Life After THRO: Muddling Through

And it came to pass. My life after The Human Rights Organisation begins on an otherwise uneventful Thursday in mid-October.

Following weeks of conflicted feelings about my change in work status and the events that preceded it earlier this year, I’m emotionally spent. I am technically on holiday but leisure time is a luxury I can’t afford. I need to intensify my job search. I want to catch up on all the studying I haven’t been able to fit in around work. There are also household chores to which I must attend. I hope to squeeze in some writing whilst I’m at it. In between that I am obligated to wade through the morass of French welfare bureaucracy now I’m currently non-active.

I have made a schedule for myself. Two mornings a week to look for work. Mondays are to be spent either at Oh My Goodness! café or at the University library (since all the others are closed). I quibble whether to become a member since it would only really be to use the printer. The desk clerk is all smiley and flustered and keeps apologising for giving me the wrong information. At first I assume it’s because he’s new and not used to the procedure. When he asks where I’m from, the penny drops. I can be quite naive about the intentions of the opposite sex.

Tuesdays and Fridays I stay local since I’m likely to be busy in the evenings. Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, I’ll while away some hours at the inviting André Malraux Médiathèque in central Strasbourg. Whatever happens I don’t want to spend too much time in my flat. Whilst I’m temporarily out of work, I can’t take human contact for granted. I also must make sure my French doesn’t suffer. I’m tentatively hopeful after noting that my spontaneous interactions in La Langue de Molière aren’t as laboured or clumsy as I feared. I even receive some positive feedback. 

 In the spirit of keeping up and improving my French I start attending a midweek event organised via Meet-Up that I’ve usually been too occupied to frequent.

I’m pleased to note that there are more native francophones in attendance than Christmas 2018; the last time I was at this particular gathering. One Thursday night, I pass a particularly pleasant evening in the company of two gorgeous Tunisian-Italian brothers; Constantin and Stefano. I grin from ear to ear when they knock a decade off my age. Eye-candy and compliments aside, they’re especially keen to meet up and practise their English. They picked up an intermediate level living in Hong-Kong within an impressively short two years. I’m happy to oblige. I invite them to join me and Gustavo, my lovely Lusophone acquaintance and talented linguist who also wants to entretenir son anglais. That is...once I can find the time. 

 I skip out of the meet-up in good spirits and glad for the distraction. I've been wrestling with remnants of feeling for The Old Heartache I left behind at THRO. The sense of regret lingers long after our final farewell. A vicious circle of self-recrimination plays itself out. My wholesome evening of chat with Constantin and Stefano reminds me there are other men on this planet. I’ll be fine. The frustrating ambiguity and remaining debris of heartbreak will work themselves out of my system with time. The healing process is already underway.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where I feel almost desolate and running low on hope. I’m angry with God, with THRO and myself at how things have turned out. News of a UK General Election fills me with both excitement and great apprehension. I am due to visit the UK soon but don’t know if there’ll be any opportunity to campaign whilst I’m there. One more thing to worry about, if I let it.

I try to distract myself with my new daily routine. I attend a special Jazz and Psalms service at Temple Neuf one Sunday; a break from the norm. I’ve invited former colleagues from The Organisation; Natalya and Winnie. Despite her initial enthusiasm, Natalya flakes for more whimsical reasons than I’d expect. It throws me off. I compromise my hitherto tight schedule and end up missing all my travel connections. I arrive at Temple Neuf later than planned (as usual) and annoyed with myself for being a stereotype. Winnie and her housemate Helga are already seated. Pastor Rohan expounds on how both optimism and pessimism are extreme forms of fatalism. Christians aren’t called to endorse either, he gently admonishes.  He speaks of God not imposing on our free will. Of late this has also been a recurring theme at my main church. Normally, I would look past the coincidence for deeper meaning. In this instance however, I’m not sure. This doesn’t chime with my experience. Maybe for most others this Divine Imposition is less apparent, with a far wider margin of manoeuvre. My whole life, on the other hand, has felt very much circumscribed by God. Then there’s the biblical case study that is Jonah. As a wise young woman once said to me, free will is over-rated and over-stated.

After the service I try to communicate this to Winnie and Helga without it turning into a rant. I’m not convinced that I succeed.  Musing over determinism aside, we're all feeling upbeat thanks to the soothing effects of the acoustic sax and piano interpretation of hymns. We commend the musicians heartily.

Later that week, my choir HRGS has its first show of the term; another welcome distraction from my intermittently bleak thoughts. I’ve invited a good deal of acquaintances, including Winnie and other former work colleagues. In the end, only Catarina shows up. By coincidence the performance takes place in a church she’s planning to visit. Maybe it’s a sign, I suggest playfully.

I see her at the front, having a whale of a time. She joins in enthusiastically when our seasoned showman choir director, Kiasi insists on audience participation. The choir turn out in good numbers. To my mind it’s vocally one of our most consistent performances. And yet rather than lift my funk, the concert compounds it. To my shame, I attribute much of this to my own vanity. A couple of non-issues niggle at me about my solo. A few members decide to interrupt my ad-libs, quite unlike how we rehearsed it. Furthermore, Catarina says nothing about my performance despite my efforts to calm my nerves and do a decent job. My dissatisfaction hovers throughout the weekend. I leave multiple self-commiserating voicemails for my sister. I am even more sensitive than usual these days, I observe. She’s a pillar of strength; speaking wisdom and firm truth in love.

Shards of light pierce through elsewhere. I attend a seminar at my church organised for single women. The speaker, Régine, is a pastor whom I hold in great regard. She shares about her unorthodox upbringing, sexual misadventures, marrying a man nearly 10 years her junior in her 30s as well as her struggles with crippling anxiety and insecurity. Régine’s candour about her non-linear spiritual journey is a refreshing change from the cut-and-dry narrative some Christians feel compelled to rehearse. She readily answers the personal questions posed by her attentive audience. When someone asks her how to overcome low self-worth in the face of societal pressures on women to be flawless, Régine answers in her customary honesty. There’s no magic formula or one-shot panacea. It’s a spiritual battle. We must persevere with God.

Although our life stories diverge significantly in places, there’s also much to which I can relate. I’m effusive with thanks for Régine’s authenticity after the seminar. I’ve no doubt I’ll draw comfort and strength from her testimony in future.

Soundtrack: A Love Surreal by Bilal,