Madness by Angela West

When you read this poem, read it while going on a rollercoaster. Feel your stomach and your head churn. listen to the whirring noise from the rails and the obliviousness of it all. Hear the distorted voices and see the people as they wave from a distance underneath. Feel your insides. Now read the poem .....

Madness by Angela West 

If my stomach would stop churning

And the world would stop turning

And my head would stop worsening

If only for one minute

My ears would stop ringing

And the music stop playing

And my head would stop singing 

If only for one minute 

If that voice can just stop talking 

And those birds just stop squawking

And I can stop tiredly yawning 

If only for one minute 

My madness is walking and stalking

Its crawling and withdrawing

Its spawning dawdling galling imploring

If only for one minute 

Its observing reemerging hurting

And its searching urging referring reaffirming

And its worming and concerning

If only for one minute

The wheels of the bus.

Its freaking hot in the desert. The school bus is like all other school busses except its off white. Perhaps it is safer to say it has no colour. Anyhow, its just after midday and the mother has appeared on my stoep. She does not speak English and my halting Arabic is of little use. Our conversation is limited to smiling and nodding.

The bus can be heard in the distance as it turns of the main road and onto the gravel. The chanting rhythm of Arabic music is screaming down the side roads, scaring even the biggest goat of the herd. The camel who has developed a fondness for the plants growing by my neighbours water leak looks up and blinks disinterestedly. They really have seen it all. The chanting now becomes an unpleasant earsplitting vibration in my ears. My windows vibrate as the driver throws the bus around the corner and comes to a screeching halt in front of our gate. We are momentarily blinded by the red dust.

The driver opens the doors. "Salaam" he shouts above the noise. He waves and smiles. As a foreigner I'm wondering if all Arabic children are deaf by the time they are 12. Is this normal?  There are mostly big brown eyes peering at me. I'm not sure how many little faces there are, but its a lot. A host of papers, tissues, cooldrink cans, tin foil gets thrown out of the windows of the bus. The children are screaming and laughing loudly trying to talk to each other. Finally here she is. She really is quite stunningly beautiful. She is only 7. She walks down the steps carrying a far-to-big pink school satchel.  She smiles at me first, dutifully, then runs off upstairs to her apartment followed by her mother.

The bus driver gives me a final wave, the red dust bellows up as he fires up the engine and off he goes. The music still blaring until he drives around the big hole in the road and onto the main road.
Silence at last. I go inside.  My children have got headphones on. Their silence deafening.  

              

The Big Picture

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve, 2017. I find myself being reflective.  I’m struggling to find direction. I have purpose, I just can’t find direction.  Terry Pratchett, an English author once wrote in his book I Shall Wear Midnight , ‘If you do not know where you come from, then you don't know where you are, and if you don't know where you are, then you don't know where you're going. And if you don't know where you're going, you're probably going wrong.’ 

This kind of circular thought is counterproductive and to my mind, obsequious and a little bit disturbing. I am once again in Oman. I previously left Oman, only to return here. My whole life is just like watching a movie called The Big Picture, only I’ve arrived to watch it ten minutes after the movie started and now no-body will tell me the plot.  I have to work it all out myself using those dastardly frustratingly illuminating clues. Clues that are sometimes small imperceptible nuances from my life story sandwiched in between those excruciating rewritten lines of The Big Picture. The action of scribbling my thoughts down provides a beginning, a middle and an end product, a commentary for my jumbled up thoughts. I do write better in the silence and the desert provides few distractions. Besides, I cannot start whining at this stage of my life. It will take too long and I won’t have any time for life left. Surely all of us hope for a little distractive redemption, whether we deserve it or not.

I hope good things are on their way this year of 2018. Although life has circled back upon itself I feel the journey has been fruitful. My Chair that I previously wrote about in this blog, called Night Ramblings, mocks me.  I know now though, where it is, just not how to get there. I’ve caught a glimpse of the plot, perhaps a gift delivered to me by virtue of my greying hair and ever-deepening wrinkles. My Chair has a tremendous sense of gravity, a kind of ever-present heaviness, an awareness that I have not reached my destination or my purpose yet. The neon flicking signs firmly planted along my path show ABUNDANCE FRUITFULNESS FERTILITY. Well, anyone can rise if they have enough yeast. The quiet nuances are also not silent if you have an open mind. The trouble with having an open mind is that people are always trying to put things in it: stuffing it up like a pork sausage. I think sometimes, one has to turn the facts around in several directions before finding the perfect fit. After all, the path to your own story does, in fact, start with a small step. If you don’t write down your own story you become part of someone else’s life story. My Chair will never allow that!

                                                                                                                                                      

Between the Outeniqua mountains and the Indian ocean

This year has been quite a year for me which is why I haven’t written in a while.  True to my previous prediction, life did change for me.  It took a while and things got a bit anxious, but it seems it is all over now. 

What do you call someone who comes from George?  A Georgian or Georgette?  When I lived in Worcester I was a Worcesterite.  Am I a Georgerite?  I am, we are, from George.  Martin and I have bought our forever-house here in George and I have decided I am never going to move.  I love it here. I love our house, a renovators dream.  It has its own magic forest at the back and a real South African stoep.  My own dream house.

 I live between the forests of the Outeniqua mountains and the Indian ocean.  It rains a lot here and there are quite a few waterfalls, but after the longest spell in the desert, rain is beautiful and refreshing. The Indian Ocean is warm.  George is in the garden route of South Africa. Victoria Bay, a surfer's paradise is only ten minutes away. Also, just over the hill is Knysna and its oysters, as well as Wilderness and some of the most beautiful, scenic coast-line in the world. Everything is green and lush. The district we live is called Eden. 

The town is small and has a great Afrikaans community.  Everything is within walking distance, except of course, the new mall, which is very far away. On Saturdays they have iron-man competitions; they run past my front stoep.  Watching it is exciting.  The neighbours get their camping chairs out, sipping coffee or beer from huge mugs; the police lights flash, the dogs bark and the children wave.  What an occasion!  After that, it’s Great South African rugby and lots of braaiing. The smell of boerewors hangs thick in the air as tunnels of smoke can be seen coming from almost everyone’s back yard.  At our house however, the children and I have started our own new Sunday tradition; First, Church in town, then we come home and Matthew lights a fire and we have a braai, finished off with a Sunday afternoon sleep.  It is a routine now. Traditions are good for the soul and predictability is grounding. Something to rely on. 

The boys are really looking forward to meeting new friends at the English school here in January. They have got a huge challenge ahead of them, but hopefully it will be easier to fit in here. Nicholas decided a while ago that he wants to be a pop star.  He definitely belongs on stage and has quite a presence.  Matthew, like his father, is more of a thinker and is quietly intelligent.

Andrew has got engaged and is starting a new business venture in Saldana Bay.  At twenty-years-old, this seems like an awesome responsibility, but he takes it all in his stride.  Krystle loves and supports Andrew. I can see that they are happy together and they communicate well. To me this is a good start.

Jayne is in Port Elizabeth and is doing very well in what she does.  She has just moved into Andrew's old flat.  I am looking forward to seeing her closer to Christmas when she takes a break from her very busy work schedule. She also has a dream of starting her own business one day, but is struggling with the path. I am very confident in her abilities and support her decisions regardless.

Martin is still in Nizwa.  I miss him every moment of every day. I know he misses us too.  He would have nine months left on his contract, if he resigned before too long. Martin has been promoted to TOEFL Lab Supervisor which means that besides doing the work he did before, he is now also teaching.

I managed to get a four month old Dalmatian-cross puppy whom we like to call Archie, who bites everything and is growing by the nanosecond. He is keeping our boys very busy at the moment.  He has one black eye. We have to take our little Archie down to the botanical tea gardens most days otherwise he sits by the door, leash in mouth.  Yesterday I bought him a huge cow leg-bone and he hasn't stopped grinding his teeth on it.  The whole night there was a kind-of grating noise coming from his bed. I think tonight I am going to let him sleep outside.      

Looking for a job is proving to be difficult.  The people around me tell me I should hang in there.  I will get one. It’s just a matter of time.  Since I am now in my third year of studies, I would like to somehow combine my love for psychology with my previous work experience.  I am struggling with this at the moment.  I do love to work and need to contribute to our finances.  To quote Rogers - Life is a struggle for meaning.

What has happened though, and this is important, is an imperceptible shift of consciousness here.  If I leave now, there will be a small space where I left. Because I haven’t been here that long, it’s only a small space, but I’m going to work on growing that space.  I am recognized as a person and I am important. The people at the shop, at church, at the library and even my neighbours, all recognise me. The call me by name and I am no longer invisible. I have found a very small space in the world that I fit into, which is mine. I have found my VOICE. 

Stoepstories

I read the other day, that the stories Athol Fugard wrote were mostly autobiographical, or stories of his own life although, he describes his work as fiction.  Some characters, certain attitudes, most noticeably that dehumanizing policy, apartheid, creep up in his work and fill his pages.  I ask myself what, as a white English-speaking South African, would I write about?

Would it be the controversial BEE policies, which is the reason I live in this dustbowl? - I am currently studying and living in the Middle East.  Would it be the mess the ANC government, with absolutely no consequences, has put South Africa in?  JM Coetzee wrote about the powerlessness of white males in his book, Disgrace. He writes that us whites should all start again from a point of disgrace.  Perhaps I should write my stories from that angle, since it is what we whites are all experiencing at the moment.  But these attitudes are easier to reflect upon, I am sure, while Coetzee is sipping his Australian wine.

If I were to write an account, my account, of apartheid, would the ANC government ban me from being too controversial?  Would I go live in America like Fugard, Anne Landsman, or Tony Prile. Perhaps they will ban me like the then South African government banned Breyten Breytenbach for marrying the wrong person and just being too outspoken.

Just lately Zuma has mentioned several times that if you toe the line with the party, your business will flourish. Is the converse also true then?  He does rather seem hellbent on giving all South African children his own peculiar measure of education, or is it ‘uneducation’. I ask myself, what is he doing to all of us as a nation, and to me and my children? Will they even be able to read the mutterings that I so dedicatedly put down. Will my grandchildren?

It is my belief that a child is brought up, not only by school, but by a myriad of experiences within the community where he/she lives - a kind of shared ubuntu.  Perhaps it is these other experiences I should write about then and not about the unequalness and reverse-discrimination policies; about how my children formed their own unique characters and attitudes.  As a junior nurse many years ago, I looked into dying people’s eyes, heard their regrets and achievements, all of which seemed to be centered about their own family. That is what I shall focus on - mine.  A kind of autobiographical essay with, of course, a lot of imagination to fill the pages.

I have started a new blog, a blog for my children, so that one day they will remember how it was.  They carry these stories inside of them. It’s in their eyes and in their attitudes. Thank you Athol Fugard, for showing me the way. I called it Stoepstories. Enjoy!

http://stoepstories.blogspot.com

Merry Christmas to you out there in the Great Beyond.

Its Christmas, or so they tell me.

There are no decorations in the shops, no maddening crowds, no embarrassing parties, no other kids for my children to celebrate or compare their presents with, no church to remind us of what Christmas is all about and no indication, other than the date, that it is Christmas at all.  The children are suppose to go to school today, Martin is at work. It is just another day here.


It is left up to Martin and I to  carry forth our traditions and beliefs.  Telling one's children about baby Jesus can be a daunting task. As I tell them, I am not sure they believe me. When the presents arrive under the tree they decide between themselves that it is worth believing me. But they intensely dislike the taste of Christmas mince tarts and turkey.  I cannot convince them otherwise.

During my travels I have learnt that those physical things that we surround ourselves with, those excessive things we buy on impulse, create our identity and give us comfort.  I have always traveled light, but this Christmas I miss things, physical things that I can call my own.  Silly things, like the pink spotted gown I had in the UK, ugly things like the African face masks and comfortable things like the couches we had in South Africa.  I wish the things that are in my house were mine. But as we move into the New Year, I know things will change again for me. I will be throwing things away again, moving on.  The bin outside will be piled high with things I would love to take with me. With a 23 kg limit on baggage I know that the things I bought with such care and thought, are actually worthless.  It is only a matter of time.

On a more cheerful note the children are very happy with their presents. Nicholas loves his new music player. He is very happy because, as an added bonus he has his own remote. I am not sure whether standing on the balcony to turn the music on full blast is going to please the neighbors.  Matthew is taking pictures of these new developments with his new camera.

This morning my Arabic student neighbour tactlessly called me 'big' and 'old'.  Nobody told him that comments like these are rude in a western culture.  Despite this, I wish him well.  He has failed his maths three times and will be going home to his family without his degree.  He tells me he will not get a job.   He comes from a lesser tribe and so his fate was sealed at birth whether or not he got his degree. 

And so Christmas seems to grind on for me.  I miss my older children who are so far away.  Matthew, Nicholas and I have decided to eat lunch with Martin at the canteen at work.  I will be taking my own food.  I have grown tired of cardamom, chickpeas and tasteless rice served by uneducated Indians who think because I dont wear a hijab I am fair game.  I am stared at, lusted after and insulted by arrogant Arabs and ignorant Indians.  I feel dirty and gross.  I no longer like to go outside the flat. I have become a prisoner.  But today, because it is Christmas I will venture outside.

For you out there in the Great Beyond.  I sincerely hope your Christmas carries many blessings. For my children Jayne and Andrew, Matthew and Nicholas, I love you all far too much.  I pray that we can all be together someday.  Mom, Rob, Eds, Alan, Elmare, beautiful Jess and sweet Cara know that you are all precious in my heart.  I pray for continuing health for Mrs Clegg and that Martin's sisters find peace in their hearts today.




 

Night ramblings

Its 23.44 here in Oman.  The rest of my family are sleeping.  The dog is curled up in the corner of my office snoring his Arabic head off. I think he really does bark in Arabic. Spikey the invincible, wadi dog of note.

And here I am.  I tried very hard to sleep.  Closed my eyes, counted sheep, nothing worked.  Every time I close my eyes I get a picture in my head.  Im tired of trying to sleep, so I'm going to bore you with the details of this picture simply to get it out of my system. Please excuse my grammar.

I see a chair.  Its a blue chair.  It has  fish and whales on it.  Its a beautiful chair that tells stories.  It is my chair.  The fish and whales are circular in motion, fluidly swimming around.  The fish and the whales are speaking to me, telling me, whispering to me, letting me know.  Its in the corner of my room and it's from there that the rest of the house gets its look and design.  The design is uniquely me. It's like I have found my purpose and it's now swimming around my head.  It's who I am. It's what I am meant to be.  The colours are blue and cream.  Johlene is smiling at me from heaven right now. She knew how I felt, even back then when I was a awkward teenager. I think I will always miss her.

Only I sit in my chair.  I can hear the voices of my children, my daughter Jayne is the loudest. I am home, finally. Jayne is still ungraciously cautious. I knew she would be. Jayne is the link to my past and my future.  Jayne knows my stories, I told them to her when she was young.  She has forgotten them, her subconscious my treasure chest.

People say one should follow ones heart.  This chair is my home, it is where I belong.  I feel it, I see it and I know it.

The chair is an armchair.  Firm and comfortable.  When I sit in it, the stories in my head come alive and I am able to write it all down.  My fingers will not type fast enough.  The story starts writing itself.  I am a mere vessel in the jungle of words pushing forward to come out.  I wish I could tell you of the things this chair has told me.  I wish I could express it all, release the burden of my heart.  Years of observation, years of questioning, years of searching. The fish show scenes of imaginings, hearing, reading, observing, obvious fiction, my prayers, my hope and my longing.    

It is the most beautiful of all chairs.  I am going to find it, sit in it, pray in it and most of all I am going to listen to it.  It is calling me.  That is why I cant sleep tonight. 

8th anniversary

Today is the day of the spring solstice in South Africa and the autumn solstice here in Oman. Today is also my wedding anniversary.   Eight years ago my love and I committed our lives to one another under a lapa on the most beautiful beach. There were colourful potted plants dotted around us, lots of champagne on the tables, and the sound of wind chimes in the distance.

It was a huge step for us as a couple and for me as an individual.  I was very hesitant after the disaster of my previous marriage. As a couple who already had one child together, it was a natural progression in our relationship.

I have learnt many things from our relationship.  My husband is a hard task master who does not take lightly to any feelings of insecurity.  This has spurred me on to become far more confident in my own abilities.  He also is the most gentle and kindest person I know.  He is my best friend and someone I can always relate to.  In short, he has taught me that love is more often than not, a doing word, a verb, not a distant, descriptive noun. He supports me and my decisions without fail.  I feel very lucky to be with him. 

So what are we going to do here in Nizwa to celebrate our anniversary?  This is a big question.  There is no appropriate restaurant in town so celebrating with food is not an option.  Perhaps a swim in the wadi, or a ride up the mountain, or a swim in the pool.

Next week we will be driving down to Muscat for the day, so maybe we will put off today's celebrations till next weekend.  We always have such a good time shopping in Muscat.

My beautiful gannets

One of my main interests in life is food.  I love to eat and I love to cook, expressing myself creatively in the kitchen.  I am faced, like most moms, with the incessant question every single day of my life…what can I eat, Mommy?

When I was younger and living in my parents’ home, my father used to call me and my siblings gannets.  These amazing sea birds dive from a height of 30 meters, achieving speeds of up to 100 km per hour, using unique, binocular vision.  They are able to dive the deepest and eat the most of all birds. Talk about focus!

My dad was right. I can see the situation at our table over dinner.  My kids devour everything that is put in front of them with their own brand of single-minded determinedness that would make my dad proud.  When they are finished I have to clean the walls, the floor and their seats. Cooking for them so satisfying I don’t even mind the dishes.

I love to try new recipes and spend hours in front of my computer (we don’t have cooking magazines here in Nizwa) looking for new recipes and ideas.  Of course South African recipes are the best but I love and hate South African food blogs.  Their glaringly bad grammar and spelling mistakes deter my attention away from their purpose. It’s really bad and I am really ashamed of my country in this regard.  South Africa has some really outstanding chefs who show a dire lack of professionalism when it comes to presenting their dishes on their blogs.  To show my passion for this subject, I am even willing to edit any restaurant reviews, food blogs and food reviews for free.

Picnic food is really something that is high on my list of priorities too.  Interesting food that does not go bad in the intense Arabian desert heat, or soggy within a few hours and is nutritionally sound is hard to come by.  Perhaps there are some suggestions out there.

I find ambiance important when dealing with food as well.  I love sitting on my camper-chair with my feet in the waves, watching the intensely beautiful red sunset, drinking rooibos tea and eating homemade chocolate-chip cookies with my love.   

Now that is one of my main interests in life... 

Procrastination

Today is officially August and it’s time I write a new page on my blog.  We have all been very busy and I almost can’t believe that we have been back from Turkey for a whole month. 

We seem to have learnt so much in Turkey, about the food and the people.  I wish it was mandatory for everyone in the world to travel to another country at least once in their lives. It has made a perceptible difference to our lives and made us all grow in ways we least expected.      

The children are still on holiday and will be for another whole month.  We are all boiling hot here; the temperature seems to be mostly in the late forties.  Even going to the shop is a chore because one has to actually step outside. Thank goodness for electricity and aircons.  

I am teaching the boys how to cook. Matthew makes lunch for us. He can fix a salad, fry and scramble eggs, make 2 minute noodles, sandwiches, pancakes to name but a few.  Nicholas often ends up making pudding even though he does not eat sweet things most of the time. They both love to get hold of my hand mixer, sometimes with some disastrous and very messy results.  Martin always seems to be downloading the latest movies for us.  We also go swimming at the hotel, although the water is lukewarm.   

After our great time in Turkey, Martin is working again.  He has just completed the summer school session for some high school students.  It is the holy month of Ramadan now, and things are slowing down a whole lot. Because the local population is fasting from sun-up to sun-down, and because of the intense heat I think, the shop-keeping hours have been reduced.  People drive slow, walk slow, react slow.  It’s quite frustrating when you want to get somewhere quickly. Luckily this hot weather won’t carry on for too much longer.  We experienced a day of 59 degrees a week or so back and it is still pretty warm.

I am trudging forward with my studies.  This semester I took 5 modules.  I study most weekdays from about eight till one o’clock.  It’s tiring and it’s hard work.  I have a long way to go still but, I am determined to get my degree. I love it.  I love learning and I love reading so it is perfect for me.  Martin managed to find my setwork book in movie form - Disgrace by JM Coetzee. WOW, what a South African statement. It really blew me away. I had read the book before, so it gave me insight into what the characters were thinking.  JM Coetzee won a Nobel Literature prize for it.  Now I have to formulate an answer for quite a difficult question. I’m trying not to procrastinate…

Turkey

It’s our annual holiday.  Nizwa is smouldering in 46 degrees and we were all glad to get out of it. The children passed the year with extremely good marks considering they missed a whole month in the beginning.   This year we have decided to visit Fethiye in Turkey.  The holiday was initiated by extremely kind and generous friends who have a peaceful spacious haven amidst the bustling tourist hive.

We flew Turkish airlines from Muscat via Bahrain, Istanbul and finally Dalaman.   We then caught a taxi to Fethiye which is roughly 30 minutes away.   By the time we arrived in Fethiye it was dark and we were all tired.

The apartment is my kind of place.  The living room is lined with well-read books; the conservatory has an extra kid’s corner with a PS2. The apartment has everything we could wish for.  A huge bath, a shower, even aircons for the hot days and heaters for the cold ones.

Fethiye is mainly a tourist resort and an unforgettable experience. The people are friendly and very welcoming.  In the evenings, they sit outside enjoying the last of the sun, playing board games with their neighbours and chatting away in Turkish. To my astonishment, every so often I hear an Afrikaans-sounding word between sentences. 

There is a waterpark here that has slides of every description: There are tunnels, open ones, steep ones, curvy ones and gradual slides all running down to a deep splash-pool - a kid’s paradise.  We were there until poor Nicholas couldn’t walk up the stairs anymore.  He had told us that he had never encountered a slide before (he was too small to remember the slide in Salalah) and Matthew was running up and sliding down at the speed of light.  It was a lot of fun.

The drive to the cool waters of Saklikent Gorge took us through some Turkish countryside where there were acres of olive trees and tiny little restaurants that seemed to pop up everywhere.  It seems Turkey is a nation of gardeners.  The water runs freely here and the soil is fertile.  Everywhere one looks there are flowers, plants and fruit trees.  What is remarkable for me is that the roses smell of rose, the fruit smells of fruit and even the bougainvilla smells like flowers.  These fruit and vegetables are sold twice weekly at the local market where you can buy almost anything else as well.

The Mediterranean Sea is clear, cool and the boats bob up and down in the quiet water.  There are numerous stony beaches dotted along the shore.  There are boats which seem to be on every beach. One can hire one in order to go to most of the islands dotted around the coast.  One can even take a trip down to Rhodes Island which is Greek territory to see how the other half live. It is very beautiful here. I am looking forward to visiting the famous Oludeniz beach very soon.  It is said to be the 5^th most beautiful beach in the world.   

The sign says ‘You can’t leave Fethiye without watching a sunset on Calas Beach’ and so last night, as we dined on the water’s edge, eating everything Turkish -  lamb, ice cream and coffee, the sun went down behind the mountains displaying a crimson glow over the water. Even the Turkish music playing in the background seemed to lull us into a Mediterranean haze.

Well, we have eighteen more days to go.  I will write more, but for now I need to pack that picnic basket to head off on another adventure. Wish you were all here.

 

               

Those terrifying exams

I have all the symptoms.  Sweaty palms, bad mood and a far away terrified countenance of total anxiety.  My face seems permanently distorted into a frown. My ever shaky fingers scattering over my keyboard, eyes anxiously searching for clues about the exam as if the lecturers would post them online for us too read.

And its not just me.  My young Matthew is seemly getting more and more lethargic as the exam days approach.  His insolence unjustified in the light of my nervousness.  Only Nicholas seems uncaring and unperturbed as he sits on my lap eating whatever is in sight.  Chomping away as if he has never eaten.   Of course the irony of it all is that Nicholas, my little sausage, achieved the highest marks which will very definitely be repeated.

In just over two weeks this too will pass.  I look forward to leaving this desert of summer rainfall.  Every day the rain comes, as if mocking the dry infertile sand.  The rain forms huge swollen rivers that form the breeding grounds of those irritating buzzers that bite one in the night.  Masses of water everywhere.  Whoever said that wadis were dry river beds?  Abundance is not in the sunshine this summer, but in the thick heavy dark grey clouds that expel their energy in short quick busts of light and  low afternoon rumbles.

Yes, I even find the weather irritating.  However, the cradle of humankind beckons us. Excitement creeping up on us, fully testing our ability to concentrate on the matter at hand. This brings to mind this mindless paragraph, procrastination to its fullest extent, by virtue of a wonky, slightly skewed suggestion that perhaps it is time to call today final. After all, my brains feel like fried bananas.  Frazzled from the most boring book on Gods good earth. Too much thinking makes it go soft. I bid you all a good night sleep.  I will kiss my boys with all your love.

I stand before my God

I stand before my God

I stand before my God

In my silent abandonment  

I have crucified myself

Filled only with Gods grace

He forgives me

He says all is new

That I am a blank slate

Since His resurrection

But here I stand

Unforgiving

Imperfectly scarred

Alone

But my God sees only my perfection

He sees only my strong spirit

And then He anoints me

To be me

Will this ever go away?

Recently someone totally unexpected from my past popped up in my life.  A previous friendship from a previous lifetime. With her came all the gory details of a very unhappy time in my life.  Not only was this person judgmental, but also very hurtful to me, my husband and my poor bewildered children. This friendship was being totally oblivious and insensitive to my life here and now, never thinking how it would affect what I have worked so hard to achieve. It happened in an instant, a slip of a tongue, a sight, a smell, but this time it was the smell of the rain.

 People often judge one by ones past actions. Unfortunately she was in my shoes at the time, however subtly choosing the side of my abuser. This person has no appreciation or comprehension of my ability to cope under the circumstances. She has judged me the hardest, leaving me no compromise, because somehow I had failed. I was told back then that it was my fault, that simply by being me I had transgressed.  I questioned myself, believing I had to be different somehow.  In hindsight I was different, I was stronger than them. I was able to cope when they weren't. Only cowards abuse other people after all.   


Wounds like these have an ugly way of showing up, of leaving one open exposed and bleeding, of dividing one.  Of silencing you just when your confidence returns, because you can once again hear your voice. Am I destined never to speak? Never to have a voice?  It is ironic that I work for an organization called Voice now, when most of my life I felt unable to speak or express any form of emotion, to have no Voice.

I am determined to work through these wrongs to make them right again.  To change the cycle and the ugly pattern of these atrocities. I often wonder how to get rid of these ugly raw scars, just as I was often left to wonder the age old question of 'why me' when I was young.  Perhaps it is time to accept that perhaps that is who I am and will be.  To find a way of reconciling the pain.  Of using the experience positively.   To once and for all, deal with it for my own sake. 

 

Being Grateful

I spell the G in grateful with a capital letter because I feel just sometimes people forget to feel grateful about the positives in their lives. I feel that being grateful is just so much part of humility and having a very positive outlook on life.

While this is starting to sound very corny, let me tell you what brought this on.  I know someone who is very ill.  She is normally a very strong, super-intelligent and extremely capable person who has only ever encouraged me to fulfill my dreams.  Recently over Christmas time, her health deteriorated rapidly and quite suddenly to the point whereby she needs help to move around and just get out of bed in the morning. I can honestly tell you that through the strength of love for her son and family and sheer determination she has got up out of bed, had that refreshing cup of tea and tried very hard to be as much as she can be.

I stand in awe.  The doctors had not given her much longer and told us that she has had her innings, but I feel as if I have witnessed a miracle and a huge blessing.  Can love be so powerful? Is this what it was all about in the first place? 

So while all this happened so far away from me  it has touched my life and all of our lives in every way.  I feel like shouting how special each day is because I have come to realise just how powerful love can be.

Everyone of us has the responsibility to bring what is inside us, our love and our passion, to the outside and show the world what it is we have to give. Perhaps that is what we are all here for. Whether it is people who have novels stuck in their bottom draw, a restaurant to get in order or just simply to remember to appreciate each day as it comes, life is short...go out there love, be beautiful and fearless.  And remember to be Grateful.

Sweet Nicholas

We live in a roomy apartment on the ground floor.  Living in the apartment above us is a fellow South African also from Cape Town called Tony.  Tony also teaches at the University and is very familiar with our kids and our family. Tony came down the other day to tell us about our little Nicholas and what he has been up to. 

Precocious Nicholas told Tony that he will take the rubbish for him to the bin every week. The outside bin is a short 1 minute walk away and he is perfectly safe and quite capable of doing the job. Nicholas had it all worked out in his mind too, after having given it some thought.

He told Tony that only he can take it because there are spiders at the bin and only he knew how to deal with these really huge spiders.

He said that Matthew cannot deal with the spiders so it’s best not to tell him.

Nicholas said he would do all this for a really special price of 200 bizas per time.

He told Tony he will do it every week twice a week and that Tony mustn’t forget Nicholas and do it himself.

In Tonys words…"as if I will ever forget him or his brilliant offer! "