The fire is burning a little low

I live and work in multiple creative spaces. I am blessed to be allowed to write in a way that feels natural, make videos on a regular basis, learn, express myself and share what I find. I am constantly inspired by the women, in all their diversities, that I work with.

I am lucky to have what I need. I do not struggle as much as the women I get to work with. I live the way I would like, I am not restricted in any way other than by reason and recommendations. I am able to live with my family as well as with my long term partner. I am lucky.

Yet, despite all of this, I feel my inner fire, my passion and drive dimming slowly. I feel tired. It might just be a "today" thing - I was up super late because, because, because ... I was working. I was both utter disappointed in what I made as well as overjoyed because it seemed far too hilarious at the time.

I showed it to a colleague and she laughed. I was so scared. I was nervous because what I had made was meant to be funny, but I wasnt sure. But it did keep that little fire flickering inside me, just a little.

So as I struggle to do what I do on a day to day basis, I keep trying. I cant let that fire go out. Im terrified it will, as it has before, but I cant let it go out. Not again. Its far too hard trying to reignite it.

Not goodbye.

The 31st of August. I was woken up by my mother skittering around. She was rushing to the hospital. It was something I had never seen. We expected it. We knew it was coming. But it was a dreary Friday outside and the candle in front of the photos had flickered out at some point last night.

My grandmother, after her early morning bath, left this world. We joke, she was waiting for the Friday or checking the bills or something or other. She waited till her bath, she must have told my Grandpa Ben Bhagwan to wait, just wait, she was coming. She even shocked the doctor who had given us the "few days left" and she gave us about a week.

Strong. Passionate. Quiet. Creative. Amazing. Beautiful. Just... there's so many words for her but none of them really encapsulate who Rachel Ayesha Bibi Bhagwan (nee Yusuf?) really was. But she was, simply, my grandma.

My grandma who had me over for Friday night sleepovers. She's let me hang out as a little one shirtless as I watched cartoons and made dough. She would put me to sleep, be there, offer advice and guidance through her actions... she amazed me as she worked a room at a pinktober event last year. I saw her guide a woman out of a violent marriage without even a harsh word about him (out loud really).

As I sat in the church she was baptised and married in for her funeral, I did reflect on my own sense of faith. I dont know if I really have one. I dont pray. I find it awkward. I dont know who to thank, get angry at or question about all of this.

"Why her? Why didnt we find out about the cancer spreading? Why didnt she tell us how she was really feeling? Why did she compromise her own health? Why? Why? Why?"

Im not sad. I miss her, fuck, I miss her so much. But it was weeks before she passed that I actually got to see the woman who moulded me into what I feel I am today. Sometimes I daydream about the soft clink of her bangles, her high noted humming and singing, her longwinded cooking, her teasing way... I miss you but I dont want to.