Disclaimer: This is an open, honest post about my own experience with religion. If you are sensitive to the topic then I ask you to ignore this post. I am not trying to push my beliefs on you, nor am I trying to get you to disengage with yours. This is simply my experience and my story. I am happy to discuss the topic with anybody who would care to discuss it with me but abuse will not be tolerated and will be deleted immediately.

Like any good little Maltese girl, I was raised Catholic. My parents are people of faith, but they are open-minded and they never shoved religion down my throat. Still, growing up in a place like Malta meant I knew all the stories and parables like the backs of my hands. What’s more: I went to an all-girl Catholic school from the ages of 4 to 15, which means I could recite about 10 different prayers (including the long version of the Act of Contrition) as well as the Commandments, Sacraments and Beatitudes by heart, in both English and Maltese, by the time I was six and did my Holy Communion.

For the most part, I took the whole thing quite well. I have always been a literary creature and I welcomed the stories. I loved hearing about Noah and the flood, Jonas and the whale, Moses and the parting of the sea. The Nativity story was a favourite, along with Cinderella, Red Riding Hood and Peter Pan.

I liked the idea of having a big, friendly, invisible and bearded giant listening to my rants before bedtime. I clearly remember getting bored when I couldn’t fall asleep and asking God to tell me a story. I then waited patiently for a story to be told to me, and when it wasn’t I made up my own. I made up stories until I fell asleep.

The older I grew, though, the more scary God became. There is a marked difference in the way God is taught to you when you are still in pre-school and God is a father-like creature who loves you unconditionally, and when you begin to grow up. Suddenly, God becomes a tyrant, and one who makes no sense. God loves you unconditionally but will not think twice about sending you straight to hell if you slip up.

I remember having to do my first confession before my first communion. I remember my school-friends and I sitting in the pews, waiting our turn to visit the priest, exchanging sins.

“I’m going to tell him I called my sister an idiot.”
“Me too!”
“You can’t steal my ideas.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him I ate two chocolates instead of one after dinner.”
“Oooh, that’s a good one.”

And I remember every confession after that, counting my sins. I wanted a nice, round number, like five. But I was six years old. Honestly, how many sins can a six year old really have committed? I invented sins because I felt like I needed to earn my confession. And when I walked into the booth I rattled them off, counting them on my fingers as I said them to make sure I hadn’t left any out.

My first communion was fun – but only because I got to wear a little white dress and a veil. Choosing my dress, I felt like a little bride. After the ceremony, my family and I all went to San Anton gardens, where I posed and pouted while my parents took photos of me in my dress.

And so it continued. I went to Mass every Sunday. My parents were adamant that I should go until I was 18 (I stopped when I was 15, telling them I was at Mass while I was really hanging out with my boyfriend at the park for an hour). I wish I could say that I was ever moved during Mass. I wish I could tell you I felt a divine presence while sitting there, hearing the priest go on and on, but never really listening to what he said (I did try, but I would find myself getting distracted very quickly).

Here’s what I do remember of going to Mass:

• I would become really fascinated with the person in front of me and the back of their head, especially if they had dandruff.
• I once counted the fans in my parish church. I believe there were 12.
• A cute boy once walked me home after Mass. We spoke about music but I didn’t ask his name and we never met again.
• One of the priests had a habit of saying ‘eh’ after everything. Once I thought about that I couldn’t think of anything else. It drove me up the wall. All his words blended together until all I could hear was the percussionesque ‘eh’s.
• I remember the host getting stuck in my braces. We were always told not to chew up the wafer and let it sit in our mouths, but if I did that I always got stuck in my braces, which I found a little bit gross.

My confirmation came and went. And then I was a pre-teen and I was suddenly learning about other religions. Not from school, mind you. No – at school the topic of other religions was approached in much the same way the topic of sex-ed was: briefly and euphemistically. Mostly, we were told pagans would rot in hell. We were told Catholicism was the One True religion and everybody else was wrong and would spend eternity in the lake of fire.

But I began to learn about other religions. I read a lot, I was online a lot. I was a sponge. I read about Islam and Buddhism, about Hinduism and Judaism. I flirted with Wicca for a year or so, but I never really did manage to part with that overwhelming sense of Catholic guilt. Even now, I feel Catholic guilt: completely irrational and deeply-set guilt which I’m sure I’ll never completely be able to shake off.

And then came my 15th birthday and suddenly I was a rebel. Suddenly, I grew up. I’m pretty sure I was clinically depressed – something which made me question everything I had ever taken for granted. Including religion. And that’s when everything stopped making sense; when all the loose ends came into view and began to fray. I had questions that nobody could really answer. I asked priests and teachers but they never gave satisfactory answers to questions like ‘If God is love then why would he create hell?’ or ‘If God created us in his image then how come we are imperfect’ or ‘If God exists then how come there is suffering in the world?’ Even ‘If God created us in his image then how can you dismiss as “morally evil” people who are simply fulfilling their sexual destiny?’

The ubiquitous ‘God works in mysterious ways’ stopped being enough.

Living in a country like Malta, which is not secularised in the least, it is even easier to see the hypocrisy of religion. How could I be part of a Church which marginalised people based on their sexual orientation? How could I be part of a Church which since its inception has been patriarchal and done everything in its power to disallow women control over their own bodies? How could I be part of a Church which used guilt and scaremongering to keep its members from straying? How could I be part of a Church whose clergy abused children, ruined lives?

I stopped calling myself a Christian and for a while held on to the belief that there is a supernatural, divine force present in the universe. I didn’t necessarily believe in a benevolent God, or even a cognizant God. Still, I felt there must be something bigger than me and I also felt the need for a divine presence in my life. I wanted to experience the infinite. I wanted to live a life with purpose.

For a while, I believed God is everything. God is not a separate entity, judgmental and bearded. I believed God is the sum of everything that is present in the universe. Myself and you and your loved ones and your pets and plants and all your beliefs, fears and hopes.

And this comforted me – the idea of an absolute. The idea of a giant wheel spinning, which I was a part of, no matter how small. I liked the idea of being fundamentally connected to my family, my friends, even people I didn’t like. Because this meant that despite the dislike, this person was also a part of me. This would mean I would have to overcome that dislike – not because holding a grudge might mean I would go to hell, but because everything is love.

Reality, what you see and what you know is only one, completely arbitrary, way of ordering the chaos. It is what we have all agreed on but that doesn’t make it correct. It just makes it true for us.

And that was my way of experiencing God. By this I mean that there may be some people for whom the Catholic story works; people who feel the divine at Mass. These people are lucky they can find God in a set paradigm and they have every right to that. Nobody can take that away from them.

The older I get, however, the more concerned I become with empirical evidence. I used to relish arguing with believers – now I avoid it because I am sick of being asked to justify my non-belief. It should be the other way round. Extraordinary claims should be backed by irrefutable evidence and it is absolutely up to the believer to prove the existence of his/her claims, and not up to the nonbeliever to disprove them. And so far, I have not experienced any evidence to compel me to live my life according to a book supposedly written a couple of millenia ago by a divine being. Nor has anyone presented me with such.

I do not like the idea of atheism as a religion. While my journey has led me down the path of science and scepticism, I must appreciate that others may be determined to hold on to their own beliefs because they make them feel good. As long as they’re not shoving it down my throat, that’s fine by me. Nor would I ever approach a believer and insist he or she convert to atheism. That’s not the way it works in my head. To each their own. May your beliefs bring you joy and enlightenment and whatever else you seek in life.

Whichever way you choose to do that I believe that what is most important above everything else is maintaining humanistic values and realising the inherent beauty in loving yourself and loving your neighbour, cultivating empathy and seeing that God is in every person, white or black, Christian or Muslim, gay or straight, atheist or Pagan, young or old, male or female, thin or fat.

You don’t have to be religious to do that.

I always say that if I had not become a nurse, I would have definitely become a chef. When you think about it, the two professions are not all that different: long hours, extremes of heat and cold, an ugly uniform, a mixed ability team and if you make a mistake, you can easily kill somebody.

I did not become a chef, but I most definitely dabble. And in general I am successful. When I am not, I choose to see the funny side. My qassatat tasted great, but didn’t go according to plan when it came to presentation.

For those not in the know, qassatat are basically little pies filled with either ricotta or spinach and anchovies. I have also come across some filled with mushy peas. The appeal lies in the way you seal these little pies, as they are meant to be twisted at the top and left open, with little pieces of the pastry overlapping each other. This also requires some skill – skill which I do not have. Every time I tried to overlap the pastry, they just burst open again. In the end, it was all I could do not to fling them across the room.

Then I remembered, I am not a professional chef and the whole appeal to home cooking is precisely that fact. They will still be eaten, whether they look beautiful or not.

When I write about food, I do not usually include a recipe. My food blog is not about how others make food, but how food is a way of life and how something as essential as nutrition is a big part of how we spend our time. And like anything that we spend time on, we experience an array of emotions and it is precisely that which I try to document.

However this time I will make an exception:

1. The pastry should be shortcrust.
2. pre-heat the oven at 200 fan assisted
3. For the filling, if using ricotta, mix 500grms ricotta with some salt. If using spinach, boil it and drain it properly, mix in a few capers, olives and tinned anchovy fillets and a good dash of salt and pepper.
4. Roll out the pastry on a floured surface and cut out rounds 10cm in diameter.
5. In the middle of each round, put a large tablespoon of filling, and close up the round by twisting the tops forming a kind of purse (this is the hard part, I made a tremendous cock up of it)
6. Brush with egg wash and cook for 35mins.

Pulpetti

There’s so much joy in recreating traditional recipes, especially the ones most of us grew up with. The smells and tastes will take you back to those childhood carefree days, when your mother or perhaps even your grandmother was preparing this dish. You’d just run into the kitchen after a morning of playing with your friends and you were presented with a plate of pulpetti. I wonder what kind of memories the next generation will have of these traditional dishes.

I chatted to a couple of people about how they like to make their pulpetti and it turns out that, like with most traditional dishes, there are various ways to prepare them and opinions will vary about which is the ‘right’ way.

This is my version that will make about 8 portions. The measurements may easily be halved to make a smaller amount.

You will need:

• 1kg minced beef/pork mixture
• 2 eggs
• 2 tablespoons chopped parsley
• 2 slices worth of breadcrumbs
• 100 grams ground parmesan
• half a cup of beef stock
• 2 cloves minced garlic
• 1 cup olive oil
• salt and pepper to taste

Wash your hands well, using a nail brush if necessary. You’re going to be mixing the ingredients, including the raw meat, with your hands.

Start with the minced meat, eggs, parsley, parmesan and garlic in a large bowl. Mash the mixture with your hands until it looks uniform. Next add the breadcrumbs and combine. Gradually add the stock a few tablespoons at a time. You don’t want to add too much, make sure that all the stock is absorbed before adding more and stop adding stock when you deem that the mixture is saturated. You’ll want to be able to form the pulpetti in your hands without them being too sticky. I didn’t add any salt at all, but I opted for a pinch of ground pepper.

When the mixture is done, roll a small handful (about 2 tablespoons worth) between your hands and press to form a compact ball. Use as is or flatten prior to cooking.

When forming keep in mind that the pulpetti will shrink whilst cooking. Oddly enough, opinions will differ even when it comes to the shape of pulpetti – some people will prefer shaping them into balls and cooking like so and others will make flattened patties similar to small burgers. Keep in mind that you’ll want these to cook through and that the thickness will influence the cooking time. In my case I preferred the flattened kind to prevent the outside from drying out whilst the centre cooked. A part of this reasoning was also greatly influenced by the fact that this is the way my mother always made them.

Heat up the olive oil in a pan. You’ll want to keep it on low heat throughout since olive oil must not be allowed to reach high temperatures. Give it a few minutes to heat up before cooking the meat patties a few at a time. Let them brown before turning over to cook on the other side. Set aside on a plate covered in paper napkins to absorb any excess oil.

I served these with a tomato and garlic sauce which is easy and quick to make. I preferred to opt for something rather simple to go with the pulpetti. To make this cook a couple of minced garlic cloves in a pan. Add half a dozen deseeded and chopped tomatoes or a can of peeled tomatoes. Add a teaspoon of sugar or a tablespoon of apple cider to remove the bitterness. Add salt and pepper to taste and let it simmer for at least 20 minutes. You can make this while the pulpetti cook and it will be done by the time they are all ready.

After sharing ideas with others, I found out that some people opt for corned beef rather than minced beef or pork. Others still use milk and flour instead of breadcrumbs and stock. I’ve tasted some with potatoes used instead of flour or breadcrumbs. The list goes on, with the crux of the matter probably revolving around what’s available or what your family is used to.

For the vegetarians out there, there is a different version of pulpetti to enjoy. Substitute the meat with steamed cauliflower or broccoli and cook in the same manner. It would be interesting to serve the meat and vegetable pulpetti together with different sauces. Pulpetti party, anyone?

Recently, I watched the Derren Brown special, Hero at 30,000 Feet. Those of you lucky enough to have access to 4oD will be able to watch the episode at this link. Others may have to search for it on YouTube. I don’t believe it is out on DVD yet, though I may be wrong.

Briefly, without giving away too much detail, it is about Matt – a young man who is stuck in a rut and who is terrified of flying – being given the chance to change the course his life is on and prove himself a hero.

I won’t get into the question of whether the shows are truly genuine or whether they are edited to appear a certain way. That may be so, but for now what I am interested in is the point behind this show: to jolt people into understanding that they cannot be passive when it comes to their own lives. To get them to engage with their life. Hopefully nobody will insist on landing a plane (please, don’t be silly) but take note of the changes, however big or small, they can make in their own lives to improve them. What I must also emphasize is that in order to be ‘heroic’ (literally or figuratively), you must also be ready to take risks, and make an effort to be as kind as you can to the people you meet. To me you are a hero even if your heroic act simply consists of going to a home for the elderly and being friendly with the residents.

This episode moved me in a really profound way. Many of its viewers will (I hope) be moved into changing their lives. For me, it rang so true because it reminded me of my own journey to get to where I am.

And so, here I am, at midnight on a school night, typing up a post which is about a year in the making. About a year ago, I cemented the decision to apply to college to do my Master’s degree. Not just that – to move away from my home country and realise a dream I have had for as long as I can remember.

Now there are some things you should know about me. Firstly, that I am an atheist. However, while I absolutely do not believe in intelligent design, nor a benevolent god (perhaps this is an issue I will revisit in a future entry), I am awed every single day by the beauty and the immensity of the universe and its contents. Which means you. And me. And the stars and sea and clouds. I am awed BECAUSE I do not believe in intelligent design – I believe in ordered chaos and I believe we are truly, you and I, fortunate to be here. Right now. At this very second. Me sitting in bed in Dublin, writing; and you, reading this on your laptop or phone or tablet. This is a theme which the show emphasizes. That we are here right now is an absolute gift. It is a miracle. An infinite amount of things, the slightest twitch of a butterfly’s wing, could have changed the course for me, for us. And who knows? Perhaps there are universes in which I do not exist. You do not exist. There are no butterflies. But my consciousness is rooted in this reality and if there is one thing I know with absolute certainty, it is that I cannot let such a precious, precious gift go to waste.

Now, I have no delusions of grandeur. I wish I were in a position to change the world for the better, but the best I can hope to do, at least for now, is to change my own life and better the lives of the people around me as much as I can. And maybe that is more than enough. I do not harbour any delusions of grandeur; nor do I believe our existence is inconsequential.

For a while, I believed in destiny. For a while I believed I was on a path which led me to where I was supposed to be. But now I believe that I have chosen which way to go at every fork in the road. Why? Because this gives me power and control over my own life. Believing in fate may suit some, but it seems defeatist to me. Because you absolve yourself of any fuck up, of any glitch, and attribute it to a higher power. Even more so because if you believe in destiny you cannot celebrate the fact that you are remarkable and that you have choice every step of the way and that you are HERE, NOW because of YOU.

I am here, in Dublin, doing this course, with another huge opportunity presenting itself to me, not because of some pre-destined path, but because one morning last year it finally dawned on me that there had been big, big flashing neon signs everywhere I went trying to shake me up and make me realise that I needed to be in charge of my own life which I chose to ignore every step of the way.

I have always wanted to live abroad. I have always wanted to live an extraordinary life. It was what got me through a lot of things. Until I found myself, last year, living a perfectly comfortable existence. I had a static but stable job, I had a pretty house with pretty things, I had friends.

But inside of me was this force that had been kicking and screaming and which I had managed to silence for a number of years.

And I realised that if I was going to even start to think about living my life the way I wanted it to live it, I would have to do some things that terrified the crap out of me.

Like leave Malta which, comfortable as it was, was crushing my spirit.

And so, a chain of events and signals which I FINALLY picked up on, led me to apply, one insomnia-riddled night, to six colleges to study Digital Media at Master’s level. My hands were trembling as I hit ‘send’. It was the first step. Then the acceptance letters came and then I’d chosen a college and then I confirmed my place in the course and then I booked flight tickets.

And before I knew it I was packing up my entire life into boxes. Sorting my things into three piles: keep, store, throw away. It was cathartic. It was cleansing. It was heart-breaking. It was wonderful and awful and the nights leading up to my flight away, to my new life, were long and sleepless.

But I did it.

And I will bloody well do it again if I have to.

I may not be a hero. I may not have offered to land an aircraft, but I took the reins into my own hands and here I am.

What is your heroic act going to be?

I’m a little bit in love with Derren Brown.

It could be his smiley eyes or his lovely little goatee, but thinking about it I’m pretty sure it’s something else.

When I was younger, probably about seven or eight years old, I loved magic. It was all I thought about, all I spoke about. I looked forward to my friends’ birthday parties not because of the food or the pretty dresses I could wear to them. It was because I could catch a glimpse of a rabbit being pulled out of a hat. I put up my hand every time the magician asked for a volunteer, even if I had seen that particular trick before. I loved it.

Of course, I believed in magic. In my childish innocence I could not even fathom the idea that this well dressed man in the top hat waving a wand around was anything BUT magical. I couldn’t even begin to think of the concept of trickery. There was no such thing, in my mind, as a trick. Magicians to me were special creatures who had had these incredible gifts bestowed upon them. But I’ll come to that later.

I had a thing for David Copperfield. Yes, David Copperfield. This guy:

While all my classmates were listening to East 17 and trading Take That stickers, I was watching my one and only video of David Copperfield poking holes through coins and walking through the Great Wall of China. Over and over and over again. When my uncle went to watch David Copperfield perform live in London, I cried for days because my mother wouldn’t let me join him. Eventually, I settled for a photo of his, which my uncle had bought me from the merchandise stall at the theatre.

My great grandfather was a very talented magician, escapologist and mentalist who gained lots of popularity worldwide after he emigrated to Australia. My mum likes to tell the story of when he met her boyfriend at the time, who was big and tall and broad and a little intimidating. As soon as this guy shook my great grandfather’s hand, he became giddy and giggly and weak at the knees. I liked to think when I was younger that magic was in my blood and that one day I would wake up with incredible abilities.

My birthday was approaching and, when my doting grandmother asked me what I wanted as a present, I said ‘A box of magic’ without hesitation. I thought that if I ever wanted to receive my powers I’d need to speed up the process a little. I spent the next three weeks excited out of my mind. I couldn’t wait to open that box and pick up my wand. I started planning all the things I would do. I would give myself curls. I would conjure a puppy. I would change the colour of the sofa in the living room from black to pink. It was all I could think of. I couldn’t sleep.

My parents, not wanting to spoil the magic of this little world I had created for myself, humoured me.
“Papa,” I said, dragging out the vowels, “When I get my magic set, will I be able to read your mind?”
“Of course, princess,” he assured me.
My mum was a little more clever. When I was being particularly bratty, she would remind me of my magic wand and suggest I go and (quietly) think of more things I could do with it.

After what seemed like eternity, my birthday came. I politely opened all the other presents first (knowing this would give me more time to become magical later on) and thanked all my friends for coming to my party. I watched the magician’s act that day thinking, “This evening I will be just like you. I will be able to make people I don’t like disappear into thin air.”

That evening, I sat on the carpeted floor in the living room with my magic box, tore away the wrapping paper and lifted the lid open. There, among the ropes and the dice and cards and rings, was a perfect black wand with white tips. I squealed, picked up the wand and pointed it at the sofa. With all my might I willed it to change to pink, then pointed the wand at it and said ‘Abracadabra’.

…it was still black.

So of course I tried again, and again, and again, becoming more and more frustrated each time. What was going on? Was I not magical? I picked up the book of instructions and began to flip through it, desperately looking for something – anything – which would explain to me what was going on and what I could do to invoke the power which this magic wand was obviously imbibed with.

Trick 1: Making your wand seem shorter
Move the white band down the length of the wand and conceal the rest of it in your hand. See Fig. A.

The hell?

Trick 2: Guessing the card
Hold the cards in a fan, paying attention to hide the small mark at the bottom. See Fig B.

What the hell is this? There are diagrams and props and… this is trickery. What is this?

I screamed for my mum and demanded an explanation. Why was the sofa not changing colour? Why the hell would I want a shorter wand? I didn’t want an audience. The magic was supposed to be for my own benefit. It was meant to help me turn brussels sprouts into Malteasers; to give my playground nemesis donkey ears. What was the meaning of this?

“No darling, that’s the way it works,” explained mum. “You learn tricks and you practise them and when you show them to other people it looks like magic.”

Right.

I abandoned the box of magic and ran up to my room, weeping. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I just cried. It was the saddest I had ever been in my life. I was not special. There was no magic in the world. It was a tough lesson for a little girl to learn.

After that, I wanted nothing to do with those con artists who called themselves magicians. David Copperfield was dead to me. I peeled his posters off my walls. At birthday parties I sat in the corner while the others let themelves be tricked by men in suits.
“You LIAR!” I wanted to scream at magicians.

And then I grew up and magic became something quite cool to watch, but not too special. It became a dance, a choreography, and as a theatre kid it didn’t really impress me. I watched Siegfried and Roy at the Mirage in Las Vegas in 2000 and I was more fascinated by the beautiful tigers than by their illusions. I watched magic shows through skeptical eyes, not enjoying the show and trying hard to work their tricks out, often succeeding. When ever I watched magic my mind drifted back to See Fig A.

And then, recently, I stumbled across Derren Brown.

I was flicking through TV channels for something to watch when I came across the first episode of The Experiments. For the first time in almost 20 years, I believed in magic. I believed in magic wrapped up in psychology. Which may or may not be a red herring. And for the first time in almost 20 years I picked up a deck of cards and began to teach myself some basic tricks. Because magic was no longer rabbits and hats. Now it was about people. And performance. And misdirection but on a grand scale.

And even when I think I’ve got one of his tricks figured out, I have to second guess myself. And that’s where the magic is.

So while Derren’ goatee is rather lovely, and while I love a man in a suit anyway, and he likes animals and he’s wonderfully funny and can write and paint and he likes Rufus Wainwright as much as I do, and while his impression of Stewie Griffin is pretty much the funniest thing I’ve seen in a while, I think the reason he’s got to me is because he is the first magician to make me want to believe in magic again.

I’ve bought tickets to Svengali – his live show – in June so watch this space for a review of that too!

Every evening since the beginning of 2012, I have been writing in my Q&A a Day journal from Anthropologie (which you should buy because it is fantastic. One of the more recent prompts was ‘How do you describe home?’

And I had to pause.

How DO I describe home?

See, my problem is that despite feeling ‘at home’ in my parents’ house, and ‘at home’ when I lived with Andrew in our flat, I think the truth is I never really did feel at home in Malta. Of course I had loved ones and dear friends, and I had a life there. But I didn’t quite fit the mould. I felt like that jigsaw piece which should, in theory, snap down to complete the picture quite perfectly, but whose arm was cut just a millimetre too long.

Before I left, people who had lived abroad and returned to the island had told me I would miss it within a couple of months and long to go back. Long to return to the blue sea and the olive oil and the sun soaked summers. So when I visited Malta for a few weeks over Christmas I wondered whether my heart would finally realise it had what it needed all along.

But it didn’t.

Instead, after a week I began to feel breathless and nauseous. My Crohn’s started acting up. I started to feel sad again.

The summers were never sun soaked. They were drenched in sweat. The olive oil made us all obese in both body and mind. The blue sea was filled with translucent jellyfish. I picture Malta and all I can see is rubble and political billboards.

Which is terrible because most of the people I love are there and I hate leaving them. If I could scoop them all up in my arms and bring them with me wherever I go, I would.

Which brings me back to the question: how do I describe home? Do I feel at home now? Not really. I have a home: it is my comfortable bed, my tiny room, watching films with my flatmates (one of whom is my closest friend), drinking wine with my fantastic classmates. But I still don’t feel at home. I know this home is temporary. It will be gone when Hannah has left for Africa. And it all depends on whether or not I find a job here.

Can it be home if it is not permanent?

The truth is: I don’t know where home will be next year. And if I am completely honest, I don’t hate that. I am a person in transition. I am a person learning and changing and trying to figure out my place in the world; trying to discover that one millimetre which will let me snap comfortably to a grid and settle down. But, God, I hope I don’t have to settle down too soon because I am having a fantastic time meeting other people whose limbs are just a little too long for the place they were assigned.

So for now, home can be movable. And I’m fine with that. And if I really need to describe it, then here it is:

Home is where my books are.

How do you describe home?

Ok, I’m not going to lie to you. Long Distance Relationships (LDRs) are really freaking hard. They are. You always have to work to make a relationship work, but when it’s over a distance it’s double the work. I should know. I am in one, and have been for almost five months now. But I’m pleased to tell you that not every LDR is doomed. If you’re really, and I mean really, dedicated to the relationship, distance is just an obstacle you have to find your way around.

Deadlines
By this I mean you should always know when you’ll next meet. Some couples are lucky enough to visit each other every weekend. Andrew and I see each other every six weeks or so but it’s important to always know when your next meeting is, so that you can both look forward to it. If you don’t have a ‘deadline’ it might seem like you’re floating around for nothing. Both of you should be doing your best to meet whenever it is possible. If you have a long weekend or cheap flights are out, book that trip. When you DO meet,

Stick to the rules
Despite the distance, this is the same old relationship.  The rules you established at the beginning still apply. If you are a monogamous couple, then distance is no excuse for being unfaithful. Sure, there will be times you miss holding your partner, but you can’t try and replace that feeling by cheating. And don’t think your partner is less likely to find out if you are unfaithful during an LDR… everybody knows the truth always has a way of surfacing. My advice to you is to take action at the first sign of trouble. If there is somebody you have been spending time with and find yourself attracted to, nip it in the bud before something happens, not after it is too late. Otherwise, perhaps you should re-evaluate and re-consider whether you should be in this relationship.

Keep the romance alive
Now more than ever you need to be romantic. Send sweet text messages to each other. Send love letters in the post. Send little presents in the post. Be creative.

Talk a lot
Set ‘dates’ to video call each other. There is no excuse: Facetime, Ooovoo and Skype are all fantastic, FREE, services.  You should be texting each other anyway (Whatsapp is great for free messages), but it is really important that you make time to see each other and hear each other’s voices several times a week. I refer to them as ‘dates’ – set a time and stick to it. You wouldn’t stand each your partner up on a ‘real’ date so don’t do it on a virtual date. I know a couple who used to watch movies together over Skype. Once a week they would each open a bottle of wine and light a candle and have a little romantic dinner. Also, save your arguments (if any) for video calls. It’s really, REALLY easy to misunderstand somebody’s tone over a text message.

Be honest with each other
If something about the arrangement is bothering you, then discuss it as soon as possible. Don’t keep it in until you next meet each other. You know how bottling things up has a way of biting you in the ass because you begin to overthink things and create more issues for you to be concerned about. Be civil but make sure you are honest about your feelings.

Be honest with yourself
Not all LDRs are doomed to fail but weak relationships will. If you keep thinking about leaving your partner, or being unfaithful, or find yourself lying then maybe you should think about whether you really want to be in this relationship. Be fair and don’t lead people on if there is no spark left.

Are you in a long distance relationship? What do you do to make it work?