Ina Brink's Blog
February 18, 2024
SYMBIOSIS
With life and all its challenges, motivation is one of the most difficult things to acquire. Here lies the crux, you need to be challenged. Challenged by life, by adversities, by copycats, by people who want to see you fail, due to their own insecurities. But you know what? You always have the choice to see life for what it is; your journey, your trials that you have to conquer.
The one thing that has challenged me the most through life was exactly those souls who wanted me to fail, due to their own vulnerability and inability to have confidence in their own worth. And, it is extremely sad that most of us do not realize that we have different roles on this planet. We were meant to live in a symbiotic relationship with each other.
If your role in this life seems lesser, by your understanding, believe me everyone’s part actually plays an immense role in the greater workings of things. If you are a seemingly small wheel in the machinery, without you, the machinery would not be able to function. The irony of life is, that the small wheel will admire the size of the bigger wheel and the bigger wheel will admire the power of the smaller gear who is able to turn the bigger gear. We will always be amazed by that which we were not born to do.
So, know your part, own it and do what only you were born to do, to the best of your ability. Because if you do, and the big wheel does its part, without the smaller trying to overtake the bigger wheels place, this world would function so much more smoothly. Just remember, without the small gears, the bigger ones cannot turn and the size of the wheel does not matter. The fact of the matter is that every wheel needs to turn for the machine to work.
Let’s all know our place. Let’s all own our space and let’s all realize we are nothing without each other and the support we have to offer one another. If we realize our part and how important our part in the greater working of things is, we will all be motivated to run smoothly in symbiotic harmony, with a well-oiled machine running smoothly.
The one thing that has challenged me the most through life was exactly those souls who wanted me to fail, due to their own vulnerability and inability to have confidence in their own worth. And, it is extremely sad that most of us do not realize that we have different roles on this planet. We were meant to live in a symbiotic relationship with each other.
If your role in this life seems lesser, by your understanding, believe me everyone’s part actually plays an immense role in the greater workings of things. If you are a seemingly small wheel in the machinery, without you, the machinery would not be able to function. The irony of life is, that the small wheel will admire the size of the bigger wheel and the bigger wheel will admire the power of the smaller gear who is able to turn the bigger gear. We will always be amazed by that which we were not born to do.
So, know your part, own it and do what only you were born to do, to the best of your ability. Because if you do, and the big wheel does its part, without the smaller trying to overtake the bigger wheels place, this world would function so much more smoothly. Just remember, without the small gears, the bigger ones cannot turn and the size of the wheel does not matter. The fact of the matter is that every wheel needs to turn for the machine to work.
Let’s all know our place. Let’s all own our space and let’s all realize we are nothing without each other and the support we have to offer one another. If we realize our part and how important our part in the greater working of things is, we will all be motivated to run smoothly in symbiotic harmony, with a well-oiled machine running smoothly.
August 31, 2023
It’s All in The Writing
As I am adding the final touches to my next novel before I submit it, I finally get a chance to write a blog post again. For the first time in a while, I can reflect over the past year since my first novel was published and I realize that there is a post I need to make for those wondering, and all those who have asked about my writing. This will hopefully give some insight into the process of writing and the obstacles.
Now firstly I have to explain that I was molded into a writer by a combination of my personality, my composition and mostly life. When I was younger telling stories and entertaining people with my jokes, was not only an escape for me from life stresses, but a way to make people forget about their troubles and put smiles on their faces. Making people happy is the unfortunate result of my own turmoil I went through. This developed into writing poems, keeping journals and more importantly daydreaming to flee my surroundings when they became too much to bear, or they bored me.
The problem with daydreaming is that you develop a certain skill where you are able to conjure up stories out of thin air for your own entertainment and at some point, you start writing stories you can control instead of reading ones you can’t. For the past almost eighteen years I have not read any fictional literature, because I wanted to stay authentic to my writing style.
And no, I did not start writing because someone inspired me.
Everyone was surprised when they found out I had published one of my stories. Most thought I only started writing recently. I have been writing my whole life, but kept it private. It was only my partner that knew and eventually nudged me to submit my novel.
For those who want to follow this path I have this to say. Find the reason you write if you want to find fulfillment from writing. Write about what you know. If you are writing for financial gain, you might be disappointed. It is a long process of a deep commitment to producing a good quality book. And, except if you are a trust fund baby, or have enough riches to support you while you walk the long path of getting your books and name out into the world, you will need an income to support yourself. I have a full-time job and when I am actively writing I have to write, after a long day at work, deep into the night.
Remember you are always in competition with millions of books in your genre. And even if you have a successful book your book might do well for a short while and then the next book will come along. For me personally, I write to entertain myself and anyone who gives me the opportunity to, by reading my writing. Mostly I write because I really have no choice. My stories haunt me daily, they mill around in my head, and I know that I will not be satisfied until they spill over onto paper, the only difference now is that I actually share them. Below I leave a poem I wrote years ago about the predicament I find myself in.
Revelation
I think it is time, to reveal my soul.
For years it’s been hidden, nurtured and fed.
My path I’ve walked, deep waters I’ve tread.
This is me; this makes me whole.
Thoughts, ideas, whirlwinds of words
Bubbling over, escaping its nest
Containing more difficulty, I could ever expect.
With a nurturing touch, a passion was bred.
Maturity culminating, my veins to be bled.
A writer’s mentality in secret was kept.
This is it, bare of its walls.
To share some words with my fellow souls
Now firstly I have to explain that I was molded into a writer by a combination of my personality, my composition and mostly life. When I was younger telling stories and entertaining people with my jokes, was not only an escape for me from life stresses, but a way to make people forget about their troubles and put smiles on their faces. Making people happy is the unfortunate result of my own turmoil I went through. This developed into writing poems, keeping journals and more importantly daydreaming to flee my surroundings when they became too much to bear, or they bored me.
The problem with daydreaming is that you develop a certain skill where you are able to conjure up stories out of thin air for your own entertainment and at some point, you start writing stories you can control instead of reading ones you can’t. For the past almost eighteen years I have not read any fictional literature, because I wanted to stay authentic to my writing style.
And no, I did not start writing because someone inspired me.
Everyone was surprised when they found out I had published one of my stories. Most thought I only started writing recently. I have been writing my whole life, but kept it private. It was only my partner that knew and eventually nudged me to submit my novel.
For those who want to follow this path I have this to say. Find the reason you write if you want to find fulfillment from writing. Write about what you know. If you are writing for financial gain, you might be disappointed. It is a long process of a deep commitment to producing a good quality book. And, except if you are a trust fund baby, or have enough riches to support you while you walk the long path of getting your books and name out into the world, you will need an income to support yourself. I have a full-time job and when I am actively writing I have to write, after a long day at work, deep into the night.
Remember you are always in competition with millions of books in your genre. And even if you have a successful book your book might do well for a short while and then the next book will come along. For me personally, I write to entertain myself and anyone who gives me the opportunity to, by reading my writing. Mostly I write because I really have no choice. My stories haunt me daily, they mill around in my head, and I know that I will not be satisfied until they spill over onto paper, the only difference now is that I actually share them. Below I leave a poem I wrote years ago about the predicament I find myself in.
Revelation
I think it is time, to reveal my soul.
For years it’s been hidden, nurtured and fed.
My path I’ve walked, deep waters I’ve tread.
This is me; this makes me whole.
Thoughts, ideas, whirlwinds of words
Bubbling over, escaping its nest
Containing more difficulty, I could ever expect.
With a nurturing touch, a passion was bred.
Maturity culminating, my veins to be bled.
A writer’s mentality in secret was kept.
This is it, bare of its walls.
To share some words with my fellow souls
August 23, 2023
THE HANDS OF TIME
Looking down I notice my hands
Mirrored in them, an hourglass’s spilled sand
I see the evidence of exposure to the sun
I see little folds where there once were none
I turn them over and consider the look
Weathered skin, from life it took
Fingertips’ feeling its toughened skin
Testimonial grooves into palms running
Strangely they don’t appear to be mine
Evolution deformed them over time
Confused by a spirit feeling so young
Realization; the hands of time, won’t be undone
I wrote this poem one day when I looked at my hands, and they seemed different. As different from the consciousness that I had to deal with. Life happened, life has ripened me and I realized; in the hands of time, we are but a mere spec of sand in the hourglass.
So, tonight as I sat with my babies, which are adults by now, I had this to say:
Your time is limited.
Take mental snapshots of the good and the bad.
Put away your phone.
Live in the present.
Tomorrow is not guaranteed.
You have only so much time, live each second of it.
Appreciate each second of it.
Write stories, your own unique life stories.
And appreciate your unique story, even if you wished it to be different.
Your story is special.
Don’t wish time away, just to get to the next stage of life; you will never get this moment back.
Be grateful and patient.
Life is beautiful, with its dragons and all.
No story can be interesting without a touch of drama.
And you can only be grateful for the good if you have experienced the bad.Defeated by Justice
Mirrored in them, an hourglass’s spilled sand
I see the evidence of exposure to the sun
I see little folds where there once were none
I turn them over and consider the look
Weathered skin, from life it took
Fingertips’ feeling its toughened skin
Testimonial grooves into palms running
Strangely they don’t appear to be mine
Evolution deformed them over time
Confused by a spirit feeling so young
Realization; the hands of time, won’t be undone
I wrote this poem one day when I looked at my hands, and they seemed different. As different from the consciousness that I had to deal with. Life happened, life has ripened me and I realized; in the hands of time, we are but a mere spec of sand in the hourglass.
So, tonight as I sat with my babies, which are adults by now, I had this to say:
Your time is limited.
Take mental snapshots of the good and the bad.
Put away your phone.
Live in the present.
Tomorrow is not guaranteed.
You have only so much time, live each second of it.
Appreciate each second of it.
Write stories, your own unique life stories.
And appreciate your unique story, even if you wished it to be different.
Your story is special.
Don’t wish time away, just to get to the next stage of life; you will never get this moment back.
Be grateful and patient.
Life is beautiful, with its dragons and all.
No story can be interesting without a touch of drama.
And you can only be grateful for the good if you have experienced the bad.Defeated by Justice
March 25, 2023
Square pegs and round holes.
I find myself sitting on my porch. I admire the grey tiles, that which I chose when we moved into this house, there where I came to a halt. There are only two steps leading down the porch and I need to sit on the top step as my legs are too long to fit comfortably on the ground if I had to position myself on the lower step. Kind of like life really. Sometimes we do not have a choice if we want to be comfortable.
We have two porches, but when I come to breathe, I always choose the smaller porch. It fits better, it has straight lines, it is in the shape of a square and it feels safe here in the morning when I sit alone with my thoughts and listen to my music. A safe space to let my thoughts run over and over in my head, like my music; notes and rhythms that I like, just me, and I realize how absolutely childishly scared I had become for the unknown, the uncomfortable and choices, and this at such a ripe age.
For half a century I have always chosen “safe” and in the process I lost myself.
Over time I started to fit into the lines that made those around me happy; my people, who I chose, those in my circle. A circle that now, as I sit here, stood fast squarely around me. And it dawns upon me: Circles don’t hurt, it has soft lines, and it can expand. The corners of a square do; it is rigid and cuts if you let your fingers run over the sharp lines.
I swallow my coffee and realize that my circle had taken on the square shape, with the first bitter swallow I took, when the unforgiven was forgiven, when my boundaries were forced into the shape of someone else’s, so that they would feel comfortable. With that first swallow where I had to digest, I had to let go, I had to reshape so that I could function in my circle. At that point my circle was slowly taking on the shape of a square, forced by the center point of my circle, of our circle. A circle that was not mine, it was a square from the beginning, and it was never mine. I chose to climb into the box and got lost in the dark warmth thereof. I was the one who chose to walk the straight lines of the square while my soul wanted to run the bent lines of a circle, where there was more space for creative freedom, less hard boundaries. I let myself be curbed by the rounding’s of another’s very clear straight lines, just to feel safe.
One does feel safe, always, until you do not follow the lines and touch the sharp edges, but what is left behind? A soul that sits still, only able to breathe, to fit in, because if that soul does not sit still, the box may break apart and someone might get hurt, but wounds heal.
The epiphany: I can break the square; I can punch holes in someone’s idea of their rigid safe space. I chose this, although I blamed the rigid walls. I climbed in and I can climb out. Fingers will bleed and wounds will be part of the process, but wounds heal.
It is however difficult to stand blade in hand, to decide if the loss of blood is necessary and how long one can hold your breath while you are suffocating. Should you bore holes in fingers? For me to breathe? Should I sit still in fear? Or should I allow wounds to heal?
Wounds have healed and our lives are not square anymore. There is a safe fluid space where we can pull up our square walls of protection when needed and we run free in our own rounded lines whenever we need some space.
Defeated by Justice
We have two porches, but when I come to breathe, I always choose the smaller porch. It fits better, it has straight lines, it is in the shape of a square and it feels safe here in the morning when I sit alone with my thoughts and listen to my music. A safe space to let my thoughts run over and over in my head, like my music; notes and rhythms that I like, just me, and I realize how absolutely childishly scared I had become for the unknown, the uncomfortable and choices, and this at such a ripe age.
For half a century I have always chosen “safe” and in the process I lost myself.
Over time I started to fit into the lines that made those around me happy; my people, who I chose, those in my circle. A circle that now, as I sit here, stood fast squarely around me. And it dawns upon me: Circles don’t hurt, it has soft lines, and it can expand. The corners of a square do; it is rigid and cuts if you let your fingers run over the sharp lines.
I swallow my coffee and realize that my circle had taken on the square shape, with the first bitter swallow I took, when the unforgiven was forgiven, when my boundaries were forced into the shape of someone else’s, so that they would feel comfortable. With that first swallow where I had to digest, I had to let go, I had to reshape so that I could function in my circle. At that point my circle was slowly taking on the shape of a square, forced by the center point of my circle, of our circle. A circle that was not mine, it was a square from the beginning, and it was never mine. I chose to climb into the box and got lost in the dark warmth thereof. I was the one who chose to walk the straight lines of the square while my soul wanted to run the bent lines of a circle, where there was more space for creative freedom, less hard boundaries. I let myself be curbed by the rounding’s of another’s very clear straight lines, just to feel safe.
One does feel safe, always, until you do not follow the lines and touch the sharp edges, but what is left behind? A soul that sits still, only able to breathe, to fit in, because if that soul does not sit still, the box may break apart and someone might get hurt, but wounds heal.
The epiphany: I can break the square; I can punch holes in someone’s idea of their rigid safe space. I chose this, although I blamed the rigid walls. I climbed in and I can climb out. Fingers will bleed and wounds will be part of the process, but wounds heal.
It is however difficult to stand blade in hand, to decide if the loss of blood is necessary and how long one can hold your breath while you are suffocating. Should you bore holes in fingers? For me to breathe? Should I sit still in fear? Or should I allow wounds to heal?
Wounds have healed and our lives are not square anymore. There is a safe fluid space where we can pull up our square walls of protection when needed and we run free in our own rounded lines whenever we need some space.
Defeated by Justice
December 4, 2022
Reasoning
I am sitting here deep in thought,
but my thoughts are going nowhere.
It seems as if it endlessly,
circles out to somewhere.
Dwelling on countless things,
meaninglessness morphs to reason.
A consciousness afforded us,
to conquer every season.
The ultimate question, why? Our purpose, the meaning of life, why we need to suffer pain and challenges, if all we want is peace and understanding.
We are bombarded with information, technology, work, children, responsibilities, media, social demands… Life has become busy, complicated, confusing at times and we have become seekers of instant endorphins to smooth over the constant influx of information and self-inflicted expectations. Modern life has become intensely chaotic, with the modern human plugged into a web of stimuli. We are part of the machinery that makes the industry tick, that for which we suffer for, to feed the monster.
While our basic needs are to be safe, fed and ultimately live in a happy, healthy and peaceful state with the beings around us, we find ourselves in the midst of man’s creation. With self-inflicted responsibilities and a need to be validated by what we accomplished and accumulated, while validation actually can only be found in our humanity and how we engage with others. We are born with these simple needs and from day one we are bombarded with our chaotic environment. We are programmed to fit into our unnatural surroundings which leads us astray from our basic needs and ultimately confuse us into mental health issues.
There is however a pause button, and we should press it from time to time, so that we can sit in silence, re-evaluate what we really need, to assess our surroundings and assimilate how we can take charge and simplify life so that we can live, love, care and breathe. Be bored, be silent, float away in your own thoughts. We so desperately need some silence from our busy surroundings. Make time to walk barefoot so that you can discharge and recharge more often.
but my thoughts are going nowhere.
It seems as if it endlessly,
circles out to somewhere.
Dwelling on countless things,
meaninglessness morphs to reason.
A consciousness afforded us,
to conquer every season.
The ultimate question, why? Our purpose, the meaning of life, why we need to suffer pain and challenges, if all we want is peace and understanding.
We are bombarded with information, technology, work, children, responsibilities, media, social demands… Life has become busy, complicated, confusing at times and we have become seekers of instant endorphins to smooth over the constant influx of information and self-inflicted expectations. Modern life has become intensely chaotic, with the modern human plugged into a web of stimuli. We are part of the machinery that makes the industry tick, that for which we suffer for, to feed the monster.
While our basic needs are to be safe, fed and ultimately live in a happy, healthy and peaceful state with the beings around us, we find ourselves in the midst of man’s creation. With self-inflicted responsibilities and a need to be validated by what we accomplished and accumulated, while validation actually can only be found in our humanity and how we engage with others. We are born with these simple needs and from day one we are bombarded with our chaotic environment. We are programmed to fit into our unnatural surroundings which leads us astray from our basic needs and ultimately confuse us into mental health issues.
There is however a pause button, and we should press it from time to time, so that we can sit in silence, re-evaluate what we really need, to assess our surroundings and assimilate how we can take charge and simplify life so that we can live, love, care and breathe. Be bored, be silent, float away in your own thoughts. We so desperately need some silence from our busy surroundings. Make time to walk barefoot so that you can discharge and recharge more often.
October 11, 2022
EMPATHY
And in the blink of an eye, the realization, that our souls only see through the lenses that were gifted us by right of birth. Our environment, our parents, our interactions, failures and victories; the construction plan, moulding our vision and the lenses through which we see. We observe biasedly, colours of own perspective, and only if we look in complete surrender, without trying too hard, without the pensive focus of trying to see, trying to make sense from our own reference; we allow true colours to spill through.
Then, and only then, when we are open and we allow others to add a new lens, can we see more, deeper, clearer. The colours become multiplied, the lines crisper and everything around us become more beautiful, even monstrous illusions transform and make sense in the bigger picture.
It takes time to realize that we don’t see clearly, it takes people to lend their lenses to one another. The realization that we might need new lenses through which we see, in order to build the combined eyes of a fly, that observe with multidimensional lenses and see the depths hidden behind our two-dimensional vision. It is with these opened eyes that we become empathic, we can appreciate the unique beauty of our human condition and it is with these eyes that we find kindness.
Then, and only then, when we are open and we allow others to add a new lens, can we see more, deeper, clearer. The colours become multiplied, the lines crisper and everything around us become more beautiful, even monstrous illusions transform and make sense in the bigger picture.
It takes time to realize that we don’t see clearly, it takes people to lend their lenses to one another. The realization that we might need new lenses through which we see, in order to build the combined eyes of a fly, that observe with multidimensional lenses and see the depths hidden behind our two-dimensional vision. It is with these opened eyes that we become empathic, we can appreciate the unique beauty of our human condition and it is with these eyes that we find kindness.
August 16, 2022
ALONE
Over the years I have seen people close to me struggle with depression, anxiety, hopelessness and rejection. We all ride these waves at some point in our life and let me tell you, all of these people were dealt a dirty hand. They did not ask for it, they were caught off guard by the remaining chaos that followed after a life altering or traumatic event, the devastation of a loved one’s betrayal, constant rejection and brutality spoken over them. I have lost people to the utterly brutal choice of murdering themselves, and yes, it is brutal. Do you realize how absolutely desperate and drained a person is at the point where you finally decide to take your own life?
People do not choose to feel hopeless. Hopelessness is the end result of reaching out, trying to find someone who truly cares, even just someone with a kind word, but constantly walking amongst people and knowing no one even sees your pain or cares that you are suffering. I wrote this poem tonight as I was reminded today of the suffering of feeling this way by someone close to me.
ALONE
Darkness, come, recue me
I beg of you just let me sleep
Take me over let me rest
I have tried and tried and tried my best.
But sunlight shines, another day
One where all my demons stay
Where all is clear, transparent, daylight
And there is nothing colorful in the sight
Let me sleep, let me close my eyes
I’ve seen too much and there is no place to hide
Come now shadows, come pull me into the night
For my heart is heavy,
my soul exposed to the bone
I cannot do this anymore,
not alone.
Please be kind, please hold a hand, please see when someone is struggling. It is difficult enough to deal with all life can throw at us and we are not alone, so let us try to remind each other that we see each other with an extended hand. Even a smile can turn a day around. And for those who are feeling desperate please find help. If your close ones cannot help, there are people who care and will.
You are not alone.
©Ina Brink
People do not choose to feel hopeless. Hopelessness is the end result of reaching out, trying to find someone who truly cares, even just someone with a kind word, but constantly walking amongst people and knowing no one even sees your pain or cares that you are suffering. I wrote this poem tonight as I was reminded today of the suffering of feeling this way by someone close to me.
ALONE
Darkness, come, recue me
I beg of you just let me sleep
Take me over let me rest
I have tried and tried and tried my best.
But sunlight shines, another day
One where all my demons stay
Where all is clear, transparent, daylight
And there is nothing colorful in the sight
Let me sleep, let me close my eyes
I’ve seen too much and there is no place to hide
Come now shadows, come pull me into the night
For my heart is heavy,
my soul exposed to the bone
I cannot do this anymore,
not alone.
Please be kind, please hold a hand, please see when someone is struggling. It is difficult enough to deal with all life can throw at us and we are not alone, so let us try to remind each other that we see each other with an extended hand. Even a smile can turn a day around. And for those who are feeling desperate please find help. If your close ones cannot help, there are people who care and will.
You are not alone.
©Ina Brink
August 9, 2022
IN BETWEEN BROKEN GLASS
There were many times when I grew up where I found myself between broken glass. I grew up in a house made of glass. The perfect family. The hardworking successful father, the big house, the amazingly talented siblings. The religious family with the mother who could work night and day to provide the structures to keep the glass walls standing strong.
Slowly in the pursuit of perfection and polished glistening, showcasing the perfection of a picture for the world, micro fractures from the pressure of maintaining these brilliantly constructed walls started forming. It is blissful to live in a glass house, as everything inside seem haloed by light. Everything seems privileged and unnaturally glorified.
The explosions of tempers from tension came too soon, broken glass from frustration, that hit walls and ended up on the tiles. The mess that the one who exploded had to clean up as that poor soul could not withstand the pressure, nor could that soul keep up with the perfection or the tension of the unrealistic pressures of keeping these high glass walls pristine.
Glasses were filled with the fruitful intoxication of nature’s fluid-escape and it ended up on tiles. A body numerous times ended up between pieces of glass, only to clean the mess after an explosion of not being able to withstand the unbearable pressure of trying to keep glass walls up. Two arms were just not enough to hold all the walls together and more than less, we had to witness a trapped soul in a glass house suffocate. The door was always open, but for the center piece there was no escape as this center piece was inwardly under the pressure of very heavy glass walls.
And when everyone fled the glass house and the immense pressure it was emerged under, in hopes that they would not have to witness the final explosion, a body was left in between pieces of broken glass and it was there that I not only found myself but we could extend a hand to lift a soul up onto her feet, help clean up the mess by realizing that even if the center structure is the strongest structure ever designed, the construction plan was always flawed as the walls were too heavy for only one fulcrum.
We can only be strong for so long and it is in between broken glass that we find who we really are in the reflection of the broken pieces.
©️Ina Brink
Slowly in the pursuit of perfection and polished glistening, showcasing the perfection of a picture for the world, micro fractures from the pressure of maintaining these brilliantly constructed walls started forming. It is blissful to live in a glass house, as everything inside seem haloed by light. Everything seems privileged and unnaturally glorified.
The explosions of tempers from tension came too soon, broken glass from frustration, that hit walls and ended up on the tiles. The mess that the one who exploded had to clean up as that poor soul could not withstand the pressure, nor could that soul keep up with the perfection or the tension of the unrealistic pressures of keeping these high glass walls pristine.
Glasses were filled with the fruitful intoxication of nature’s fluid-escape and it ended up on tiles. A body numerous times ended up between pieces of glass, only to clean the mess after an explosion of not being able to withstand the unbearable pressure of trying to keep glass walls up. Two arms were just not enough to hold all the walls together and more than less, we had to witness a trapped soul in a glass house suffocate. The door was always open, but for the center piece there was no escape as this center piece was inwardly under the pressure of very heavy glass walls.
And when everyone fled the glass house and the immense pressure it was emerged under, in hopes that they would not have to witness the final explosion, a body was left in between pieces of broken glass and it was there that I not only found myself but we could extend a hand to lift a soul up onto her feet, help clean up the mess by realizing that even if the center structure is the strongest structure ever designed, the construction plan was always flawed as the walls were too heavy for only one fulcrum.
We can only be strong for so long and it is in between broken glass that we find who we really are in the reflection of the broken pieces.
©️Ina Brink
April 12, 2022
Why only now?
Why only now?
Today someone dear to me asked me why did I go into fashion and not writing, when I finished school. My response: “It did not even occur to me that my writing could be an occupation.”
My writing has always been private. It was the way that I expressed my feelings and dealt with trauma, stress and even when I felt overwhelmingly blessed and happy, it was penned down. It is part of who I am, a personality trait of sorts. And yet now, as I look back, I realize that it was only a question of time before it would bloom into a passion, that would come to this moment where I was asked: Why only now?
When I was very young, I used to tell stories to entertain my youngest sibling. I wrote poems. I wrote essays. It always came easy as I am a very creative person, a dreamer, hopeless romantic and sensitive to detail and my surroundings. I was curious to how the human psyche was strung together, how to use the alignment of words to bring across ideas and portray images. I love to paint and as I grew older, I realized that words were the most surprisingly colourful medium I have ever worked with. Still, the love for fashion and design took me on a path of pursuing a career in design. For nine years designing and handcrafting wedding dresses and evening wear.
During this time, as I have many interests, I kept writing poetry and short stories. It was only after my mother had passed away and I struggled to come to terms with the loss that I wrote my first book. I did not have a choice really. I was stuck alone with my thoughts at home during the mornings, when my daughters went to school and I did not have the energy to deal with people as pain overwhelmed me, so I took a break from design and I started writing. I fled to the one thing that had always seemed to make me feel alive and as I was truly reflecting on my mother’s life and on womanhood as a whole, what we as woman face daily, I started writing about my reflections. My writing materialized into a fictional novel with wisdoms woven into the characters and their evolutions. It was a daunting task, but after two years I completed it and along with the ending came healing. I was hooked.
A lot of poems, children’s books (for the amusement of my 4-year-old at that time) and another book followed over the years. And yes, years, as in this time I returned to designing and being a full-time mom. It was still something I did for relaxation and as an interest. In 2013 I had a horse-riding accident, where I was seriously injured and I was restricted to minimal movement for months. It was traumatic and the pain was unbearable. As a fit runner, it took everything in me to focus on healing and not falling into a deep depression. When I am forced to sit still, my mind starts reflecting and racing, thus I sat in front of my computer where I could escape my reality and Defeated by Justice was born. When I finished the last sentence, I just knew it would be my debut novel, that I had to submit it and here we are, two days before the publication date.
“Why only now?”
It is time.
Today someone dear to me asked me why did I go into fashion and not writing, when I finished school. My response: “It did not even occur to me that my writing could be an occupation.”
My writing has always been private. It was the way that I expressed my feelings and dealt with trauma, stress and even when I felt overwhelmingly blessed and happy, it was penned down. It is part of who I am, a personality trait of sorts. And yet now, as I look back, I realize that it was only a question of time before it would bloom into a passion, that would come to this moment where I was asked: Why only now?
When I was very young, I used to tell stories to entertain my youngest sibling. I wrote poems. I wrote essays. It always came easy as I am a very creative person, a dreamer, hopeless romantic and sensitive to detail and my surroundings. I was curious to how the human psyche was strung together, how to use the alignment of words to bring across ideas and portray images. I love to paint and as I grew older, I realized that words were the most surprisingly colourful medium I have ever worked with. Still, the love for fashion and design took me on a path of pursuing a career in design. For nine years designing and handcrafting wedding dresses and evening wear.
During this time, as I have many interests, I kept writing poetry and short stories. It was only after my mother had passed away and I struggled to come to terms with the loss that I wrote my first book. I did not have a choice really. I was stuck alone with my thoughts at home during the mornings, when my daughters went to school and I did not have the energy to deal with people as pain overwhelmed me, so I took a break from design and I started writing. I fled to the one thing that had always seemed to make me feel alive and as I was truly reflecting on my mother’s life and on womanhood as a whole, what we as woman face daily, I started writing about my reflections. My writing materialized into a fictional novel with wisdoms woven into the characters and their evolutions. It was a daunting task, but after two years I completed it and along with the ending came healing. I was hooked.
A lot of poems, children’s books (for the amusement of my 4-year-old at that time) and another book followed over the years. And yes, years, as in this time I returned to designing and being a full-time mom. It was still something I did for relaxation and as an interest. In 2013 I had a horse-riding accident, where I was seriously injured and I was restricted to minimal movement for months. It was traumatic and the pain was unbearable. As a fit runner, it took everything in me to focus on healing and not falling into a deep depression. When I am forced to sit still, my mind starts reflecting and racing, thus I sat in front of my computer where I could escape my reality and Defeated by Justice was born. When I finished the last sentence, I just knew it would be my debut novel, that I had to submit it and here we are, two days before the publication date.
“Why only now?”
It is time.
