Of Avocados and Guinea Fowl

 I have been floating in shallow water lately.  We took a week off and headed for Sedgefield. Picture this: a beautiful warm, (but not too hot) sunny day, a slight breeze, water lapping gently on the sandy shore and a shelf of water, warm because it is no more than half a meter deep.  Bobbing in the salty water is as close to feeling at peace with creation as I can be. My usually over active mind can be still and my worries can drift into nothingness.  It is a profound experience for me.  We rowed out in the trusty red row boat to a secluded spot across Sedgefield lagoon, and - unbelievably, because it is such a perfect day - we had the entire place to ourselves.  

Sedgefield is an outdoorsy place. I spent  most of the time there sitting on the stoep, mug of tea in hand.  Inbetween reading (Mother Mary Comes To Me - a beautifully written memoir), scrolling (I know, I know...) and playing board games, there was time to just Be. 

Stoep sitting is a family affair for us, usually each doing our own thing.  A couple of wild tortoises kept us company, munching on grass patches and getting chased by nosy birds.  Our other wild companions included guinea fowl.  (Named Guinea Flowers by our son when he was 4 after encountering them at Kirstenbosch botanical gardens.)  They are odd looking creatures - all scrawny neck, wild eyed and ineffectual flapping of wings.  They can actually fly short distances, but rarely seem to get the urge to bother.  Like us, they seem to enjoy doing things in family groups.  We would watch as they pecked and squarked around the garden too.  Sometimes they ran up and down the chicken wire fence, trying to get out.  Or in.  Or one was out and one was in, and they seemed agitated by this. Our lovely daughter would send encouragement out to them, as in "You can do it! Jump! Fly!", but English doesn't seem to be their first language as they ignored her.  Finally, in desperation to help, K  went to fetch the sliding gate remote and opened it so the creatures could walk through and be reunited.  Logic doesn't seem to be one of a guinea fowl's competencies either (they do have very small heads and brains) because they couldn't figure out this route either.  Compassionate K tried this a couple of times, but no luck.  The squarking continued.

 In their own good time, and without any human intervention, the birds flew over the fence and went on their cheery way.  Sometimes, with the best intentions in the world, we need to let problems resolve themselves because, try as we might, our solution is not what are needed right then.

The other occupation of stoep-sitting, is seeing the passing pedestrian traffic.  Some people greet and wave, others tug on their dog's leashes and move on quickly.  We are, after all, outsiders - it is a holiday cottage-  amongst an established suburb. (McLeary Cottage was one of the original dwellings in Sedgefield, built by my grandfather in the 1950s, surrounded by trees and not much else, so I rather feel like an original settler rather than an outsider.  The property now belongs to my brother.) 

One local resident waved, said hello, and then paused at our gate.  Unlike the guinea fowl, he knew what the sliding gate was for.  He sat with Andrew and me on the stoep and introduced himself as a new neighbour.  After the polite hellos and potted history which included his views on "The Covid Conspiracy", he came to the real reason for popping in.  The avocado tree.   Planted by my parents long ago, it is well established, tall and generous with making delicious avocados.  It overhangs the side boundary fence onto a copse owned by no one.  The problem though, he told us,  was that the local children from the over-the-hill, out of sight poorer area of Sedgefield, were picking the fruit and eating the avos.  Did we know?   We assured him we did, and that my brother really didn't mind - in fact he is glad the avos are harvested when we are not there and delighted they don't go to waste.  But, the neighbour continued, sometimes "the bicycle gang" jump the fence to take the avos from inside the property. He couldn't understand that my brother didn't mind this either.  South Africa has a huge economic divide, and food security is an everpresent issue.  Children die from lack of food (and hope) .

We would have to agree to disagree, and I wondered how I could encourage him to go away.  "You can do it! Jump! Fly!" I was tempted to say, but politeness won the day.

 I am hoping that this newcomer to Sedgefield will find the time to pop down to the lagoon and float in the salt water.  Maybe it's healing properties and calmness will create more space for a generous spirit and kindness.   

 There is little more comforting than being able to drift - arms outstretched- in a safe and buoyant environment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Colour me beautiful.

When I was 14, I went a pale shade of yellow.  It was not a good look on me, particularly as the whites of my eyes were more mustardy than light ivory. Luckily not too many people saw me looking like that as I was confined to bed for a couple of months.  I was in Standard 7, and missed the entire second term of schooling.  All thanks to hepatitis. I slept.  And slept and slept, waking only to eat some thin mixed vegetable packet soup - the only nourishment my body would accept.  I was aware that my grandmothers took it in turns to come and sit in the house with me, as Mom and Dad were working, but I don't think I was very sociable (or much trouble to look after.)  It was the better alternative to the hospitalization our friendly GP suggested.  

After my deep sleep (alas no handsome prince to hack through a thorny hedge pitched up to wake me...) I remember managing to do some needlework and some scrapbooking.  I found those large A3 blue-paged books a few months ago, and finally threw them out.  After looking at them again, of course.  I reread the notes my classmates sent me on a daily basis.  Not about schoolwork or what homework I was missing, but little bits about themselves and their everyday lives.  These notes were not just from my limited supply of friends either. People who were way too cool for me to have thought they even knew I existed, wrote regularly and kindly.  It was - and is - a huge gift.  To be included.  To be cared about. That kindness embedded itself in me, and lines the memory compartments in my head like a bubblewrap of kindness, cushioning other thoughts which may intrude.  People are generous.  People are thoughtful.  Thank you, classmates, for helping me get better.

After my yellow phase, I have - off and on- had blue phases, red phases, and green phases.  And now I think I am entering a Purple Period.

Did you know (I didn't, despite my being remembered by a work colleague as "that Librarian who spent
her spare time reading the dictionary....") that the word purple has an interesting derivation. Long story short it comes from a Greek word for Sea-slug, as the expensive dye was made from the creature's slimy mucus.  No wonder it was reserved for the rich.  I imagine a lot of mucus would be needed to create the aura of wealth associated with the cloaks of kings and priests and other members of the upper crust. These days you just need to combine some chemicals C₂₀H₁₂N₂O₂ and Voila!, (or should I say Violet!) the colour palette is available to the masses.  

 I nominated this year as my purple phase after looking out of my bedroom window to see tall watsonias waving to me. They were a vibrant, life affirming shade of beautifullness. And if I looked deeper into the flower beds, splashes of purple were popping up between the oranges and yellows and pinks.  Spring was a calmness of colour. (Sidebar: I was going to use the usual phrase "riot of colour" but the thought of associating the gift of a garden with violence, protest and unrest didn't sit well with me. End of sidebar.)

I am aware that these days purple is crudely made by mixing blue and red, if we are talking about primary school poster paint.  So maybe I haven't left my blue and red phases behind altogether, maybe I have just combined a splotch of a sadness with a dab of anger to create something more manageable - an understanding of purple. 

 

PS Who remembers that book, Colour me Beautiful, wildly popular in the 1980s, and prescribing what colours people should wear to enhance their natural beauty.  In my family it was always disparagingly referred to as "Colour me luvvvely."   It sat on my bookshelf for years before I tossed out (along with my shoulder pads) the notion of being told what colours I liked.