The Power of ART to touch the HEART

I was drawn to a lady.

 

I saw her in the window. Not in an Amsterdam Red Light District kind of way. No, it was a statue of a lady to be exact and she was beautiful with the aura of a wise old soul.

 

I wasn’t sure if she was for sale, but I followed my instinct and went inside.  Aha, I thought, I am a genius! My friend’s 40^th birthday was coming up, and although I was more than one month early, I was sorted. I could tick her gift off my list.

 

After she became mine, the lady stayed in my car for a day or two. Then I moved her to the office. She looked happy.

 

When we closed for the Christmas holidays, I moved her back to my car.  She didn’t seem to mind that either.

 

But it was only until I mounted her in the perfect spot in my home (okay, this is still sounding Red Light-ish), that she really seemed to come alive.  What a magnificent piece of art she was, revealing her essence slowly and seductively, ever so subtly like a Picasso may have done.

 

My fascination with the lady grew each day. I noticed she was holding her hands together, palms up, as though she was either offering or accepting something.  I loved that I didn’t know which it was and that I still needed to find out exactly what she was up to.  The mystery intoxicated me.

 

Days went by, and she was still mounted.  I justified her hanging to myself by saying “It needs to stay out of the way of the kids” but God knows, I was planning a coup. Her spell was cast and there was no way I could entertain the thought of parting ways. Not yet.

 

When my friend came around after her holidays, I was so delighted to see her.  She brought spices and spices make my heart sing.

 

While I was opening the wine, my daughter stormed into the kitchen and said “Mama is soooo mad, you know!?”

 

The holidays had been long and I must say, the manners-barometer was shaky.

 

My friend played along, “Yes, darling. Why is your mama so mad?”

 

“Well, you see that” she said pointing to the lady.  My heart pounded hard. “Well, she bought that for yourrrrrrrrrr birthday surprise, but now she says it’s hers and you are getting a…..” 

 

My reaction was swift.

 

I said “Damn kids of today!” and rolled my eyes.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015.

 

P.S. The lady remains in my care. And the mystery of whether she is giving or receiving or doing both is still driving me mad. (Again, no PG 21 SVNL tones whatsoever are intended by that statement)

 

COPYRIGHT:

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.

 

One of thosssssse days

I woke up feeling strange.

 

I knew that I had not slept well because my son was up lots, but it was not that.  I felt off- centre.  Just not myself.

 

Instead of allowing myself just 15 minutes of gentle writing and meditation time (which I know works for me), I jumped straight into my work in the kitchen, of preparing things for school etc.

 

After everyone had left the house for the day, and still feeling slow and low, I jumped into my car with no plan of where I was going.

 

As I set off, I received an SMS from my housekeeper reminding me that I needed to buy toilet paper. I responded “Okay”.  She knew I would forget.

 

Because habits are hard things, I got the urge to send some work emails so I swerved right into my local country club to use the wifi. I planned to rush in, send the emails and go straight for the toilet paper. You know, get the shit out of the way, so I could enjoy my day off work.

 

While I was signing into the club, there was a knock on my window followed by my door opening. A 100 year old man got into the car and said “Oh dear, would you give me a ride to Gate 1” pointing to the gate in the distance.

 

He was already halfway in the car. So was his walking stick. It was too late to do anything but drive. So, I smashed the old McDonalds Happy Meal box off the front seat and said “Yes, sure.”

 

The security guard was laughing hysterically. It must have been my face.

 

Gate 1 was not where he thought it was. In fact, it was Gate 2 to be precise and it was far, far out of my way. Thirty minutes later, I dropped the old man off at the cricket stadium, right in front of the entrance. Yes, thirty whole minutes later. That’s how long it took me to find his Gate 2.

 

He kissed my hand and said “Thank you, dear. Now go on and do something fun. You are only young once!” 

 

Shaking my head, I found myself laughing and then crying as I drove back home to do something “fun”.  I climbed into bed with some ginger tea, a Mr Delivery menu and my notebook.  I also gave my housekeeper the day off.  (Because ain’t nobody got time for toilet paper dramas on their day off!)

 

© 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.

 

My Ego & The Manners Police

I barged into a restaurant door. The first person I saw was a waitress. I said “Excuse me, where is the singer standing?”

He was belting out one of my daughter’s favourite songs, drawing us in like the Pied Piper. 

He was nearing the end of the song. I wanted to see my girl’s face when he got to her favourite part.

The waitress just looked at me. Hard. In the eyes.

I said “Umm, Where? Where is the singer standing?” 

The waitress said “Hello.”

I was thick, so I said again, “Umm, where is he standing?” (There was 30 seconds left of the song)

The waitress maintained “I said hello.”

She was making a point. A valid point about my manners.

My ego told me to ignore her.

I complied. 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015

Something “Fishy”

I was eating a prawn and avocado salad at 9am on a Friday morning while driving.

 

I rarely eat salad. I NEVER eat salad in the morning. I should have known it was going to be a strange day.

 

My hair was dirty and the salon could not take me for a wash at 09h30. I was annoyed.  I needed to look decent for an event I was going to at 11h00. Ah, a turban!  Yes, my trusty old turban was about to become Cinderella, going from a lame old piece of fabric, to a stylish accessory in a blink.

 

I had a plan:

1. Finish the salad without getting prawn on my clothes (God knows that fishy smell is not for everyone)
2. Tie the turban
3. Add some red lips

 

Then, just out of the damn blue, there was something on my leg. I was convinced that it was a piece of cotton from my long dress.  Those hems come apart quickly if you step on them too much.

 

My plan was to stop at the next traffic light to tear the piece of cotton off the dress. But, yes, you guessed it, the traffic lights were all green. So, I kept going.

 

About twelve seconds later, the car in front of me braked suddenly. I dropped a piece of prawn and in my attempt to catch it, I brushed the spider. A spider! Yes, there was a spider acting like a piece of cotton on my leg. Psycho!

 

I peeked inside my car window while I stood next to it, waiting for my Uber. My sense was that I took a risk locking the prawn all alone in the car with the spider, but what else was I supposed to do?

 

Naturally, my husband said that there was no black widow in the car when he arrived to collect it in the evening.  The only thing he said that made some sense was, “something smells fishy”.  

 

Men!

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015

 

(P.S. As you can see, the turban and red lips worked out well.  Pity about that last prawn!”)

 

COPYRIGHT:  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 Power of “Thank You”

I have always marveled at the way mothers perform their miracles. 

To me, these superpowers seem to really come alive at Christmas, Eid, Diwali, Birthdays, Weddings and Barmitzvahs. You know, those milestone moments that go on to the mantelpiece for a lifetime. 

It fascinates me the way these moms press-on despite limited budgets and family dramas, despite the exhaustion and lack of appreciation to create something out of nothing for their loved ones. 

It also fascinates me how “thank you” seems to be the spark that ignites their hearts and gives them enough energy for another 600 rounds of madness. Those two little words seem to be the magical formula. 

I had sat down to write a story about Gratitude for these mothers (and my own miracle worker mom) when another story fell right into my heart. 

He was drunk. No, he was pissed. He said that he was drinking because he was sad but I thought that he was sad because he had been drinking.

The man told me about the loss of his kids to drugs, the loss of his cash to gambling and the fact that the red wine in his hand was his only real friend. 

His wife was home preparing Christmas Eve dinner for 20 people. He told me that she always went “overboard” and that it was a complete “waste of time and money.”

I would have loved to listen to the rest of his story, but I had to dash. My husband sent me a text message telling me that the coast was clear to go and set up the “milk and cookies” scene at home.  

As I left, the grumpy man proudly showed me some pictures of his family. I noticed that they were all special occasion pictures of birthdays, Christmases and graduations gone by.

I prayed that one day he would remember how to say “Thank You!”

© 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 t