accused me of taking the place of someone who was more serious about performing, that I was depriving them of developing their talent. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.

And that’s how it started. I often ask myself what I am doing here – here on this planet, at this time. I ask the question in a reason-for-existence kind of way. Before, when the question came up, I would hide in a damp blanket of depression for weeks, sometimes months. Now I welcome it. It’s an old friend that lets me know that things have changed. Something has shifted and I am now different to who I was yesterday or five minutes ago.

So, today, the questions raised themselves again: Who am I? What am I doing here? And I had a sort of profound thought, and it was this: These questions do not address myself, my soul, my divine spirit; they address my ego.

The questions would be more useful if I asked, Who am I in this moment? What am I doing here in this moment? My higher self knows that I am at this moment because I have brought it to me. I am here to learn.

And looking back at how I have changed over the years, I see each period of questioning as a time when I decided to revamp my wardrobe. Every persona I wore like a new suit. When the suit no longer fitted, I changed.

The answer to the questions will not be the same each time I ask the questions. They will shift and change as I shift and change. And realizing this feels as though I have begun to make peace with something inside myself. The desert remains a desert, even though the sands on its surface change. I am because I am, even though my ego may change.

"Corrective Rape" on the Increase for Lesbians in South Africa

I found this article on Mambagirl. It states that: "In South Africa, no woman is safe from violence: there are an estimated 500,000 rapes, hundreds of murders and countless beatings inflicted every year. For every 25 men accused of rape in South Africa, 24 walk free." It goes on to say that "Support groups say that rape is fast becoming the most widespread hate crime targeted against gay women in townships across South Africa. One lesbian and gay support group says it is dealing with 10 new cases of lesbian women being targeted for ‘corrective” rape every week in Cape Town alone."

I don't think that the attitude of a certain section of men is reserved for lesbians in South Africa. I believe that the attitude that lesbians need "correction" is one held by a number of men - and I am sure, women - everywhere in the world. The sad thing is that these people think that it's their right and that they are doing society a favour in raping and murdering lesbians.

These women are daughters, sisters, mothers, lovers, friends of people in the community. They are living breathing human beings.

It sickens me to think that despite the fact that South Africa has written gay rights into its constitution that hate crimes and "corrective" rape is so pervasive.

I have a new haircut. Rather, there is no haircut. My head has been shaved. I bravely shaved my head at the CANSA Shaveathon yesterday. And this, dear readers, is the result: a cross between a Buddhist nun and a diesel dyke.

I’ve been struggling with finding my purpose in life. Meditation, books and Tarot cards have revealed little more than a glimmer, with the answers coming back that I know my purpose already. I know what it is that I must do with my life. I already have the map, and the tools for navigation.

 

Not much help, really. I sketched out my frustration in an email I sent to a few friends, who I hoped might shed some light on my dilemma. Perhaps they could give me a little guidance? I received an email from my buddy, Mark, who lives in London. He apologized for his curt response, as he was off to Shropshire to be in a short film that someone was shooting. (Not that it’simportant, but the film has something to do with Zombies). His answer to the purpose of life was simple (simple, but not easy) and what it boiled down to was that we create our own life’s purpose. We decide for ourselves what it is we want to do with ourselves, our lives, our energy and then get on with the business of doing it.

 

I had actually been hoping that some advanced being would descend from a mountain, where it had been meditating for centuries on the purpose for Tanya O’s existence. It would then proceed to not only inform me of that purpose, but to hand me a neatly typed, easy to understand instruction manual. Tanya For Dummies.

 

But to make ME responsible for my own life? Of course there had to be some kind of cosmic error. Yet there were Mark’s words, neatly typed and easy to understand. 

 

My response went something like this: Really? Me? I had all the power of creation in my own hands? Are you sure? I get to choose? And then, the next question: What if that were true? Then my dissatisfaction can only be laid at my own feet. It would mean that I can create whatever I wanted in this, my own personal universe. I would be my own Buddha, my own Goddess, my own Source and Great Spirit.

 

To quote from the first Spiderman movie, “with great power comes great responsibility”. And what I have in my hands is my own super power, my own life. I get to direct it, choose its course and choose the tools I need to sail through this existence.

 

Bloody hell.

 

Can’t I just wait for the Guru to come down from the mountain and hand it all to me on a plate? But then, where would be my freedom to make whatever I wish for myself? Instead of going at the canvas of life with nothing more than my own imagination, I would be painting by numbers. Instead of engaging life with my own creativity, I would be colouring the outlines left by someone else. But I am not flat packed furniture waiting to be assembled (insert part A into part B).

 

Oooh. So I have to write my OWN instruction manual. I see…

 

Ricardo and I were talking the other day about how we would like to help 100 people a week in the practice. My response surprised me. I told him that we already were seeing 100 people a week, somewhere in the universe (if time wasn’t linear, but circular as some theories suggest), and all that needed to happen was for us to catch up with the future Ricardo and Tanya who were helping 100 people a week.

 

Perhaps that’s the same with my own purpose in life. There is a Tanya who has decided her purpose and is living it wholeheartedly. I just have to catch up.

 

 

Funeral for a Hamster

Hamlet, the Hamster became part of my sister’s family when The Nephew (Liam) won the bid held by his class for adoption rights. Liam was the only one who put himself forward, which counted in his favour and at the end of the school year, Hamlet was sent home with him.

For the period of a month, Hamlet enjoyed the luxury of a brand new, spacious cage and a hamster ball. He lived peacefully away from the crowds of ten-year-olds that he shared the classroom with, and no doubt enjoyed a quiet retirement in the sleepy town of Middelburg.

A week before Christmas, Hamlet passed silently into the next world, without so much as a nod in the general direction of the cats that had been so good about keeping him on his toes.

The Nephew is a traditionalist in the making. Not happy to bury Hamlet in the perfectly good garden in Middelburg, he petitioned his parents to allow Hamlet to rest at his own home in Johannesburg, where other loved pets were buried.

Hamlet was duly taken to the hamster mortuary (my sister’s freezer chest) and Auntie Tam (that would be me) was called and notified of the untimely death of one Siberian hamster. Along with the news, I was requested to obtain one hamster corpse on my visit to Middelburg, return home with it, and bury it with full hamster funeral rites.

On boxing day, Liam solemnly handed me a Tupperware box that had been wrapped in plastic. I received instructions as to the exact location of where the grave should be and the little package was placed into a cooler bag, which was deposited in the boot of the car.

Upon arriving home, I felt it prudent to proceed directly to the funeral. The hamster had, after all, spent the entire 2 hour journey from Middelburg to Johannesburg defrosting in the boot of a car in 30 degree (centigrade) heat. Madelein was happy to allow me to handle the arrangements on my own.

With the hole prepared and a suitable stone selected, I was ready to bury Hamlet. Having never officiated as a High Priestess (in hamster funerals or any rites at all for that matter), I turned to my Gay Witchcraft book, since this was the only tome I had that mentioned funeral rites in any great detail.

Hamlet had lived a fairly monk-ish existence and I doubted he would have concerned himself as to the origins of the funeral prayers as I said them over his Tupperware casket. The hole was covered, the stone was placed over it and incense was lit.

Hamlet the Hamster had come home, was laid to rest and The Nephew’s wishes for his little friend were followed to the letter. The benefit to me was that I performed my first ritual as High Priestess. Although, now I am wondering if hamster funeral rites count.

The author would like to stress that the hamster shown on this post is not, in fact, Hamlet, but a random Siberian hamster found on Google Images.

Updates

Updated a couple of blogs. Tale Spin is quite new, but hopefully enjoyable.

Tale Spin - The value of first drafts

Purple Lists - Books read in 2008

ENJOY!!

It seems that life follows a certain pattern. There was a time in my life when everyone was getting married. There were weddings to attend every couple of months. Then people started having babies. Some couples split, others didn’t. And in between all this, some people died. Now, it seems, that there are more people dying.

My uncle, Geoff, died yesterday while undergoing an operation. I didn’t know Geoff that well, we were never close and I feel for my cousins and my aunt who have to go through this.

In May this year, I attended the memorial service held for a friend named Hiro, who I knew through the SGI. He died of pneumonia in Japan.

I believe in reincarnation, but that still doesn’t take away grief. Grief, I have learned, is a process that is ongoing. We grieve for ourselves. When I spoke to my aunt yesterday, I realize how great the void is in those left behind.

I know that Uncle Geoff was unwell for quite a long time. I also know from my cousins that he was talking about being too tired to carry on and that he wanted to go “home, to my mountain.” For Geoff, dying was something he wanted. For his family, having him around was what they wanted.

It brings to mind my father’s passing. He too was ill for a long time. My thoughts have remained unchanged: even though it’s sad that Dad’s not here and I miss him, I know that he is no longer in pain. In fact, it hurt more to see him weak and in pain than the grief of losing him. At the time of his death, though, the shock of losing him was too strong to see it that way.

Goodbye, Uncle Geoff. Rest well.