My Second Love

I just read a post from Darryl's blog - about a Henri Nouwen video we watched t'other week at YAGs. Don't worry, I seldom actually visit TYC. I read it on Facebook so he doesn't get my hits...

Anyways. It was a really inspiring video and reading that post reminded me of what I had gotten from it, not to mention the pretty cool realisation I made after, so I though I would share. Some of you may know all too well what I am talking about and for others it will be nice and vague - the vagueness is sufficient for the example and, if you do understand all too well, I don't suppose it matters.

When I went to Paris in October and watched the Rugby World Cup final I had a pretty fun time. There's a few legendary stories - see here for example - but the real clincher for me now, I must admit, is the way in which God spoke to me. [This comment reminds me of the thing Sara said t'other day about what my parties are likely to turn into. A recent incident that only confirms the journey of my reputation down the plughole was when my visiting friends wanted to watch one of the infinite sky channels on my ginormous TV that I seldom-to-never watch. They switched it on and it was showing The God Channel... saaaaaaaad.]

Getting off the tangent. God talked to me there about love and how we need to love each other and ourselves and that all love comes from Him and it is His love that we are ultimately seeking. There is more to this I know, about loving God back for example (see Darryl's post - I am trying to move away from the competitiveness a little now it's an official grace killer. If it's on the list I MUST obey...) but at the time I was in a place (spiritually that is) where I didn't know what I believed and could not really understand the idea of loving God, let alone all that Christian jazz. So He gave me some survival tips and a real experience of His love for me. All this hapened in Paris, the City of Love, speaking the Language of Love and in the Sacré Coeur (sacred heart). The symbolism was not lost on me and it felt like I was having a romantic weekend away with God.

Anyway. The thing from Henri? Well if you are a regular reader (one of 4) you may have noticed that one of the things I have been learning about is God being my first priority, not letting man distract from Him and making sure that I put my trust and hope and love into Him. It's taken me a while since Paris, I still have a long way to go and He has made it pretty clear that until I can be wholly into that there is not going to be space for anyone else on my life. We're talking about boyfriends in case you hadn't picked up on that. When I was traveling in June I did a lot of learning about this (there was a pretty cool analogy, that I wrote about here, from Budapest). Henri phrased it in a fabulous way: "God is your First Love and man (relationships of all kinds) is your second. If you look in your second love for what you can only find in your First then you will crash." (That's not a direct quote but its close.)

I already knew this but it was good to be reminded and hear someone else put it so well. Then, when we were in the tea shop after YAGs (it gets worse and worse, we used to go to the pub), talking ont I realised sommat cool as an extra.

Here goes with the necessary personal detail. When I was in Budapest I was inadvertently a bit preoccupied with a certain "second love". God was pretty clear to me on what He thought (I realised a little too late) but these things can take over and, well, the days that followed were pretty chocka of visuals and lessons which I made some mention of at the time but did not give all the context. Now you have it you can reread through new eyes (which you will of course now do...).

God really speaks to me when I travel. Symbolism is cool and I love how using different cities He says different things. I can't wait to work out the significance of Bristol...

Geneva's easy: the motto is "post tenebras lux" - after the darkness, the light; Paris: city of love; Budapest? Well, people call it the Paris of Eastern Europe and at the time I could not help but think 'oooh, this is the encouraging love symbol for the certain preoccupation'. Eh Eh. (supposed to be a sound effect from a quiz show, did it work?) That Tuesday 2 weeks back I suddenly realised....

...Budapest does represent the preoccupation (I think from now on whenever I fancy someone I will refer to them as my preoccupation!), just not how I was looking at it. The Second City of Love, or perhaps rather City of Second Love by it's very name is akin to what M Nouwen described. It also has a real history of violence and corruption - the damaging potential of human love. It is love but it is the kind Henri warns of: not perfect, certainly not enough and with the propensity to go horribly wrong if that is where you are storing your treasure.

Now for the thing that was OVERWHELMING cool, as I was sitting in Kafé Deko talking myself hoarse: check out what I bought in the second hand shop in Budapest...

(It's mirror image but I can't flip it)

Even looking for the wrong type of love, in the city of the wrong type of love, I found (as God so graciously revealed Himself) perfect Parisian Love to take away with me - in the shape of a very cool retro compact mirror. It may have taken a while to realise but I was carrying it around all along.

Ooh ooh ooh! Last thought. If the sunglasses I lost (see this to understand) are the second love, they give a tinted view of the world. The mirror, the First Love, reflects a perfect image of who I am. There has to be something deep in that. I can't believe I'm now glad I lost them! Lol... too true...

Sorry it's such a long message. I just though that those that appreciate this kind of thing probably like the details too. That and I can't help myself!

Postdated Illustrations

Here are a few pictures that go with some of my past blogs. At the moment I haven't got space on my hard-drive for the travel ones but one day they might make their way here too...


Evidence for the story in Clichès and close calls. The angle doesn't do justice to the numbers by the way!

The November YAGs retreat weekend. Where Robyn and I first spent quality time together and the relationship began to blossom... Just as a bit of background to An affair to remember. This shot was taken on a hike up Le Mole in France (there's a story in there when I get the time).


This is the dear Cleopatra. Awwwwwwwww! Who's Cleopatra? See here: Cleopatra comin' at'cha and other incites.


This is the best pic I can find that demonstrates my grey hair (Everything is meaningless...). It also shows what a lovely pair Robyn and I make and how the reconciliation was really worth it (It's the little things)!

My sister came to see me Taking The Plunge. It was ACE and I loved having her here. We were both tackling fears together: she took flight and I plunged (it occurs to me that were we to have switched actions it would be terribly detrimental to both concerns...).

Well who'd have thought?! Just because it may possibly be the most Beautiful picture ever. This one is from my 'B' party. No labeling here, those who know you know you... ;)


Isn't this the most FABULOUS picture ever? Left to right (in descending order) Teresa, me, Gemma, The Girl With Brown Curly Hair. From the crazy day in the parc as mentioned in Coincidence?

I shall try and add visuals as I go from now on. Also, I do in time want to acknowledge fabulous things/events/people that haven't been mentioned on the blog as yet since, believe it or not, my life is bigger than what I write about on here! And it started before April 27th 2008, though some may argue that was merely the shadow of an existence...

Clichès and close calls

There is nothing quite like success in a sporting event to ram home a sense of patriotism, all the more enhanced by a) Pickwicks, the biggest ex-pat haunt in Geneva and b) Scottish rugby watching "buddies". When England jammied their way into the finals of the Rugby World Cup last October, it was clear to me that I was meant to be at that game. Mainly cause it coincided with my one weekend off and I had already made plans to visit Paris anyway.

So Anastasia the legend got a shirt in the post to me, I packed my rucksack and grabbed a blanket in the full expectation that I would find nowhere to sleep that weekend. (I later discovered it was a very lux 100% cashmere throw that came with my appartement and probably would not have suited living on a bench for the duration.) As it is I was fortunate and found a space in a hostel about 10 minutes after stepping off the train (at Gare de Lyon) into the fray and realising I had possibly been a little too laid back. I may venture to say God was looking after me, but luck will suffice for the cynical.

Anyway, the whole weekend was totally fabulous; full of revelation and beauty, purchases of random second hand clothes at Marché aux Puces for 50 Euro centimes each and lots of bread, cheese, walking, walking and walking. Needless to say, I love Paris in the fall.

But what about the main event as it were? Well, it turns out being a lone blonde female in Paris at the best of times can aid making friends (not an observation of fortitude I may note) but during the England/SA rugby world cup final the atmosphere is so charged and fabulous that donning anything white and red and hanging out near the crowds (note that you are better off in crowds that aren't wearing predominantly green and yellow) is a sure bet to not be alone for very long - not always a issue but you want to have someone to alternate cheering, shouting and crying with. I had already decided that I would be watching the game at the big screen by the Eiffel Tower and so headed in this direction a few hours before. After ditching the Frenchies I went with (well meaning people but not really clued in with the fact that I was no longer in caring-about-their-culture mode) I found myself in a bar clutching a 2-pint tankard of beer and for a moment feeling the same sensation as when I stepped off that train the day before. Panic not, within mere moments the very fact that I had made the journey on my own to be there at this historic moment (which by the way I would recommend everyone do, it is a safe bet way to plan a holiday that will not be forgotten) had impressed a group of young English lads and one Saffa. A bit of banter about the fact that they had kidnapped this guy later and I was invited to sit down (mainly to get out of the way of the door). I had made some friends and boy were these good friends to make. Superficially and the biggest cliché of it all is that I had happened upon a group of young dashing trainee airforce pilots who were all too willing to take me under their wing(!). More usefully however, they invited me to watch the game with them and the rest of their colleagues who had secure a spot on the Champ de Mars (area in front of the tower where screen was erected) not 3 foot from the front along with a well stocked supply of beer, water and Maryland cookies (which were my salvation halfway through the match when I realised I had not had lunch or dinner excepting the aforementioned 2-pinter). There were even some really cool girls there too which was great for toilet camaraderie, not feeling like a common English trollop and also, seeing as my camera battery had died, proved a fabulous resource for photographic evidence to be retrieved at a later date via the dreaded facebook...

But yet, though the picture is sweet, it is joyful and it's also a true example of provision(!), what was it that made it so momentous? Well, it's a little something known as "Top-Gunning". I tell you, watching the thousands from the shoulders of a burly pilot is one thing but this is sommat else... Joining in with the banter of the crowds, singing a little JC and a few 'negro spirituals' (thanks Mr Powell) was a lot of fun, but then a new song was added to the repertoire which soon left me confused and a bit red in the face as the realisation dawned on me. 'We've Lost That Loving Feeling', classic tune and movie scene, but when you get the distinct impression that the boys around you are singing not alongside but toward you it gets a little disconcerting. A sideways glance at Hannah (really cool chick) and she was encouraging me in my assumptions. Suspicions were confirmed at the line "baby baby, I get down on my knees" and these 20-odd servants of her Majesty were all on the floor serenading me in unison, with their own unique harmonies going on and a firm beat being tapped out (on my bottom). I was not being self absorbed - they were singing to me! (Hannah later informed me that this is a long standing rugby crowd tradition). It did not end there however; as one of the guys gestured for me to to turn around and I look behind me at the crowds, I see the neighbouring folk - I kid you not environ 200 of them - in an alcohol fueled moment of worship: with me on the pedestal.

So yes Richard, Paris, Eiffel Tower, Rugby World Cup and pilots serenading me: it does seem a little far fetched. But hey, someone has to do it...

As for the close calls. End of the game aside there was falling in a river whilst looking for somewhere to pee (no I was not 'in Seine'), French riot police at the end of the night and the obvious stupidity of heading off to Paris with no clue as to anything, poor French skills and a whole lot of drunken English sports fans. Would I do it again? New Zealand 2011 anyone...?