May 09, 2008

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May 08, 2008

A pot of boiling enthusiasm cannot continue to simmer without a constant flame. My mother is that flame. When my father lost his job around my 12th birthday I had just discovered the art of photography. I was so passionate about taking pictures that I could hardly sleep at night.

Because there was no discretionary money after my dad was retrenched, I was unable to buy film or chemicals for developing my photographs. I was heartbroken but understood the circumstances, so I hid my disappointment to save my parents from feeling any worse than they already did.

There were absolutely no jobs to be had for kids my age so there was no way for me to get money to buy film for myself.

My parents struggled financially for a number of years and during that time my mom began making little felt-stuffed dolls called Gonks. They were round, red little characters with Beatle haircuts. One morning I overheard my mom on the phone. She was in tears and talking to her friend Millicent. I put my ear to the door like any twelve year old eaves-dropper would do. Between her sniffles I heard my mom tell her friend that she only needed to sell a few more Gonks to have enough money to buy film and chemicals for me. I heard her say, “He is so passionate about photography. You should see his eyes when he talks about it. It breaks my heart because I know he is dying to take pictures.”

Two weeks later my mom called me into my room and shut the door. She handed me a roll of film, some photographic paper and chemicals. She asked me not say anything to anyone about it, especially my dad, because the money was needed elsewhere.

I hugged my mom and thanked her profusely. I was so excited I just wanted to burst.

“I’ll take great pictures for you, I promise” I said.

“Don’t worry about taking great pictures for me.” she said. “Just have fun.”

As she walked out of the door I noticed she was crying. “Mom,” why are you crying?” I asked.

“Because I just love you so much.” She said, ruffling my mop of curly hair.

Posted by trevor at 02:36 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (0)

April 30, 2008

I saw some horses running in a field yesterday. It reminded me my last trip to the island of Kauai.

While I was there I went for an early morning run one day as the sun was rising.

It was a beautiful morning and the birds were singing the dawn’s praise with gusto.

The quiet road where I ran is alongside a vast field that is home to a number of magnificent horses and some very cute lambs.

As I started running, one of the horses, standing at the fence near the road, lifted its head and snorted a horsy greeting in my direction.

I said hello to the horse and continued running.

I heard her snorting again behind me.

I turned and looked over my shoulder as I ran and said, “Wanna run?”

The horse swatted some flies with her tail as she considered my offer.

“I’m talking to a horse,” I thought, as I quickened my pace. “I wonder if I’m losing my marbles.”

Behind me, the sun reached over the mountains and brushed its hand across the fields, turning the grass the richest green you can imagine.

I breathed deeply as I ran, inhaling the cool, fresh morning air.

Then I heard a noise behind me.

I turned.

Much to my surprise, the horse had galloped up and joined me on the other side of the fence.

I continued running.

So did the horse.

We ran.

And ran.

And ran together for almost half a mile. Then the field ended.

The horse stopped abruptly at the fence.

I know she was frustrated. I could hear her whinny slightly.

I stopped in honor of her plight.

She maintained her regal poise, looking longingly at me as I started to run again.

I know she wished that the fence did not exist.

So did I.

“Bye,” I said, softly.

She snorted.

“I enjoyed it too,” I said.

The horse lifted her head.

I raised my hand, acknowledging the connection.

I turned and ran toward the distant mountains, my heart overflowing with an exquisite sense of euphoria.

Friendship despite differences.

What a magnificent gift.

Posted by trevor at 01:27 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (0)

April 28, 2008

Yesterday was my late father's birthday.

I remember him with such warmth and love.

My dad was physically and emotionally abused by his father. (A poor man who was bitter, angry and displaced by the Second World War.)

During one fit of temper my grandfather, Mike, backhanded my father (who was only two-years old) off his high chair and almost broke his jaw.

To save my father's life, my grandmother sent little Jackie Romain off to boarding school at the age of six. He was put on a train and sent on a sixteen-hour journey, by himself, to a school in King Williams Town in South Africa. (My dad was sent all alone! I don't know how my grandparents could have done that to a scared little six year-old. I can just imagine this bewildered, curly-headed small boy, with his little suitcase and his favorite tartan blanket, sitting by himself for all that time on his first train journey. Just thinking about it makes want to cry.)

Dale College, the boarding school, became my father's home and family. It also became his passion. He played on every sports team. He loved the school so much that he continued to reminisce about it with fondness until the day he died.

My father spent the last two years of his life writing a book about his life at the school.

On the morning of his death he came downstairs and said to my mum, “I've finished writing the book. All I have to do is type in the last page and I'm done.” (My dad wrote the book in longhand and then typed in the pages.)

He never got to type the last page because he died a few hours later of an aneurism. He was only sixty-seven.

He was in the parking lot of my aunt's apartment after visiting her. He had started the car and was ready to get my mum from the old folks home where she was visiting my grandmother.

A man found my dad in the car slumped over the steering wheel. The car was still running. The man said he thought my dad was sleeping.

I got a call at six in the morning and was on a flight from the United States back to South Africa by noon. It was the longest 18 hours of my life.

The next day, in a daze, I walked into my dad's studio and found his computer still on. The cursor was blinking on the screen, patiently waiting for the final words of his book, which were hand-written on a yellow pad lying next to the computer.

I typed in the last page for my dad.

In honor of Jack Romain, I would like to share that page:

“The big wooden doors of the only home I know clang shut forever behind me. I look straight ahead for fear of turning around and forcing my way back through the closed doors.

But the urge is too strong.

I turn and look longingly over my shoulder at Dale College, the boarding school that has been my home for the past twelve years.

A home that saved me from my father whose temper almost took my life on a number of occasions.

A home filled with school friends and teachers that became my family.

A home that sheltered me from a distant memory filled with anger, bitterness, poverty and emptiness.

A home that nurtured me, comforted me and gave me strength to face the unknown journey upon which I am about to embark.

I sigh, turn away from my childhood and begin to walk toward my destiny…”

- From Blainey Junction by Jack Romain (As yet unpublished.)

My father died just two hours after writing these words.

Happy birthday Dad, and thank you for creating the spark which continues to ignite the passion within my soul.

Thank you for being the candle that continues to light my way.

You're not here…but you're always there.

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April 24, 2008

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April 23, 2008

A few years ago I had a young five year-old friend called Chris who was going through cancer treatment. I remember visiting him at the hospital. Bless his heart. He just lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling.

To help him feel better I told him about the time I saw a bird poop on a policeman's head in Paris. I said that I thought the bird did it on purpose because the policeman was being mean to some people who were sitting with their feet in a fountain. It was such a hot day and the people were just trying to cool off, but the policeman yelled at them to remove their feet immediately.
A few seconds later, the policeman harrumphed, adjusted his cap and walked away. Just then the bird used the top of the policeman's hat for target practice.

Splat.

You should have seen the policeman's face!

Chris did not respond to my story. He just stared at me with a perplexed look on his face.

Then I got it. He was determined not to laugh and he was holding it in as hard as he possibly could.

Then he pulled the sheets over his head and burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he almost made himself throw up.

“Tell me again,” he said.

I told the story again.

Chris laughed so hard he forgot – for a while- how terribly sick he was feeling.

He asked me to tell him the story again the next day.

I did.

Again he laughed, throwing his bald head back with delight.

It was so heartwarming to see.

Laughter is such a warm and wonderful gift and an amazing powerful medicine.

We should remember to use it more often.

Posted by trevor at 01:29 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (0)

April 15, 2008

Usually when I travel I try to take as many art supplies as I can with me. Normally I land up with markers, pencils, acrylics and a bunch of watercolors.

On a recent trip to South Africa I only took my little Windsor and Newton six-pan watercolor set because I didn’t think I’d paint much due to a hectic travel schedule.

I was wrong. The minute I got there and began to relax in my childhood bedroom I started feeling creative. All the dreams of being an artist when I was a kid came flooding back (as I lay on the same bed I slept on as a kid) and remembered staring up at the ceiling and dreaming about my future.

I remembered a little mouse I often wrote about as a kid and had the urge to paint the mouse.

I was a little upset with myself for not bringing more watercolors.

Regardless, I drew the mouse and painted it with the limited colors I had available. (See above.)

I left the picture to dry and went off to have a cup of tea with my mum. I was so excited when I came back and saw the picture. I can honestly say it is one of my favorite watercolor sketches ever. And I can’t believe all I used was a felt-tipped pen and a tiny little six-color paint set.

I now realize that I don’t need the huge, expensive, multicolored paint set I have been coveting for years. The set I have always promised myself I’d have when money was not a factor.

A glass of water, a brush and a few paints is all it really takes to make the colors I need.

It was worth sitting on a plane for nineteen hours and flying from South Africa via Ghana (West Africa) to the United States because, on the flight back, as I reflected on my painting, I realized that sometimes the simplest things can have the most powerful results.

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April 14, 2008

My friend’s five year-old daughter got jilted by her little boyfriend. She was rather taken aback that he had the audacity to end their four-day courtship.

It was her third break up in as many weeks.

“Mom, that’s it. I’m done. I don’t want any boyfriends until I’m married,” she announced.

Love can be so elusive sometimes.

Posted by trevor at 03:08 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (0)

April 09, 2008

Last year I had the privilege of sharing time with a group of orphans in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, in Central Africa. I was working with the kids to help them express their fears and feelings by drawing pictures of their pain and then having them follow up with drawings of their hopes and wishes.

We were in a makeshift classroom with dirt-covered floors and no glass in the windows. The room was dark, close and depressing in the equatorial heat. At first the children gazed blankly at me, constantly swatting the flies away from their hollow eyes and expressionless faces.

These kids have been through hell. Many of the orphans, both boys and girls, have been raped, abused, prostituted and abandoned.

As we were about to start I noticed a young boy dressed in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit watching me through one of the windows.

I invited him to join us but he just stood there, leaning on a walking stick, watching. I could see the sadness in his eyes and it tugged at me. I invited him in again. But he didn't budge. He just stood outside the window and stared.

I respected his decision and started the session.

To begin the class, I took a blank piece of paper and did a drawing depicting the pain I felt when my father passed away. It was a dark picture with lots of clouds swirling in a squiggle of angry lines. As I drew I pressed hard on the paper telling the kids in the class how the heavy, rough lines represented the anger of losing my father. Among the swirls I drew a person curled up in a ball and told them it was me, in the picture, experiencing the pain of my father's death.

As hard as I tried I could not stop myself from getting misty eyed when I held up the picture for the kids to see.

Exposing my own pain stirred something within these kids. I realized this when one little girl wiped away her own tears as I shared my grief. It was incredible. I could feel invisible hugs reaching out from every one of those children in the room. Children who have experienced more horror and hardships than I'll ever know.

The kids looked around at each other and began nodding and discussing my picture as they whispered amongst themselves.

Then I put the painful picture aside and drew a picture of my hopes and dreams for the future. I drew a happy picture with a boy standing on top of a hill with his arms reaching up to a star. (I used as many warm colors as I could.)

The kids connected with the picture and began to chatter excitedly.

I will never forget the smiles on the kid's faces as they discussed my picture and suggested more things for me to include on the page like flowers, the sun and even kids eating ice cream.

Then I invited the kids to repeat what I had done. Draw a picture of their own pain, look at the drawing, acknowledge the emotions evoked by the picture, and then draw their future hopes and dreams.

I have no words to describe what happened next.

The entire mood in the room shifted.

I could feel the children's emotions change and grow as they drew. It's amazing how cathartic simple lines on a piece of paper can be. How extracting pain and suffering from your heart and putting it on paper can make the pain and hurt easier to process and clearer to see.

As they drew I saw the children grow and bloom. It was like a time-lapse film of a flower opening. And just like a blossoming bud, the children seemed to unfold from a tight curled-up balls, void of color or vibrancy, and grow into a magnificent flowers.

When we were done drawing, the kids danced around me and proudly showed off their pictures.

The group-hug we shared will never be forgotten.

I chatted to the social worker after the kids left the room. I packed my bag and I was about to leave when a movement at the door caught my eye.

It was the young boy in a traditional Burundian drumming outfit who watched me through the window at the beginning of the session. He was now standing in the doorway.

In his hand he held a blank piece of drawing paper.

In his eyes he held a familiar vacant stare.

He lifted the paper slowly toward me.

“Okay buddy,” I said, patting him on the back. “Have a seat. Let's see if we can draw us a little hope and happiness shall we?”

And we did.

Posted by trevor at 05:14 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (4)

April 08, 2008

Some time ago a friend asked me why on earth I choose to work with kids suffering from cancer when there are so many other less painful ways to volunteer.

Here is why, in the words of Irma Bombeck:

“This is a warning. If you can’t handle optimism, don’t go around children with cancer. If you feel tears are more appropriate than laughter, don’t even think of dropping in on a camp where they are. If you don’t want to put yourself at risk for feeling good about yourself, your life and the world…wear a mask!

Children of cancer are carriers of courage.

There, you have been warned.

Hang out with them and you will undergo a metamorphosis that you cannot control. You’ll find yourself saying things like “Have a good day!” or “See you next year.”

I visited a day camp in Phoenix one afternoon, and as I sat on a small chair with my knees under my chin, a small camper with cancer, about three years old, put his arm around my shoulder and positioned his face two inches from mine. “Do you know what?” he asked.

“What?” I answered back.

“I’m going to the circus this afternoon,” he bubbled.

“That’s wonderful," I gushed.

A counselor leaned over and said, “You’re not going to the circus, Kenny. That’s the other group. You’re going swimming."

Most kids would have ripped out a sink and thrown it against the wall in disappointment. Instead, he turned to me and said with equal enthusiasm, “Do you know what?”

“What?” I asked.

“I am going swimming this afternoon!”

Kids with cancer seem to have a gift for cutting through the “what if,” “what should’ve been,” “what might have been" and getting right to “what is now.”

Bert was five years old and fighting neuroblastoma. He loved to draw. One day when he was asked, “Are you going to be an artist when you grow up?” he said indignantly, “I am an artist.”

An adult friend asked a young girl named Christiana what she would like for her eighth birthday. The small child, diagnosed with neuroblastoma, rubbed her hand over her bald head, then rested her face in her hands and said, “I don’t know. I have two dolls, two sticker books and a Cabbage Patch doll. I guess I have everything.”

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