“It will always be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

I remember the revelatory feeling when hearing this phrase for the first time. Of course it will be okay!

Things are as they are, perfect in themselves, even if we wish they were another way.

That’s the lesson I keep relearning, partially from the experience of supporting others, and telling them that things would be alright.

I guess I needed to believe in myself if others were to believe in me. I am an eternal optimist, confident that when one door is closed, many others will open, as Bob Marley sang. Expectation is simply resentment in construction, I’ve also heard it said.

Still, for several years, I have dreamt of visiting my ancestral home in Ireland. I recently planned a trip with my son, aged 22, who lives in Germany.

I’ve never been that big on plans, to be honest. Yes, they have their purpose, especially when it comes to coordinating a family through the rigours of a school week, when communication is required. And work requires a little planning too.

I manage a modest diary, even if it’s a homemade one with ruled lines in a heavy-duty craft book. I prefer to take each day as it comes, even if there are a few dates scrawled into the unknown future.

It’s just that, after launching into the practicalities of an idea and starting to do what I imagine must be done, I’ll find that the details I imagined are no longer fit for purpose.

Things change as I begin walking into the idea. The vantage point shifts, and I see new things. Stuff emerges.

And yes, I still have a map of sorts, even though it now stays in my pocket. If you’d like to hear the gods laughing, tell them your plans.

Nothing ever does go quite like it should. Especially if you’re besotted with an idea. Woe betide anyone too invested in a certain outcome, for it can only end in tears.

Hence, I’ve been unsurprised with the Irish tour unravelling before my eyes. In fact, I was able to watch it unfurl with calm detachment.

When I applied and paid for my visa, no one told me it would take 12 to 14 weeks. Of course, I’d already paid for flights, as one does to qualify for the visa.

And yes, despite my Irish surname, my darling parents never thought to get me an Irish passport when young, even as they received theirs, and the rules changed…so alas for that.

Although that pill was a bitter one, what can I do about it? It’s not like I work for the Irish Immigration Department. I’m not a magician either.

So with a mere 10 days to go before departure, and my visa application gathering dust for two months, I’ve had to change plans. Or rather, change ideas.

What is surprising is how easy it has been to swallow, even with the eye-watering expense involved, as naturally, I had booked the cheapest (still expensive) non-refundable ticket many moons ago.

So although we will not be visiting the Emerald Isle, at least my son and I will be together as we traverse northern Germany and cavort along the edges of the Baltic Sea to my other ancestral home, Lithuania. This is my mother’s side of the family, buried deep.

How lucky are we to be able to do this? A Plan B that feels better than Plan A! A true sense of exploration and discovery into a region none of us ever expected to go to. No accommodation booked as yet, because we will find beds as we go along.

That’s what phones and eyes and following our nose mean. I’ll teach my son to improvise, that’s the only plan I have.

It doesn’t matter that it will take years to pay off. I’m living for now. I need to spend time with my boy.

If I need to sell a kidney to do that, so be it. And if you have one spare, I’ll take it.

The status on my WhatsApp profile was set to “destination unknown” some time ago. Truly, the less I know, the freer I am. The freer I am, the more able I am to countenance and embrace everything that comes my way.

Recently, the venerable South African Revenue Service decided that my thrice-uploaded evidence showing I did in fact use a phone, pay office rent, have Wi-Fi, and incur other business-related expenses such as travel must be a hoax.

It felt as if they wanted not only to pull the financial rug (a thin and faded item to be sure) from beneath me, but to wrap my corpse in it and dump me into a dark Cederberg canyon. But surely not?

Sense must prevail at some point, I was convinced. It might just involve some pain. And despite their bill growing larger each time I submitted evidence, suddenly, one Saturday morning, self-same SARS refunded me. I was in credit, all along!

In the end, it will be okay. But also, in my own life, those words “the end” have greater significance, for I work closely with death and the dying.

Here, I have witnessed some anguish from people who approach the end without letting go of their resentment, or feeling that they have unfinished business.

The end brings these things into focus, makes me realise what’s important, what’s petty, and can be let go of.

It’s a life-hack, being on nodding terms with death. It makes me fabulously present to this wonderful existence, despite its squalid challenges, its woes and wars and worries.

It’s all in my head, see. There, at least, I am free.