My Favourite Storyteller

She was our cleaner by day and our storyteller when the floors were shone.

She only had one English story in her arsenal and it was a killer. She had perfected the art of telling it, narrowing her air passages just enough to make the little birds sound angelic and gruffing up in a way that made you feel like the big bear and the snakes had morphed and were right in the backyard.

Her storytime always left us with mixed feelings. We were terrified that if we did not “be good” that we too would be captured by the snakes.  Her story had the desired effect. I was enchanted.

One day, I came home from school crying. Some rude girls had cut off a piece of my ponytail and said “Try and tell your mother…you will see.”

I did not want to “see”, so, I didn’t tell my mother. I told my favorite storyteller instead.

As I walked out of the school the next day, I saw her talking to the naughty girls. I was horrified. When I asked her what she had said, her reply was simple: “I told them a small story. I did my job. I think they understand”.

In that moment, my skinny little self realised the power and magic of how a simple story, can be told over and over again and have the desired effect over and over again. I was enchanted.

I tried to tap into that same magic while I boarded my tram to a storytelling event in Amsterdam recently. I had a great old story to tell. I hoped that the spirits would reward my bravery.

On my way home, I looked out of the tram window and threw a “thank you” prayer to my storytelling mentor in the sky.  I had mixed feelings about how I did.  I still have no way of knowing for sure whether my story had the desired effect, but it sure felt good to take that tiny step in the direction of my dreams.

My husband sent me a text message asking about the event. I simply replied “I told them a small story. I did my job. I think they understand.” 

A WORD OF GRATITUDE:

Dear Reader,

At the risk of sounding like a crazy esoteric caravan-woman, my heart is urging me to  wish you bravery as you look inside at the many things that have come into your life. Those shit things, those hard things, those moments of disappointment, loss and fear.  Bless them!  Bless also the happy things, those special moments with God & with your lover, the windfalls, lucky breaks, laughs and bursts of creative genius.  Those little things make YOUR story unique. They are your biggest gift and I wish you courage as you stare your imperfect life in the face & see how damn perfect YOUR unique story is.

Aluta continua, as they say. The road is still long (for me).

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and http://www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content

“Charm” is sooooo last season

Someone told me recently that I had changed.

He said that I was no longer the “charming girl” I used to be.

I let that bullshit sink in.

I let it get to me. I did!

Quite deflated, I went home thinking “charm? I thought I had lots of charm?!”

That evening, I got into bed feeling off centre.  I looked at the wrinkles around my eyes, my sagging chest, the greys around my temple.

But, sure as the morning sun, I woke up feeling none of the crap from the day before.  You see, for me, mornings bring magic.  I am focussed and centered at 5am and I take no bullshit.

I walked up to the same mirror that showed me the not-so-charming girl the night before and thought to myself, that person was damn right.  I am damn right no longer a “charming girl”.   I am now a phenomenal, strong, centered, opinionated, WOMAN.  A woman with a vision. A woman with a purpose. A woman with children. A woman with God at the centre. And gosh, if that ain’t “charming”, then who the hell cares?

The girl who had no grey hair, no lines around her eyes was awesome and “charming” for sure, but God sure knows that she was not on fire.  The woman in the mirror was on fire!

So, I did my meditation in gratitude, as I always do, and wrote “Today, I am grateful for my continued growth, evolution and powerful centre as a WOMAN on fire”.

Besides, charm is in the eye of the beholder and if the fire is too hot, then a step to the left may not be the worst idea.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and http://www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Lunch Date, Wrong Spot !Caution: This story contains bad language. Parental Guidance Advised

I love peri peri prawns; I love the company of women; I love a cold glass of bubbly; I love the sunshine and when the promise of all of those things are on the cards, I dress up and show up.

Oh yes, and if this magical combo of things happens to come together on a work day, well then, I even swop my EDT for EDP.

So, I spritzed the good stuff on my pulse points. It felt so indulgent on a random Tuesday. I had been under enormous pressure at work. My special lunch date had been too.  She had also been recovering from a critical illness and I planned to tell her that I loved the fact that she still used words like “bitch” instead of offering me a passage from the bible during our chats about her health.

The word “bitch” was going to come up lots and lots during our lunch meeting. This I knew for sure. We had been dealing with a mutual service provider who I really thought should have considered a company name change. RIP: Rude, Incompetent, Pricey – Where Customers Come Last is what I had in mind. There would be total value alignment with her staff. I could not wait to share my genius over lunch.

But we had a teeny problem. My lunch date was sitting in a restaurant in one part of the city. Stupid tart!  Poor thing! She had already ordered something to drink. I was sitting in a restaurant by the same name in another part of the city, 30km away from her. I had also ordered a drink.

I had sunshine. I had prawns. I had a glass of bubbly. I was not moving.  So, I Skyped my date.

We had a blast talking about RIP!  I had to agree, I DID have a certain “way with words”.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The “Outcast”

I met a woman who told me that she was an “outcast” amongst the women.

She was certain that she knew the reasons.

She said: Well, I’m divorced

I nodded.

She continued: I smoke

I nodded again.

And, I don’t have time for shit. I don’t pretend!

I was intrigued. 

I thought about it as I was standing in the rain outside my daughter’s school one afternoon. I looked around at the many divorced people exchanging smiles, some of them smoking in the shade while chatting to other non-smokers who seemed to like them anyway.

As the kids ran to their respective parents, I wondered about the divorced, smoking loner and what made her combination of the three deadly sins of likability so formidable?

I was intrigued. 

When we met again, all the women were standing in the kitchen, happily talking away. There was lots of talk about school, creative projects, work, ex-husbands, marijuana, travel, bikini waxing and Nespresso. A good mix of chit chat to cater for everyone’s taste. I enjoyed that everyone was so positive, and that talking about potholes, politics and crime were low on the agenda.

I looked through a small, frilly kitchen curtain to see if the kids were okay. The back of sexy woman caught my eye. It was the divorced smoker. Our very own loner.

I jumped on the kitchen counter, next to the scary family cat (cringe) to take a closer look. She was wearing heavy makeup, a mini skirt and sky high heels, her belly button was pierced, she had a bottle of beer in her hand and she had all the guys around the barbecue laughing hysterically.

I was intrigued. 

I looked at the moms in the kitchen. In contrast, all of them had on flats, no makeup and loose clothes.

I was intrigued.

I fell sort of in the middle. I was wearing my standard bright red lip (so 50% makeup) a flowy maxi skirt & a bustier (so 50% tarty) with wedges (so 50% high heels).

I was a bridge. 

I approached the barbecue with caution : Hey, we could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. She replied: Nah! I am not in the mood for the nagging bitches club today. All you guys do is moan moan moan moan. All the men laughed out loud, one of them giving her a high five. Yes, someone’s husband gave that high five.

I reflected as I walked away.

I realised that she right about one thing: she was indeed an outcast.  What she was not right about were the “reasons” she was one.

She was not a victim of her circumstances. She was the creator.

A happy one.

So, I stopped being intrigued.

I decided I would leave her to finish her own story and I canned the bridge ambition pronto.

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and http://www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.