Losing the block

 When we got married we bought a small dilapidated house in a friendly suburb.  It had everything we needed - walls, a roof and some outside space.  We added love and happiness, and within four years it was transformed into a family home.  (We also added paint, carpets, curtains and a kitchen with a dining room - but those were just structural changes.) In year 5 we celebrated our son's first birthday in our back garden.  It was a big family affair, because we had a big family.  Andrew's dad made a push along trolley for R with blocks that could be taken out and played with, and then neatly stored back in the trolley.  Such handmade gifts are real treasures.  R loved the block trolley - he wobbled up, grabbed the handle and started walking.

A few years later it was time to move.  We found a dilapidated house in another friendly suburb, and fell in love with this old fixer upper. (We're still here.) Moving is a stressful task, and being young and naive we decided to move everything ourselves with the help of a borrowed truck (and a friend - thank you Hazel).  We did car trip after car trip, and were pretty exhausted by the process.  And upset.  We couldn't find one block from the trolley that Grandad had made. Just one. We searched and searched, and finally reached the conclusion we had to let it go, and move on.

 Every now and then we would drive past that first house on the way to Andrew's work, and admire the garage door we had sanded and varnished.  Or see how the trees we had planted were doing.  Time passed, as it does, and we were well established in our new home.  I used to be an avid reader of  the property section of the Weekend Argus (one of my many strange habits....) and saw our old house was up for sale and On Show that Sunday.  We couldn't resist a trip down memory lane, so off we went to visit the tiles in the kitchen I had sealed a week before R was born, and see the kitchen cupboards we finished a month or so before selling the place, and check out our much loved garden.  We wandered through, pointing out this and that to the kids. In the back garden we had made a quiet spot with a bench and surrounded it with foliage to make it private.  It looked just the same as when we left. We went to sit on the bench as a last goodbye to the place.  And here comes the point of the story:  We sat, peacefully, admiring our handiwork, when one of us reached our hand down under the bench, and picked up the missing block.  Ten years later, and there it was, waiting for us to find it.

It was another extraordinary moment in my life. 

The lost block was returned to it's home, and the memory was complete.

But this is the other point of this story:  Andrew and I were chatting  to my brother about this incident a couple of weeks ago (while we were packing up the house my Dad lived in).  When we came to the part about who reached down and found the block, we each thought it was ourselves.  All these years I had been convinced I had seen the block. Now I am not so sure - Andrew thinks it was him.  The outcome is the same, but the process is different.  This is important to me, because memory can be a fickle friend. What other memories have I (unwittingly) distorted to fit my own narrative?  How much can I trust the details of my memories?  I found myself on shaky ground. I have been doing a lot of remembering lately, and I would very much like to be sure of the content and accuracy.  

One way to do it is to make memory blocks and try to fit them together to see if they work, and fit in the trolley, so to speak.  Mostly, though, I think, I need to learn to trust my heart, and accept that my experiences are just that - my experiences, and the memory of them forms part of the fabric of me. 

Lost things sometimes make their way back to us.  Even when we think they are gone forever.  Watch out for the unexpected!

Lemon juice

 Invisible words were such fun when we were kids.  Remember squashing lemons to create magic ink?  We would write our secret messages in lemon juice, wait for it to dry, and then give a seemingly blank piece of paper to our friends.  Those in the know immediately decoded the message using a candle to brown the paper, revealing the words in a darker shade of burnt.  Somehow we managed to not destroy any great buildings or need any hospital visits while performing these dark arts. 

Invisible messaging is still around, and perhaps even more pervasive in the social media society.  It is often the unspoken and implied words that form the backdrop to the world of text we live in.  Advertising is the most obvious example, where most often the hidden message is you are lacking if you don't own The Product or Lifestyle choice on offer.  Invisible messaging is often about comparison, and implied criticism.  It can be very destructive.

For most of my life I have struggled with the balance of being visible and invisible.  Most often as a child I wanted to blend in with the wall paint, and I think I used a beige personality to achieve this.  Being invisible allows you freedom of movement, and access to knowledge that people don't realisze you are gathering.  Much like a spy in a war - blend in or hide in plain sight, and use the cover to keep safe.  But as I got older, I so wished to be seen.  Really seen, and this meant I had to show more colours than beige, and actually find out what colours suit who I am.  It is a long process.

Women tend to be more invisible than men.  It is not uncommon when I am out with Andrew that I greet someone, and they reply with a greeting to Andrew only.  It frustrates me no end.  It is not news that women have been overlooked and underestimated for centuries, but it is time to achieve some balance.  That's what I am working on now - seeing people as they want to be seen (beige or bright), hearing people and listening for both the words and the invisible messages in their tone, body language and what is left unsaid. Maybe then, when people are heard and seen, we can use the lemon juice for more tasty experiments than secret letters. 

 

 Like this one - an upside down lemon pudding:

 

As the worm turns

 Why, do you think, are butterflies exalted and moths just tolerated? Indeed, butterflies come in majestic colours and gracefully dance on flower tips while moths are a dull brown or grey and tend to fly annoyingly around a light source. I love watching the butterflies in my garden, and feel quite privileged when a particularly beautiful one settles near me and keeps me company. But moths - not so much.

I have been watching the clivia plants near my washing line.  Some of the leaves are rich breeding grounds for worms.  They (the worms!) are stripey and obviously very hungry.  Unlike other caterpillars, these seem to suck the moisture out of the leaves, which look withered and discoloured.  But they don't actually eat the plant flesh.  I was wondering what to do.  Instinctively, I thought of picking them off and sending them to a unpleasant end.

  But I stopped to remind myself how much I like the next stage of their life cycle as butterflies.  So I took a judgement call that we could sacrifice some clivia leaves for a beautiful future.  I do need to keep an eye on the situation though, because too many worms will destroy all the plants, and that isn't eco-friendly either.  The masses of orange flowers delight me as much as the wild life in the garden.  It is, as usual , all about balance.  I hope I have judged the ratio of worms to leaves correctly.

Nothing other than hope is informing my judgement either - these worms could turn into those dull moths for all I know.  I had to look up the difference between the species too.  The main difference seems to be how the wings fold and unfold. And the whole daytime versus night time thing. Moths are not brightly coloured, but muted and dreary.

I am finding writing difficult at the moment.  This blog is an exercise in the the Just Do It philosophy, because writing is really important to me, and silencing myself feels a bit like the leaves that have had the life sucked out of them : Wilted, and on a one way trip to the compost heap.  But maybe, if I live with the unwordiness I am feeling now, some of those worms will turn into butterflies, and some light, attractive thoughts will land on my paper.  To be honest, I would be just as happy if they turned into moths.  Dull and steadfast is just as good for me.  

The beauty of a creature is about perspective isn't it.  Moths and butterflies are both exquisite complicated insects intricately formed, and as lovely as each other.  Worms and caterpillars too for that matter.  We all start somewhere until we evolve to whoever we want to be.

Here's hoping my pupa stage doesn't last too long.

The kindness of love

 February is traditionally the month of love.  Much of this is in the form of chocolates, cards and overpriced flowers on the 14th.  For me, this year, the month of February showed me love in other, deeper, more meaningful ways.  I saw love in my siblings sitting next to my father's hospital bed every day he was there.  I saw in it the cups of tea bought for me at Vincent Pallotti Hospital's little cafe.  I saw it in my daughter reading extracts from The Little Prince to her grandfather in  his conscious moments. Love was a squeeze of a hand, a shoulder to cry on, friends checking in with me.

Endings are usually difficult, and my father's death two weeks ago, was ungentle (if that is a word) and difficult.  His body finally caved in on him.  Actually, to me, it felt more like a volcanic explosion than a caving in, as though his insides couldn't be contained any more and erupted through stoma bag and his under functioning lungs.  This may be too much detail, but sometimes we gloss over the reality of death, and I don't want to do that. It was difficult to watch.

Mom and Dad

We held a tea to honor him last weekend. ( Tea, as you know, is my drug of choice when I am stressed, and let's just say I have consumed a ship load recently).  It is all too recent for me to write much about how I am feeling.  There is a certain rawness and vulnerability that comes with the realization that both my parents have abandoned earth.

I scrolled through some of my father's whatsapp messages to me over the last 6 months.Ninety percent of them are shopping lists, which I know off by heart anyway.  Yoghurt, soup, peaches, rolls, coke, cheese, fruit juice and bananas were the basics, and the steady rhythm of requests feels like a love poem to me sometimes.  Actually, it is in Pick n Pay that I feel the most bereft at the moment, and it takes courage for me not to weep in the Tinned Fruit Aisle. I am just avoiding shopping for the time being. My Dad also liked to end his messages with appropriate and numerous emojis. Flower, heart, rose, heart, thank you hands, sunflower, heart, and his signature smiley face with glasses that he used to identify himself. I will miss this whatsapp poetry.

Love is such a strange and complicated concept, entangled with emotions, thoughts, vulnerabilty and yearning.  And all that is swirling in me at the moment.  

Tread carefully please: spillage in the Tinned Fruit Aisle.👴🌼💓🌹💓🌻🙏

And on we go....

 2023.  Are you ready for whatever is going to be flung at us this year?  For South Africans, the year has started with up to 10 hours every day without electricity.  And the most upsetting part of this is the feeling of powerlessness that comes with it.  Frankly, it scares me.  There is no way an economy can grow, or even survive, without the power to work.  And from here, it is pretty much down hill into a deep, inextricable mire of societal issues.  Even more than we face now.

Despite my gloomy start to this blog, my year actually started off Very Well.  As midnight rolled the years over, we - the 5 of us - were still eating the feast that our son and his partner (S) had prepared for us in Cambridge.

  And what a feast it was - scallops on cauliflower puree with pomegranate seeds, cheese souffle, roast beef with potatoes and asparagus, and a rich chocolate tart - all locally sourced ingredients  cooked to perfection. What an immense gift to start the year surrounded by my lovely family.

Christmas was just as special.  S was still in Cape Town, so the 4 of us spent the most relaxing, leisurely day celebrating love, and being together.  Some days are stand out moments in life.  This was one of them.

We spent most of our holiday in Cambridge itself.  It is a beautiful place, small enough to have most things in walking distance, and big enough to find new places to explore every day.  I love the cobbled streets, the river, the quirky sense of humour scattered around the place.

(Check out https://www.dinkydoors.co.uk/ as an example.)

And we had SNOW.  It dazzled and delighted us. How wonderful to be surrounded by blankets of white fields.

We took a lot of photographs because snow is a strange phenomenon for us at the bottom of Africa. 

We ventured into London twice. (There is an excellent parking app if anyone is needing that sort of info - people let out their driveways or front garden space for a day, and it is much cheaper and works much better than trying to park officially anywhere in the outer London area. Park at the edge of zone 2, and use the underground - it's quick and affordable....)  Our daughter had prepared a "treasure hunt" (my description, not hers) and mapped out a route to see the unusual side of London.  So we went to Hoxton to see a Monster Supply Store.

  (It's really a front for something far more sinister than monsters - it raises funds for creative writing courses.  Monsters won't scare the world, but creative writing just might).  We found, after much searching, because it is UNDER the Bloomberg Building, the Temple of Mithras.
We went to Novelty Automation (https://www.novelty-automation.com/). We explored St Dunstans, a casualty of the second world war. Another treasure was an Algerian coffee store that has been around since 1887. 

Our visit there was fleeting because our feet were sore and it was raining.  We did the mainstream stuff too - Hamleys, Burlington Arcade, Selfridges etc and rocked up home at a respectably late 11pm.

I am worried I am making you all a little jealous, so I won't go on and on about all the fabulous times we had, or the delicious pub meals, or seeing beloved family, or the hilarious games we played, or our trips to Leicester, Norwich and Surrey.  Or the London Christmas lights and atmosphere, or the quirky house we stayed in (The house swap thing worked well) I won't even mention the Kings Speech bingo, or the swans on the river Cam. And I will avoid stories about the snow wanderings and wood fires with mulled wine. Suffice to say, you would have wanted to be there too.

I seem to have written myself out of my load shedding bad mood.  Remembering all the good stuff is an important balance when life seems a bit dark.  The Monster Supply store is definitely onto something- creative writing is an excellent way to tame a Kraken.

Satisfactory

 This year is on its last, wobbly, legs. Logical sequence of time seems to have been thrown out my window - was it really just 12 months ago that South Africa was put on the Red list, and all travel plans were summarily chucked in the dustbin? It seems much longer really.  One of the effects of Covid has been to concatenate time and confuse my  memory.  But yes, confusing as it is, this year is hammering towards the finish line.

 

Recognise this  Angel?

Which means it is Christmas time.  For a variety of twinkling reasons, this is not my favourite season. (Spring is!) To give you an example of exactly how Grinchy I can be, the chore I dislike the most is dismantling the Christmas tree and  tidying up the decorations.  When the children were little and we all pretended that Father Christmas, elves, snow in 35 degrees, flying reindeer and toilet rolls covered in crinkle paper, were all absolutely believable and necessary this time of the year,  Christmas did sparkle and have a magic feeling, because children ooze enthusiasm and sincere belief.  I am older and more jaded now, and hearing Jingle Bells and other snowy songs while I trundle around the supermarket  in slip slops and the coolest possible clothing, is more irritating than inspiring.

So we are trying something different this year!  We are off to be closer to the North Pole and experience a winter Christmas.  I am told that a lot of the traditions make more sense in the cold, dark evenings.  I will let you know! 

If I was the letter writing type and believed in Father Christmas, I would only have one word on my wish list: Enough. I was rereading TS Eliot's "Journey of the Magi" the other day.  He talks about the long, rough journey, with men cursing, hostile and unfriendly people, high prices of goods, and sleeping in snatches with voices in their heads saying this was all folly.  Relates to our lives these past few covid/ war/ inflation years perhaps??

And when the wise men finally get through all that, they come to the other side to find conditions "satisfactory."  I love that word.  Somehow we have taken it to mean mediocre - could be better, but originally it meant to make or have enough (Latin for the win.).  And enough is just what we need.

Imagine if everyone had enough - food, water, resources, money, happiness, health.  It would be such a different world. And I think that may be the intention behind Christmas - that we wish enough for all people all over the world.  That would truly be magic. And if Father Christmas can find a special place in his heart for South Africans this year, perhaps he could wrap up some electricity, water, and non corrupt leadership.  It's a big ask, I know.

Wishing you all Enough this festive season.

Try Without Succeeding

 Hushed phone calls when I was a kid were always bad news. Good news is greeted with exuberance and happy laughter, so muted calls meant something was wrong. The phone in my childhood house was on a table next to the front door.  And it was decidedly unmovable, being plugged in and stuck to the wall.  This meant privacy was in tone of voice rather than distance from people.  Communication really has changed over the last half century - As a teenager I didn't imagine that one day I would be able to leave the room or find a quiet spot to have a private conversation on a cell phone.

The particular conversation I am thinking about was not unexpected, and pretty trivial really. I had failed a Spanish dancing exam, and my teacher was telling my mother who had to tell me.  It was a big deal to my teenage self though - not the actual event (I knew I had done terribly on the day), but the heavy feeling of having let all and sundry down, and not being good enough.  

It - Failure- is a concept that I have been mulling over at the very back of my thoughts this last little while.    Failure means, to quote a dictionary, "the fact of someone or something not succeeding."  Which is only useful if success is defined.  Success is the "accomplishment of an aim or purpose. "  (I used the Cambridge University dictionary for both definitions.)

It is all pretty obvious, uncomplicated stuff.

Except.

Failure comes loaded with social judgements, doesn't it?  Mostly negative connotations, which really are just a social construct.  What I mean by that, is that for failure to hurt, it needs an audience or a comparison. As you know, I love working with glass.  If I am trying out a new glass design and for some reason it doesn't work - if it cracks, or breaks or looks hideous, I just look at what went wrong, try again, and chuck attempt number 1 (or 2 or 89...) away.  But if I am demonstrating my glass skills to a group, and mess up spectacularly (Incorrect cutting, sometimes even resulting in blood letting!, or wrong firing time in the kiln for example...) that might be deemed a failure.  I have failed to achieve the goal of showing others  my ability and love of the medium of glass, and may even have put them off trying for themselves.

That's just an example, but you know what I mean.

Wouldn't t be better if failure was stripped of its negativity.  It is the first step to finding something out, to becoming better at what we try. 

(There are big exceptions of course - nobody wants to fail on their first attempt at solo sky diving for example. Nobody wants Eskom to fail.)

Who are we trying to please anyway?    Most failures are not catastrophic, and if we stop comparing ourselves and are open to learning from our experience, failure can be a good thing.  It doesn't have to be a hushed tone conversation.  I guess in the case of the dancing exam, I was trying to please my teacher (and it was probably a black mark for her studio), my gran who paid for the lessons, and my parents. (A feature of childhood is trying to impress and please your parents/caregivers, or rebel in the attempt if that fails....)  I didn't ever do another dancing exam, and that was a huge relief. So, rather than the big red F scrawled on the mark sheet, I would like to say, I Tried Without Succeeding.

There were plenty of hushed toned conversations in the house I grew up in - and I am sure in yours too if you grew up in a  pre-cellphone era. These days we just politely excuse ourselves from the room, or put down a call we don't want to take at a particular time, and we have a lot more privacy available to us.  Or not.  Social media allows the world into our lives, but not too many of us put up posts about the times we Try Without Succeeding.  Perhaps we should.  It might encourage others to do the same, and balance the scales of how success is achieved.

 

 

Me in the1980s.  I loved dancing. 

All dressed up in our back garden.