Warning: Kindness is Dope

I met someone recently who thanked me for something I did for her 20 years ago.

I kid you not.

To be quite honest, I did not recall the detail or that act of apparent kindness at all. She tells me that it came at a time when she desperately needed a strong mother figure and that young-me stepped up.

I must say, our exchanges back then never did feel like “rescue” or “help” to me. In fact, I reckon I was the one who felt good. I was the one who felt useful. I was probably the one who felt high from the endorphins that make us drunk with purpose. That’s really all I remember about our interactions ~ how lovely I felt around her.

How cool?

Her testimony has since inspired me to write some random “Thank You” notes of my own. Because the stars know that there are plenty of people who have touched me over the years. And just like that, I’m part of an energy that keeps the magical vibration of GRATITUDE in motion.

Perhaps you feel inspired to hop on the train and thank someone today too? If so, I can tell you without a doubt that the wise ones were right: It is indeed GIVING that we RECEIVE.

Try it. Thank me (29 years later).

Lee Mayimele

Chief Storyteller

How a DUSTBIN schooled me (A Lesson in Self-Worth)

I had been shoving things into my kitchen dustbin for 2 days over a long weekend. I pushed down hard each time.  Every item that went in I noted would be the last thing that would fit. But lo and behold, the old cow of a dustbin was a dark horse. She had lots more capacity for crap than I had given her credit for. She had a BIG Inbox for rubbish. I was happy.

 

She got me thinking:

Isn’t it amazing how much crap (aka bullshit) we accept?

Isn’t it funny how much shit we think we’re made to take?

Isn’t it fascinating how much grime, dust, dirt and other people’s nonsense we’re open to receiving?

Isn’t it interesting how we take more and more and more and more pushing when we’re already sick of it? 

 

When Monday afternoon rolled around, I knew that there were only a couple more hours to go before the long weekend was over.

 

My dustbin was acting up. Big time.  The cow was getting cocky. Pushing back at me.  I tried a pizza box, but she resisted.  I tried something more eco and diet friendly, but she wasn’t accepting the old tofu (don’t ask!) either.  Stupid tart!

Again, she got me thinking:

Isn’t it amazing how our tolerance for crap (aka bullshit) decreases as time goes on?

Isn’t it true that our capacity for rubbish shrinks with time?

Isn’t it beautiful how much grime, dust, dirt and other people’s issues we just close off to? 

Isn’t it magical how we simply take less and less and less pushing when we’ve had enough?

 

I decided to deal with the rebellious dustbin in the old fashioned way: I decided to ignore her.  I left her to deal with her own “issues” of boundaries, self-worth, value, dignity. I knew better than to mess with a cow who has had enough!

 

Allow me to wish you strength in dealing with your own capacity for bullshit too.  It’s a dirty business, but let’s face it, the more shit you take, the more shit you will get.  Only YOU can decide when enough is really enough and when is the moment you decide to cancel your subscription to the circus casting call.

 

Aluta continua, as they say. The road to calling that “end” is often a tad too long…

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016. 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.

 

 

Why I was late, why my iPad was pregnant and why I hate yoga

I believe in being punctual, well prepared and flexible.

I was on my way to a storytelling event. Although I had prepared well in advance, I arrived five minutes late. Now five minutes is no misdemeanor for sure, but for a time-stickler like me, it’s a self imposed spot-fineable offence.

I was late because my direction-bearings were off and I had taken the tram in the opposite direction to where I was going. Then, my Uber driver was grumpy, so asking him to speed was out of the question.

The first person speaker was a beauty. A dark haired woman with the biggest smile — the kind you see in toothpaste commercials.

I caught her story in the middle : her husband was having an affair. 

I listened attentively as she waved her hands while giving an animated (and very detailed) account of how that affair drove her into the arms of a lesbian lover and then right back to the arms of the new and improved version of the very same husband.

She radiated light, vitality and sunshine. I loved listening to her bare her soul. People were drawn to her light.

I was up next. It was a hard act to follow.

I turned on my iPad just to get to the right spot for my storyguide and it was dead. Just dead.  I had no backup notes and as I fumbled in my handbag to try and find a pen, the American voice called out my name.  It was showtime.

Instead of sharing the beautiful story I had written about how I was forced to confront my bully, I had to make some shit up. Fast.

I said “I believe in being punctual, well prepared and flexible. So, I am here to tell you why I was late today, why my iPad is pregnant and why I hate yoga.”

The laughter helped me to relax and I continued to waffle off a lot of crap.

After the event, the toothpaste commercial girl said “You know, your story and mine are pretty much the same.”  I wanted to reply that I had never had a lesbian affair but said “How so?” instead.

She flashed those sick pearly whites and said “In the end, we only regret the risks we did NOT take.”

And, she was right. The risk of telling that story opened up yet another door for me and today I am grateful.

© 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

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.

Two Brothers, Two Stories, One Family

One brother said to the other, “Don’t you wish you were born into a different family?”.

The other brother replied “I was”.

The end.

© 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 “Choice” to Listen

They had a history of twisting words.

So, when one of the two girls told me that she was worried about a rumour doing the rounds, I was sceptical.

But, I chose to listen. Simply listen and make no comment. 

Then, the other girl mentioned the same thing to me two weeks later.  She actually called me and said that she “didn’t mean to cause any trouble”. She also told me that she “didn’t like to get involved in other people’s business”.

Both statements were lies.

But again, I chose to listen.  Simply listen and make no comment.

It only occurred to me AFTER the final version of the story was told, how in fact, I had actually entered the plot.

Yes, there were many versions of the “truth” now doing the rounds and yes, I was one of the main characters in the movie.  ME!? The one who had said nothing?   Yes, me!

The thing is, whether I liked it or not, I had entered their story.  I engaged. I participated. Simply by listening. 

Once I accepted that I was part of the plot, I needed to strategise.   The way I saw things, I had two choices:

1. Ignore(and continue to be an UNOFFICIAL cast member in a story where my name was being dragged through the mud)
2. Confront(and become an OFFICIAL cast member in a story where my name was being dragged through the mud)

I chose to ignore it.

And yes, perhaps I have no balls.

Perhaps I am just wise.

Perhaps I know how to pick my battles.

I guess the jury is still out.  Maybe one day I will be able to say with certainty WHY I made the decision I did.

Until then, 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 www.aheartfullofstories.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tequila Girl vs Action Girl (Choices)

We arrived in Dar es Salaam on a Friday.  It was a girl’s holiday and we were heading to the beautiful island of Zanzibar.

The scenery was magical. Turquoise water, white sand, tanned bodies, spices, sunshine and the prospect of endless cocktails.

Just when I thought that the day could not get any better, the hotel set up a solo dinner table IN the shallow water of a beautiful private beach, at sunset.  And right before I was about to die from sheer bliss, I learnt that the menu for the night included spicy prawns, grilled before my eyes.  We were in the land of spices and I wanted to cry! Haleeluuuuuia!

The next morning, we decided to go local. We ditched the tourists from our resort and went exploring.

Before we left, I met a girl in the loo.  Her face was bust up. Black eye, swollen lips, cut on her eyebrow.  My instincts told me not to trust her and NOT to make eye contact.  She said “clumsy me! Too much tequila last night”.  She told me that she had fallen down the stairs in her drunken state.  I have been acquainted with tequila a few times in my life.  Not as well as her, but still – I knew its power.

My friends laughed when I told them about her.  They had heard from the guy cleaning our room that there had been a domestic abuse drama.  “Same old story!” he said to them.

That night we went dancing. I saw the girl.  She was drunk.  She was dancing with a group of guys.  One guy had his arm around her.  I figured he was the baddie. What an idiot, I thought. 

I was glued. I could not stop staring.

When they moved to another bar, I said to my friends “Hey! Let’s go next door.  I love the sound of the music there”. They bought it.  We moved and I positioned myself strategically.

Now, one of my friends is an ACTION girl.  She is driven by her heart and when she is confronted with a situation where she feels that there is an injustice, she acts. Mostly its heroic but there are also times when it isn’t very pretty.  I did not want her involved in my movie. I needed to act cool.

Now, acting cool got hard when she saw me talking to security. She knew that something was up.  She said “What are you doing? It’s that girl hey!?” and as much as I tried to deny that I even remembered the girl, Action Girl saw right through me.  She said “don’t tell me you believe her story?”

I had zero chill.

Action Girl said :

“Look, you have two choices: 

1. I help you get to the bottom of this shit 
2. You forget about this shit.

BUT we can NOT spend our holiday with you obsessed with some drunk hooker who invents stories of an abusive husband to scam strangers, steal their money, their boyfriends and their memories of their dream holiday.

Make the choice”. 

I chose option 2.   More out of fear of Action Girl in scenes from Option 1.

I decided to honour my company and resist the pull from the drama magnet, filled with its lies and deceit.

I chose instead to order more spicy prawns and a Long Island Ice Tea (with a little tequila because I was still on drama-detox and had to slowly let go of the memory of Tequila Girl).

© 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.

Knee Jerk Reaction (Bloody Rude)

I used to be a secretary.  About 100 years ago.

One of the things I had to do, was receive emails on behalf of my boss.   There was a forwarding on his email address.

So, I am sitting in front of my new laptop one sunny morning in Johannesburg when an email pops up.  It says “Dear Mr X, I had the displeasure of deeling with your secretary this morning”.

My first thought was “You can’t spell” but I read on.

It continued “I was looking for some information which she refused to give me, hence holding up the project.  Delay will probably cost millions, thanks to Miss bloody rude!”

Bloody rude?  Did I just see that?

My CEO (Mr X) and I had come a long way.  We had a mutual respect and though I had moved on from the secretarial role a long time ago, I still dealt with his emails. We had that sort of relationship. Some call it trust, others habit. It’s just the way things were.

It took me 15 minutes to decide what action to take.

I responded “Dear Mr B, I take exception to the tone of your email and its inaccuracies.  As such, I have deleted your email and have not brought it to the attention of Mr X.  Sincerely, Bloody Rude”. Yes, I signed the email “Bloody Rude”.

Now, before you send forth waves of applause.  Hold it.  This kind of knee-jerk reaction is not something I advocate. It was also very out of character for me. I was blinded by rage and in hindsight, I am sure that my reaction would come in very low on an emotional intelligence scorer. 

Mr B happened to be a very senior business associate.  Someone we dared NOT challenge.  We needed him.  Our business depended on it.  He sat very high up on the food chain. I knew this.

When I arrived at my office the next morning, I weighed up my options:

1. Tell my CEO about the incident (and get fired)
2. Wait for Mr B to tell my CEO about the incident (and get fired)
3. Wait for my Chairman to tell my CEO about the incident (and get both of us fired)
4. Shut up and hope for the best

My fear immobilised me and I could not do a thing. 

Next thing, I hear a knock on my office door.  It was Mr B. With flowers.

He said nothing. I said nothing.  We smiled and parted ways.

I looked at his blonde hair as he walked off and thought “Bloody rude!”

© 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.

Regrets Come in The Morning

Each morning he woke up before his children.

He walked straight to the coal stove and lit the fire.  The water that he boiled was sacred.  First, he used it to cleanse himself, then he watered the garden with the dirty remains. His mother’s ashes were buried in the garden.  Their souls connected each morning.

He was a proud father. 

When his girls woke up, their porridge was ready, their shoes were polished and their lunches made.

They had all archived the previous day’s indiscretions and together they prayed for protection and blessings.  

Each new day brought new hope.  They hoped that no one would remind them of the ugly sights and sounds that permeated the neighbourhood air and he hoped that he could be strong and resist the call to the bottle. 

By noon each day, those hopes stood no chance.

They had to walk past the pub on their way home.  He always saw them.  They pretended that they did not see him.

While the other children played freely, their minds were always on what evening would bring.

Sunset brought feelings of fear mixed with fatigue.  It was quite a nice combination.  After all, it meant that the end of the horror show was near.

They would hear him coming from two blocks away.  Cursing and hissing with each step.  They said nothing to each other.  There was no point.

As he entered their home, he hung his pride at the door. 

God only knows that sort of beatings they endured.  From the sound of it, a life sentence would have been too lenient a punishment for him. The silence that followed was worrying.  The walls stored those sounds, tainting its memory for eternity.

By morning, the coal stove was ready to serve again and he was ready to cleanse again – just as he had watched his father do all those ugly years before.

Both girls ran away from home when they were in their teens.

The older sister ran straight into the arms of a man just like her father. The beatings and booze were warm and familiar.  When she finally found the strength to leave him, she threw herself into perfecting her art as an actress.  Her ability to go inside the head of the characters she plays is magical to watch.

The younger sister found solace in travel.  She never stays in one place long enough to become emotionally attached. She practices as an intuitive healer, going around the world to help people heal their pasts to gain control over their futures.

As for the man, time has faded his memory.   The framed pictures of a family holiday taken 40 years earlier hangs strategically in the entrance to his room at the nursing home.  They look like every other happy family at Christmas time. When strangers ask him about the girls in matching red dresses, he simply says “I did my best for them. I hope they know that”.  

So friends, I wish you love on your journey to healing and growth too. The idea is that when we know better, we ought to do better, right?  Aluta Continua, I say!

© 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.