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

What makes YOU smile?

I throw salt in my orange juice

I eat the lemon garnishes in drinks

I purposely wear to my clothes back to front sometimes and have been known to cut the arms off brand new designer wear just because “I like it better that way”

 

I recite the rosary

I read erotica

I write random thank you notes to people

I prefer my red wine chilled

I wear a dress 363 days of the year

I quite dig my greying hair

I photograph churches, mosques, synagogues

I cry at the drop of a hat, both when I’m angry but moreso for kind words, a glimpse of the ocean, grilled prawns peri peri, the national anthem, memories. You know?

 

I love rap and Mozart, the opera and karaoke alike

My books are my fiends

I love to eat. I love to eat with my hands more

I keep my inner circle small

I am usually the first in any group to wake up and also usually the first to go to sleep

I don’t eat bread when I drink alcohol

I like to observe Lent and celebrate Eid too

I collect feathers and lavender, designer vintage handbags and boy, oh boy, do I collect random people

 

But hey, do you know why I’m telling YOU all this crap about myself this Monday morning? It’s very simple really.

It’s not to bore you with a million sentences starting with “I”. Nope!

It’s simply a public service announcement that goes:

I AM UNIQUE. Just like YOU.

The impact I make on this planet is one of a kind.  Just like YOU.

The story I have to tell is a story only I can tell. And guess what? Yip! The same goes for YOU.

 

Now that I have your attention, the CALL TO ACTION is really quite simple.

I encourage you to ask yourself, “What makes ME smile?”

Then chase that crap!

Because honestly, there is no one in this entire world exactly like YOU and we all need the magic that only YOU can bring.

 

Aluta continua, as they say. I wish you the courage to stand out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking for GOD? (A short “Soul Sunday” reflection)

 

Don’t look for me in holy books or so-called holy people.

That’s not where you’ll find ME.

 

Don’t hurriedly hunt me in secret places, special buildings, strings of beads, ancient scripts, in potions or in star alignments.

 

Get quiet!

 

Then,

Look at the fire coloured sun, rising and setting without you having to do a thing;
See the butterfly, the migrating birds pulsing to a vibration of pure precision;

Listen to the waves crashing, a choir singing, the cry of a newborn baby;

Smell the fresh earth after a thunderstorm;

Feel the high of a meditation, the warmth of a touch, the tears that run when the soft smell of a deceased loved one wafts through your home;

Tune in, and you’re getting close.

 

Don’t chase after me in holy water, special foods or men who claim to “know”.

 

NO,

I’m more likely to be in the eyes of your lover, a generous stranger, a homeless man;

I’m more likely to be the laughter of children, the gentle push of a teacher, your gran’s dusty kitchen floor;

I’m more likely to be in the tingle of strawberries, the soft rain playing jazzy tunes on your rooftop;

 

YES,

That’s more my style.

 

For I am GOD, my child,

The creator, narrator, the connector of the dots.

The beginning;

The end;

Foremost an artist! Second to none.

 

All light comes from me, and all light flows through you.

 

AND,

How will you know when you’ve found ME?

Ah, that’s the easy part: You’ll just know!

I designed you that way.

 

© Aluta continua, as they say.  A Heart Full of Stories, 2017

APOLOGY:

It seems there were some gremlins in yesterday’s post, trying to scramble text and give me more grey air. Luckily, we’ve now sorted them out.

 

 

 

The Front Row II (A short reflection on CHANGE)

With another birthday approaching, I am naturally reflecting on all things CHANGE (and no, I am not only talking about the spread in the middle)

 

It always fascinates me how deciding who gets a front row seat in the movie that is our lives isn’t exactly as simple as ordering a large popcorn and Slush Puppie.

Friends change, lovers drift, egos inflate, eyes open, lust rattles, death knocks, jobs morph, travel calls, masks drop, strategies shift, needs flip, kids drift, hearts evolve. You know, life happens?

While we are certain that CHANGE is the law of the universe (with seasons changing, leaves falling, blossoms springing effortlessly before our very eyes) I have often wondered why we find it so difficult to just “flow” with these changes especially as they affect key relationships.

 

Then it hit me : We are uneasy with movement, with change itself.

 

The old moulds are more warm and familar than a onesie, clouded in words like “loyalty” and “history”. Deciding to actively drop leaves, sprout flowers and reassign those name tags on the prime VIP spots in our life, ruffling feathers and inviting scrutiny challenges our comfy paradigms. Crap ain’t easy.

But it must be done.

So, as I mascara another grey hair this morning and try not to overthink my Kombucha ambitions, do allow me to send you my best good vibes as you contemplate your own selections.  

• If you have to increase or decrease the number of seats, make that call.
• If you are blessed that no rearrangement is necessary, scream “thank you!”; such blessing is never to be taken lightly.

…BUT yes, that seating chart needs to be issued. (Or else some random weeds will fill those vacant spots and then your garden will really be sad).

Go on…Today is a good day to think about that front row again.  Aluta continua, as they say.

#gratitude #reflections #alutacontinua

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2017.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Whilst we don’t know the origin of the pic above, all respect and due credit are hereby given where appropriate. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lee-Ann Mayimele and A Heart Full of Stories with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. All media rights and copyright for the words reserved.

 

My True Love (A Tragedy)

I was wearing the world’s most comfortable onesie and I really did not want to change. We had a bond. A warm, assuring intimacy built on years of trust, closeness and chemistry.  And, as often happens with real love, dark forces try and creep in and threaten to tear you apart. 

 

In our case, it was coffee. There was no coffee! The dark force decided to strike on the coldest morning of the year.

 

So, I did what any self-respecting woman in love would do. I lifted my game, taking the risk and going in the direction of my destiny. Showing the dark force who’s boss, I put on a long coat, Jackie O glasses, a baseball cap and I headed out.

 

I was also wearing sneakers because I told our cleaner I was going to the gym. She side-eyed me. I knew it! We had to keep our love a secret. Nobody could find out. There would be consequences. People were talking. I could see it in her eyes.

 

As far as I was concerned, our secret was still pretty safe. Safe under the beautiful vintage cover of my granny’s tweed coat.

 

Still acting like Madonna, and just like the lovers who err every now and then and risk getting caught, I had a serious case of the guilty conscience. It hit me hard.

 

Hot, sweaty, high from adrenaline and feeling the full pressure from “society”, I decided to do the “right” thing.  It was painful but I had no choice but to break up with my onesie.

 

It wasn’t him, it was me. He didn’t deserve it.

 

It was either that, or my husband would get the text message telling him that our gym membership was about to be revoked because we had used it less than 3 times in one month. (Can you imagine our cleaner’s face then?)

 

…I still think about that onesie.

Especially during squats when I think I finally know what Adele meant when she said “sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead…” 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

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.

 

 

 

What’s YOUR story (Mine is about GRATITUDE)

Every heart has a story to tell. My story is about Gratitude.

 

….You see, I used to be a selfish girl.  I wrote stories but I did not share them. In 2009, Lady Fate – in all her wisdom – decided to change that.  I suffered a major concussion that resulted in me losing my senses of smell and taste.   During the reflective days after that curveball, something in my soul stirred.  My selfish girl days were numbered.

 

I tuned in to the soulcall to share and was rewarded generously: I developed superpowers. Yes, superpowers!  I realised that:

My loss of smell forced me to use my ears more.

So, I started to listen.  Really listen.

My loss of taste forced me to use my eyes more.

So, I started to see. Really see. 

It occurred to me that on the road to recovery, I had developed a special set of skills using instinct, intuition, vibrations, feelings, nuances. My 2 dull senses heightened the 3 fully functional ones.  Those superpowers were my biggest gift as a writer.  They made for some powerful storytelling.

 

So began my journey to publishing my writing.  My stories translated into emotions.  The emotions connected hearts and magic began to happen.

I followed the magic.

I let my heart guide me.

I had no idea where the road would lead me.

I simply put one foot in front of the other and kept writing.

 

Before I knew it, I had penned my soon to be published debut novel. I screamed “thank you!” and then sat down to write some more.

 

And, you know what?  It’s true what they say!  All the universe does conspire to help the one who dares to follows their heart. I believe this 100% and so should YOU!

 

Aluta continua, as they say.  I wish you the courage to tell the story that only YOU can tell too.

 

!NEWSFLASH:  In the next few weeks I will FINALLY be able to share with you the dates for my book release and I am beyonddddddddddddddddd excited.   Thank you for listening with open hearts, for connecting, for engaging. Thank you for helping make my dreams come true.

 

© 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.

 

The Zahir (A story about getting even)

I was NOT happy with my accommodation. I booked a self-catering apartment on the beach (with “distant sea views”) and when I arrived, I found that I had actually booked a whole house (with a person inside it)

 

Now, if I have gotten a good vibe from the person, I would have thought that perhaps there was an adventure to be had, but I did not.  It was definitely NOT love at first sight.

 

Her bedroom became my bedroom. Her spot on the couch mine. The coffee mug with her name called my name. Shit was weird.

 

But, I was there on a “pilgrimage” of sorts, and I needed to remain centered.

I noticed that the book on the bedside table happened to be “The Zahir” by Paulo Coelho — one of the very few of his books I had not yet read and the VERY book I had lost in the airport. It was fate.  There was no way I was going to be polite and let her continue reading it, so I grabbed it.  I carried it around the house from room to room (just in case she pounced) and savoured each beautiful moment of reading pleasure. 

 

The home owner had a way about her. Even when you could not see her, she was there.  Like in Big Brother.  She was hard to ignore.

 

I got lost in the pages of the book, and each time I felt irritated by her presence (washing the dishes, folding towels, bloody making coffee at 5am) I would just keep reading. It came as no surprise to me that The Zahir means ‘the obvious’ or ‘conspicuous’ in Arabic.  I mean, what are the chances?  Those were the only words I could use to describe the home owner. Always bloody there!

 

I wrote her a note when I left. I said “Thank you for sharing your home with me. I will always remember your presents…I mean presence! xoxo”

 

…and then I tucked her book (aka the “present”) into my suitcase, along with the mandatory miniature toiletries and waved her goodbye.

 

I figured we were square.

 

© 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.

Angel

I believe in being proactive, punctual, passionate and polite. So, I placed the order for Christmas for my top 50 clients two months before I needed them. Two weeks before the gifts were due to be delivered, I saw an article in the newspaper.  The supplier had gone bust.  My deposit and my order were in liquidation hell. I needed to make another plan.  Yes, I needed to be proactive. That’s when I got a call.  The girl sounded polite. I liked that.  She also sounded passionate about her project. I liked that too. She told me her name but I didn’t register it.  The only thing I heard was that she had a coffee table book with an African influence and that a portion of the proceeds from book sales would go to charity. I saw stars! My problem was solved. My clients would surely love me forever. I quickly forgot about the stupid newspaper article. The saleslady aka my angel and I agreed that we would meet in 2 days time. She needed to pick up a sample from the printer, who was behind schedule. She emailed me to confirm our meeting.  When I saw her name, I felt so stupid!  Definitely not the “polite” princess I fancied myself.  I knew her well but I treated her like a stranger.  I planned to give her a big hug and make up for it when we met.  I also planned to tell her about her new nickname.  Angel. I had not seen her in 7 years and wondered how time would have left its mark on her.  I wondered if she had kids and if life had treated her the way she deserved. She was the sweetest thing. I arrived 15 minutes before our meeting. She was late. Angel was losing points. I tried to distract myself by surfing the net.  I was annoyed. Being “polite” was going to be hard. I went to reception to check if they had heard from her.  They had not.  I tried her mobile, there was no reply.  I reconsidered her nickname. Seriously!  My time was precious, I thought. I went back to the email to see if I had gotten the date wrong.  I had not. She did not turn up.  Just like that I looked out for an email from her.  It did not arrive.  One day, two days. Nothing from Angel. I was not happy.  I liked being punctual. I liked being proactive.  I liked being polite but I was seriously annoyed. That evening, I received a text message.  It said “The memorial service of **** will be held at…” Angel had died.  Tragically. At her funeral, her son said “My mom was an angel. My angel”.  Then he turned to his schoolmates, hundreds of young boys all dressed in their school blazers and said “….and I am so jealous of you guys, because you still have your moms.  Mine is gone”. I burst out crying.  I cried for him. I cried for me. I cried for Angel. My clients never got gifts that year.  I figured it was destiny.

© 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 Spotlight

His wife was a proud woman. 

She was a respected lecturer and a Minister of the Eucharist.  They arrived together each Sunday for mass.  Their car was freshly polished and their kids had on matching dresses.  Arriving early made them feel empowered.  They sat in the front row.   They listened attentively to the sermon and the mother always waved at her kids. They beamed with pride.

His mistress was the local widwife.  

She had delivered many babies in the community and had plenty of stories to share. She always arrived strategically late, just as they were closing the church doors.  They sat in the back row.  Arriving late made her children feel unsettled and they learnt to channel that feeling inward.  Shame and guilt were warm feelings and they knew them well.

After church, all the kids went to run around the playground.  They all relaxed.  None the wiser to the dark secrets everyone standing at the tea table guarded closely.

The mistress was committing the crime. Knowingly. So, she knew the price.  She stood far away from the priest and allowed the official couple to receive the praises.  Her kids were never central to the conversation about grades, sports and other accolades.

Many years passed this way.

When their kids entered their teen years, a cosmic smack was long overdue and the game changed in a big way.

One of the girls in the pretty matching dresses was pregnant.  She was 16.  She felt shame and guilt.  The spotlight was painful.

The son of the mistress was awarded a scholarship to a top university.  He was 17.  He felt pride and excitement. The spotlight was lovely.

The wife and the mistress thought they would escape the earthquake but the spotlight was not done with them either.

The midwife would have to deliver the baby and the lecturer would have to nominate her top student. The time would surely come.

Everybody braced themselves for the next chapter.

© 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.