Brine soaked

What is it about the last minute that allows things to get done? Waiting. Waiting. For some kind of divine intervention. As if God will save us. Or someone else will prod us. Make us do it. Anyone but us. What stops us? Fear. Fear of not being good enough. Not making something that people will like. Not looking good. What if it's bad? What if it sucks? If I fail? And what will people think? Of me? There goes the guy that sucks. That fails. "I could do better than that," people will say. And so we don't put anything out. We don't produce. As nothing put out there means we don't fail. And we still look good. We preserve our reputation. Our place in the world of people's minds. As what though? Preserved. Like pickled eggs. How nice. We keep ourselves locked into stasis. Stuck in a jar. And people are able to look at us, how beautiful we are, glistening in the brine. Until we die. How convenient that we are already preserved. 

Olives & Ogres

Rowan: You and Khona have eyes the colour of olives.

Me: Ok. Green olives, I guess.

Rowan: And ogres like to eat olives.

Me: Ok.

Rowan: That's all.

Tattoo

You know those things you've always wanted to do, but never quite get to them. Those dreams that we talk about, ruminate over, explore like a kid in an apple orchard, jumping up, up, but not quite reaching the fruit. I had this idea of making a movie about tattoo stories. The stories behind the tattoo. Why it's there. Why did that person put that thing on themselves? Where did the idea come from. What's the meaning. The source. Tattoo like a window into someone's life, their stories, where they came from, who they were in that moment, who they are, who they've become. 

So I found myself in one of these conversations about tattoos after a yoga class. What's your story? And she told me, and it was so beautiful, and moving, and incredible. "I've always wanted to make a movie about tattoo stories." "Well, I'm in," she says. "Oh.... Ok. Well, let's do it. Let's book the interview, and I'll figure out what I'm doing in the meantime." So we booked a time in the yoga studio two Fridays from that day. And I really had no idea how I was going to pull off an interview. What camera I was going to use. Sound? 

The Wednesday before the interview, a volunteer arrived at our doorstep from Helpex named Ignacio. He was from Spain, wanted to help out and learn English, and he was a film-maker! "That's good," I said, "because we have an interview in two days!" He had an HD camera, and a microphone. Serendipity indeed. So over the last month, we navigated our way through the two languages and cultures, and spoke with five amazing people, who shared their stories, their hopes, fears, and dreams. And here it is ... Tattoo.

Growing Gift

To donate. What is it to donate? To give something. Up. To give away. Let go. A gift. For someone to receive. Really receive. Take in. An exchange. What if the gift has been asked for? How does that change the giving. The receiving. Several months ago, I donated a part of myself, and she is pregnant. Third time lucky. Past the first trimester now. She is pregnant. Not us. Not we. I am a donor. Giving up. Giving away. Something of me. And now it grows. Not part of me. Not part of us. There is no us. Us is here. Wife. Family. Home. To give something that grows. Changes. Lives. Breathes. Thinks. Feels. We aren't used to giving away something living, someone that evolves. SomeOne. A person. Giving away a person. Half a person. And what could be more beautiful. And complicated. Simple. And confusing. Joyous. And conflicting. And what am I then? In that unknown future? A donor. A gift-giver. Connected and Not. Not attached. There at times. Aware. A presence. Supportive. And not. And who am I then? Who am I to that person? In their mind? Complicated. And not. And who is Mary then? Wife of a donor. What role then? What sense of place for her? Truly giving, she is in fact the one donating. Giving up control. Letting go. Not her child. Not his child. And yet from him. Who are we to own each other? Mine. My precious. Not mine. And what is it to send yourself out into the world? Out of my control. My domain. My reach. My influence. And yet, he is a part of me. He is under my influence. My genetic reach. My biology. Or she is. And so I celebrate. And contemplate. Laugh and cry. I sit in contradiction. And not. I have given Life. Something so powerful. So beautiful. It seems impossible not to. Someone who will give so much joy and love. And stories. All that we are made of really. The fabric that holds us all together. Generosity of spirit. What more is there to give.