KINDNESS POLICE (A story about fickle people)

I’m always surprised when someone I know is funny towards me.

 

I bumped into one such acquaintance recently. I walked away from a brief encounter with her wondering if she actually knew me at all. She certainly made no effort whatsoever to be warm or receptive. She was entirely self-absorbed, in a vain, I’m-very-important kind of way.

 

Now, of course I have had plenty of experience with people like that: the full range from mild to extra hot bitches, from the subtle frenemies to the full-on social food chain hoes. But I walked away from my brief encounter wondering why it still unnerved me. I shouldn’t give a damn, right?

 

Wrong.

 

As I touched up my lipstick in the ladies room, I caught a glimpse of my daughter’s two little ponies in the mirror.

 

I immediately thought about how many times in her life she will have to interact with funny people.

 

And, of course, I wanted to write her a note:

 

My little one,

 

You are enough.

You have always been enough.

You will always be enough.

 

But there are people in this world who will leave you feeling less than that. Sometimes knowingly. Often unwittingly.

 

Be happy anyway.

Shine your light bright anyway. 

Talk lots, laugh lots, be open and receptive. 

Or be quiet.

Oh, be whatever the hell you want to be! 

 

But, do be kind. It’s for YOU.  

 

Love,

Mama

 

Just before heading home, I was standing talking to a warm person. A really humble person. A pretty important person too. She was actually the VIP of the event we were attending.

 

And, of course my old fickle “friend” headed our way, smiling at ME as if to say “ohhhh there you are!” (Ja right!)

 

My daughter needed to wee and for once, I was glad to rush off to her aid.

 

Because even the “kind” girls reach their bullshit ceiling. And I had had enough for one day.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

P.S. Friends, I am by no means asking you to be spend your days and nights fretting about every person who makes a dent on your rainbow. No, no no!  I am only asking that you be sensitive enough to notice the dent they make. And move on. For you!

 

Aluta continua, as they say.  We’re all on this journey together.

Dancing & Dreaming (A story about the power to create)

Now whooooo is that famous person who said “Some dance to remember. Some dance to forget”?  

 

Oh yes! It’s the famous Hotel California line. But hey, before you get excited, do allow me to express upfront that this is not that kind of story.  It’s sadly not about a wild youth filled with drugs. Wrong storyteller.

 

It’s about:

Dreaming

Dancing

Remembering

and Forgetting.

It was nearly full moon of the Winter Solstice and I was in a full moon kind of mood. So, along I went to a “Sacred Dreaming and Dancing” Ceremony.  I thought it would be an hour long. It turned out to be more than 6 hours. Yes, 6 hours of dancing. Beyond midnight.

 

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am NOT a beyond-midnight kind of person. Those same people will also tell you about my stamina.  I am a weakling on both fronts.

 

But, I needed to dream. 

And I do have an amazing imagination.  So, I pressed on.  I visualised myself with long grey hair, living in a stone house on top of a beautiful hill where I could see the ocean down below.  The house in the dream was full of light in Summer, full of melancholy in Winter. And, as the seasons changed, so would my soul-inspired writing.  I would be guided by my intuition to write about Gratitude, Grace, Love and Blessings during the 10 month long summer and Sorrow, Loss and Fear during Wintertime.  God knows, I could write about all those things with absolute ease.

 

So I danced. 

I tried some of my sexy belly-dance vibes at first but soon enough eased into something a lot more Kate Middleton. More my zone, actually.

 

And so I started to remember:  

I remembered my power to create. The absolute magic of visualisation.  I remembered my dreams as a child. I remembered every single step I have taken and continue to take towards my dream.

 

At the end of the 6 hours, I was in a bad mood. I was cold. I was tired.  But mostly, I was pissed off.  They had told us we would EAT and then presented us with cold (organic no doubt) paw paw. Paw paw at midnight? That’s the part I wish to FORGET! 

 

Still, I jumped into bed that night happy, satisfied, full of smiles.  But on second thoughts, perhaps it was just the Big Mac from the DriveThru that did that.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

P.S. Friends, do allow me to wish you well with your own dreaming.  Hold on to the vision.  See it clearly.  But please, do remember that it is never too late to dream a new dream. Change that shit if you change your mind!  Nothing is cast in stone. This is YOUR life. YOUR dreams. YOUR way!

Aluta continua, as they say….

 

The Girl who was raped (A story about picking your battles)

I realised I was overdressed but it was too late to do anything about it. So, I kept my long vintage leather coat on, accepted a glass of wine and wandered around the bookstore trying to very hard to blend.  It was futile, really.

 

I was there to attend a book launch. About rape. A young girl’s rape. 

 

The author’s mother, a psychologist, was in the audience. I turned around to see her smile. I thought about my own mom and jealousy, not sadness, flooded my veins. I knew that I would never again get that wink that only a mother can give.

 

So, overdressed, tipsy and a little jealous, I sat my bum down and brought my full attention to the moment.

 

The author had researched rape expensively for her Honours thesis and in a bloody cruel twist of fate, she was raped on the very night that she had presented her research and was out to celebrate.

 

My jealousy faded. My heart flooded with sadness. The kind of sadness that made jealousy incomprehensible.

 

“The Girl who was raped” seemed centered. Composed. Vulnerable but focused.  My heart saluted hers as I admired her dark eyebrows framing those eyes filled with courage.

 

And then came the questions. I could have sworn that three people had been planted by AMSA, the Association for Morons in South Africa. 

 

Moron Number 1 suggested that young women on her town square “provoke” men by the way they dress/act. Short-shorts and laughter. You know? A deadly “come get me now” combo.  I kid you not.

 

The other had it on good authority (someone she worked with 39 years ago) that it was “normal” for black people to rape/be raped. And no, she didn’t blur her face while making this statement.

 

Then the Chairman of AMSA spoke.  With a dead straight face, he pleaded with 50 women to be sympathetic to the plight of the man who simply doesn’t know if no means yes or if no really means no. Again, his true identity was not concealed and he didn’t intend to apply for police escort. He was just really “confused”.

 

My blood pressure was rising and I was starting to look crazy. I had already stuck my hand up twice. “I disagree” to the first woman’s input and “I object! I object!” while the second moron spoke.  I seemed to be the only person in the room on this vibration, possessed by the spirit of Joan of Arc.

That’s when I did the most sensible thing of the evening.  I called my Uber and took my ass home.

 

Rather that, than I be mistaken for Deputy Chairperson of AMSA.  Things were certainly heading in that direction….

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016