Legacy

 

As a child I was drawn to owls, giraffes and ducks, a diverse collection of  creatures that held my attention and seemed to resonate with my anima.  I was at that stage when I had just graduated from thick chunky crayons to the magical Crayola box with a sharpener. Remember those?  A coveted item in childhood.  The giraffes I drew all had the the requisite long necks, but rather stumpy legs, if I recall correctly.  Probably because I misjudged the length of the page and proportions weren't high on my priorities list.  Owls were easier, as I had a stock standard oval shape I used, with the wings being part of the round body, and the beak and eyes being the focus of the drawing.  And ducks?  Maybe I drew them because my mother made me an appliqued duck cushion which I hung onto like a Linus blanket.

My mother believed in creativity.  Every week she schlepped me off to the Frank Joubert Art Centre (Now the Peter Clarke centre) and waited the hour in the car while I was allowed to express myself messily on paper.  The thing about that art centre is that it taught me true art - they encouraged us to find our own visions, and no two children's project looked the same.  They actively discouraged colouring in books or even keeping colour within the lines.  This was a stark contrast from my school art.  Two teachers in particular would make us 6 and 7 year olds copy their drawings by making us all draw the same shape at the same time, and add to it as instructed until all 30 pictures were identical to theirs and to each others.  It was really boring. 

Art is about believing in the self, and being in an environment that encourages, rather than frowns upon,  seeing things from different angles. I am forever grateful to my mom for this gift.

She also used to take me to museums during the school holidays.   We would wander together around these treasure troves of the past, and see history through the eyes of those who lived through it.  Or at least through those who curated the exhibitions.  Mom looked for the unusual places in addition to the larger well known places. I loved our times together, creating memories while observing them.

But perhaps most importantly, Mom believed in reading and libraries.  When we were small children, Pinelands did not have an official library.  Undaunted, Mom drove us to Mowbray to use the City Libraries stock, and when I had outread that children's section, she took me to Goodwood.  All of these were out of her way activities, and considering she was juggling 4 children, running a household and a full time job, the sacrifice of her time cannot be underestimated.  She nurtured my love of reading - a skill and a pleasure that I can't imagine life without.

It is Mom's birthday today, and this year, the loss of her presence is hitting especially hard. I remember sitting in the car with her after the doctor had told us there was nothing more medicine could do for her (in 2018), and admitting to her that I couldn't imagine a world in which she did not exist.  But the world keeps revolving and my own children carry her legacy with them - they too are creative, intelligent, thoughtful beings.  The circle of life enfolds us all and carries us through the sad days.

 

Mom and her parents in the 1950s

 

 

 

Listening

 I am listening to a lot of podcasts at the moment.  They are easy air fillers and I have found topics that I find interesting.  Things like the Lance Armstrong scandal, or British politics from the 1970s, the Waco Deaths and  Spy stories.   Perhaps I just choose very polite presenters, but I have noticed at the end of a section, they thank me for listening.  I take that personally, even though I know that they are actually unaware of the exact details of who listens to them. I will take politeness wherever I can find it.

Podcasts don't take up too much concentration space and can be combined with other activities. And being recorded, if I miss a bit, I can always go back and hear it all again.  Live conversations on the other hand are a bit more complicated.  You get one shot at absorbing not only the words and the non verbal cues (like folded arms, or tears...) but you often have to interpret the feelings behind the words.  Often there is a lot of interference or "noise"  and meaning and intention get lost.  That can be frustrating all round. Some people are better at listening than others.  Really listening.  It is an art.  So often we are tempted  to jump in with a response when just an acknowledgement is needed.

I was thinking about this a couple of weeks ago as I was walking to a meeting up the road. It was a beautiful soft day, and as I  closed my back gate I heard a whoop of delight. Council workers were weed eating the field edges behind our house. One of the guys had found a R200 note stuck in the long grass.  His happiness at this windfall energised the air.  I gave him a thumbs up (the noisy weed eaters were drowning out any conversation possibilities) and continued on my way up the hill. I think that R200 was a significant find for him, and it gladdened my heart.

I was still smiling about this when, a short way ahead, I saw a Mom and her two little girls walking together.  The younger child was enthusiastically pointing to the sky and yelling "Aeroplane" as only a two year old can with complete delight and happiness. Her sister was about 4 I suppose, and she came hurtling towards me and wrapped her arms around my knees in a hug.  I bent down to reciprocate and the two year old joined in too.

I didn't think this day could get much better, but it did!  Andrew and I were travelling to Hermanus to pick up a friend for the weekend.  We stopped at the Peregrine farm stall in Grabouw and I showed Andrew one of my favourite spaces - Liberty Bookshop.

Liberty Bookshop (not my photo!)

 It is a wonderful place, with an eclectic collection of loved and unloved books, as the assistant described them (so much nicer than calling them second hand and new...) , and  they stock an interesting range of South African literature.  There is also a welcoming fire with a purring cat to add to the temptation to linger.  I highly recommend a visit if you are in the area and like that sort of thing. 

One of the books I picked up was Brutal School Ties; the Parktown Boys Tragedy by Sam Cohen.  It makes for harrowing reading, because it describes institutionalized abuse of the boys at this Johannesburg school and how much of the cruelty was put down to "Tradition." No one was listening to these youngsters of 13 and 14, until one brave child made a plan.  Hundreds of children have suffered trauma, because no one heard them.  Not just the words they did or didn't say, (and some did beg their parents not to send them back at the end of the weekend) but also their behaviour changes, and their grades falling to unexpected lows.  The communication got stuck in the ethos of "boys will be boys", and "traditional makes you stronger."

As a society we need to learn to listen more, and with more sensitive ears. There are so many knee-hugging good things that are happening, and if we can hear those things as well as the sadness, we can maintain a balance and not get overwhelmed. I was reminded to listen with my heart.

Your reading this - whoever you are - gives my voice an audience too, and I appreciate the time you give me, and for hearing me.

Thank you for listening.

The dark side of gratitude

 It was a glimmery sunny day last Sunday, and I sat in the garden with my mug of tea, rereading The Ugly Duckling and enjoying some tortoise time.  I have an ambivalent relationship with fairy tales - I can appreciate the history and language, but I often find the themes outdated and laboured.  The Ugly Duckling however, has a cast of mostly animals, and that is somehow more palatable.  And of course the themes of finding your space in the world, the hurt of being bullied and appearance discrimination  are important and  thought worthy contemplations for a sunny Sunday morning.  

I was wanting to look beyond the obvious though, to see what else resonated with me.  And guess what - one of the themes was around gratitude. The little "duck", having been rejected by family and community, having survived being shot at by hunters, and having been thankful that he was too ugly for a dog to bite and eat him, finds refuge from a storm in a cottage occupied by an old woman, a cat and a hen.

Sounds good doesn't it, to find a home after such a rough journey, even if he knew he was only being tolerated there for the possibility of his usefulness (alas, no eggs for the old woman, but she didn't know that).  The cat, speaking to our hero who wanted to go for a swim, and who voiced the truth that the cat didn't understand him, tells the swan to "thank your good fortune that you have been received here....I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible."  

Be grateful and conform.

Please don't misunderstand me - I absolutely believe in gratitude and am grateful daily for very many things.  But I think it is a mistake to tell/hint to other people to show gratitude, because such an instruction comes fully loaded with oppression, submissiveness and judgement. Telling someone to be grateful for what they have often implies that they shouldn't expect more, and are indeed lucky to be in the situation they are in.  But what if they don't feel lucky?  What if they want more?  What if conformity is damaging to them? 

Gratitude is strictly personal.  Anyone imposing it on you may have an ulterior motive, and it is an easy trap to fall into.  Because if you don't show the gratitude expected of you, the trapdoor of guilt is right there waiting for you to fall into.  Sometimes the negative voices telling us to be  grateful and conform are not from society at large, or even people in your inner circle.  Sometimes it is your internal voice betraying you.  If the sentiment comes out as "I should feel grateful, but....." take a step back from that guilt trapdoor, and ask whose voice you are listening to.  If you do feel grateful then skip right along and enjoy the bounty of your gratefulness.

The Ugly Duckling found the strength to leave warmth and safety of the cottage to follow his instinct that better things were out there.  It wasn't easy, and he had a rough winter, almost freezing to death, facing more rejection and much self loathing.  

But, as we all know, it ends well with him finding his place and happiness.   

The fable makes me uneasy to be honest.  A lot of it centres around others' reactions to the poor little outcast, and even in the end, the duckling is only happy when he finds acceptance in community of lookalikes. I often find myself on the outskirts of groups - sometimes by choice, but not always, and I wonder if I were to look into that reflective pond as the Ugly duckling did, would I like what I saw as much as he did?

I love swans.  In my family they are known as "Oofs" thanks to K who was delighted by these creatures when we stayed on Eel Pie Island near Twickenham when she was a toddler and inventing words.  They swam gently on the Thames River, coming up to the edge to be admired.  They can be scary creatures too - loud and aggressive when they feel threatened. We took quite a few happy snaps of them that holiday, and Andrew kindly and skillfully painted a couple of pictures which hang in our house. They are  constant reminders to me that reflections of kindness and self acceptance are the positive outcomes of gratitude.