Dear Barbara Streisand: “People who need people are indeed the luckiest people in the world”

What could go wrong on a morning when all the traffic lights are out?

Well, I packed some hot dog rolls into a Woolies shopping bag together with some cheese grillers and set off to gym. Stay with me – the hot dogs and gym visual is true.

The plan was to give the food away before it expired without my husband finding out. Long story…

I never quite made it to the gym (no surprises there) but I decided to sit down for some scrambled eggs instead. Just before I picked a spot, I saw someone I could give the food away to. The man sells Homeless Talk, a newspaper that I have seen a million times but never bought.

As I sat down at the cafe for my breakfast, I reached for my wallet to put the parking ticket in the spot where I always put my parking ticket and that’s when I realised that my wallet was in the black hot dog bag! The plan had been to stick the empty shopping bag into my gym bag, that’s how my purse ended up inside. Note to self: forget gym.

When I related the story to my children later that afternoon, sure I added some drama but essentially:

I had no cash to get out of the parking lot and had to make some decisions quickly.

So I asked the parking lady for a free pass. Sure, she said.

The cafe owner said that I come could totally have stayed for a free breakfast.

I opened my banking app to see if there had been any transactions. Cancel Cards/Not? Pause, I decided.

As I drove up the road towards the Homeless Talk seller, I saw him holding out the Mykonos blue purse with a look that said, “………..!”

The kids screamed “Nice hot dog lady!” but the man’s face really screamed “dumb blonde!” I was guilty as charged on both counts.

But here’s what this story is really about: people people, people.

We are all just people who need people. And that’s how we all get by. By needing people and by allowing people to need us. Barbara Streisand was right.

Lee

P.S. I couldn’t find much info online re Homeless Talk but the lovely guy selling his is at the garage near St Davids in Inanda close to Summer place:-) Didn’t catch his name. Don’t tell him you know me.

Sunday Nights used to give me anxiety

I used to work in an office that sucked the life out of me. Come Sunday, my tummy would start doing somersaults.

 
This went on for many years. Now that I look back, I feel sorry for that girl. She became a victim. Didn’t she know that she had options?  

There are many chapters that come before the one I’m about to tell you about but I eventually had to make a choice. I could remain a victim or I could go where my heart was urging me to go. Thank goodness I chose the more scary option!

Working as a creative writer, ghostwriter and editor is my calling. I literally go to “work” every day and think “Mannnnn, how did I get so damn lucky?”

I’ve been working with a client based in California for the last 6 months. She started out looking for an editor and at the end of 6 months, we are both wondering how we are going to get by without our daily rapport. We developed a lovely friendship along the way. She’s into astrology and cannabis, I’m into storytelling and grammar and somewhere in the middle, we are both into mystery/magic/alchemy. Not one day of our work has felt like a slog! We have both grown through our collaboration.  

I edited her manuscript and her book will be published in just a few short days.  

My heart is full. My gratitude overflows. For “work”, for the opportunities that flow into my life, and mostly for my ability to recognise every one of my blessings.

May I never take them for granted,

Lee 

P.S. My special client is Cara Carozza and her website is: www.caracarozza.com 

Follow her for an injection of magic! 

This is the cover for her book. How amazing?

The courage to tell your story

Have you ever noticed that the people who behave the worst, are the ones who fancy themselves the hero/ine in the story?

I’ve been going through my notes from a recent Writing Course that I taught. It was a deep emotional kind of writing in the genre Memoir. What really interested me, was that when asked why they chose not to publish or share their writing, that a range of people all said the same thing : FEAR. (I remember saying that too when I first started publishing).

I took the time to really look at the profiles of the characters that they had written about that they most feared would react negatively. It wasn’t the public. It wasn’t Twitter trolls. It wasn’t some overly critical readers out there in Cyberspace. No, the characters in their TRUE stories who my writers feared most were those closest to them! It was parents, siblings, loved ones.

As a result, the writers I am talking about became immobilised.

They were terrified of being called gaslighters, drama kings and queens, liars or being told that they were bringing up old secrets that were best left under the dirty carpet.

Sound familiar? I thought you would say yes.

The issue is universal and it does not only relate to writing. It’s a people issue.

As a writing coach though, my job is really only to facilitate a process, to guide and mentor, to edit and teach technical aspects. I would never push anyone to write or share that which they are not ready to do BUT I will (and did) say this:

• It is YOUR story
• You decide how you write the characters
• The ones that have a problem with their characteristics, should have behaved better
• How your truth lands is something out of your control
• But tell your story, YOU MUST

Perhaps my little pep talk has gotten you thinking? Do you have a story you want to write or share? I offer a range of writing and coaching services, which you can see on my website www.leemayimele.com

Remember, this is YOUR story and we all have a story that only we can tell. Truth is magic!

xoxo

Lee

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

The Art of War for Moms

My 3 year old locked himself inside a cubicle in the men’s bathroom. I can’t tell you how many times I said “do NOT lock that door” to him before he took the plunge and locked himself inside.

 

Why he was alone in the men’s room when he usually wees in the ladies’ one is a story for another day. One which includes “power struggle” as the predominant theme.

 

Actually, I think all he heard was “please lock the door to test your mother” when he committed the crime. And, I was adamant that he was going to “pay”.

 

Until I looked to my left and saw his 7 year old bodyguard with her arms folded, staring me down. They were united by a common enemy. Their army was looking strong.

 

I quickly tried to think back to The Art of War, to figure out my strategy while the men in blue overalls tried to knock the door down to rescue the felon. But, I drew a blank.

 

As soon as he was free, they both started crying like long reunited family on parole day. He was crying because he knew he had messed up. She was crying because she was overcome with stress about the situation.

 

I was just frustrated and exhausted. It was a crap day at Mama (Pty) Limited.

 

As I turned into the parking lot of their favourite restaurant, I saw my daughter in my rearview mirror “Ha Ha Ha! Shhhhh, she’s forgotten…” she laughed pointing forward towards my head. (I had threatened to go straight home after the fiasco but the lord knows that I needed the wine, so I played along and pretended I had forgotten my threat.)

 

That’s when I remembered The Art of War’s best quote “Appear weak when you are strong”. So, like a boss, I marched into the sushi spot and proceeded to use their pocket money to pay for the sushi (and wine).

 

Aluta continua, as they say.  All is indeed considered FAIR in love and in war.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

P.S. Here are some more quotes from The Art of War by Sun Tzu.

Yes, I agree, many of them do apply to my little war too 🙂  Shhhh….

• “Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him”

• “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting”

• “All warfare is based on deception”

• “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity”

• “The wise warrior avoids the battle”

Survival 101 for the Gentle Among Us

So, I spent the afternoon at a kids birthday party recently and watched my daughter be pushed from number 2 in the queue to number 15 in a line of 16 kids.

 

I watched the whole thing unfold in ultra slow motion. First one push, then another 3, then another before she was standing at the back.

 

Now, you have to understand how that raised my blood pressure. In. Very. Slow. Motion. Until I could not any longer exercise further restraint.

 

So, I walked up to her and whispered in her ear “Darling, remember what mama told you….” I was referring to many a lecture I have given her about NOT allowing people to push her around, NOT allowing bullies to mess with her, speaking up for herself etc. You know, Survival 101 for the Gentler Variety?

 

But, the girl was not concerned with my blood pressure in the least. She didn’t mind at all as she proudly said “Mama Stop!” She continued, “Mama, there will still be enough cake for everyone, you know?” pointing to the half a face of Elsa still left on the table.

 

The girl clearly had a point.

 

What struck me is that she had absolutely no problem with being shoved to the back of the queue and frankly, neither should I she thought to herself as she plonked herself down on the grass with the melted ice cream cake slice and the biggest smile on her dirty face. I watched the ice cream melt, along with my heart and I thought: Yes my girl. There is indeed enough of everything in this world to go around and surely what’s meant to be yours will most certainly be.  Fingers crossed.

 

Mama learnt her lessons:

 

Lesson 1:

Focus on the things you CAN control

 

Lesson 2:

There is more than one way to get things done

 

Lesson 3:

Don’t sweat the small stuff

 

And most importantly, Lesson 4:

Vanilla “Cake” can turn into the most delightful double thick vanilla milkshake if you have the time and patience to let the universe unfold exactly as it will.

 

So yes, I do consider myself duly schooled.

 

Patience and Surrender are not courses only for the “weak” among us. They are indeed courses of PhD level, which my little Doctor of IQ aces quietly each and every day.

 

Aluta continua, as they say. May the quiet ones among us know that their voices are indeed very, very powerful.  © A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

Traffic Light Lady (A story about running your own race) – To the Trompies “MADIBUSENG” soundtrack

Someone I barely know asked me how I find the energy to chase my dreams with such gusto?  She continued by stating, quite matter of factly, that I seem to be one of those people to whom great opportunities “just come” and the lovely lady ended off by saying that she also noticed that I didn’t really have to “work very hard” to get to the finish line, often beating the ones who “slave away 9 to 5”.  

 

She touched my shoulder and smiled warmly. For impact.

 

I did not respond. I could not.  Words failed me.

 

Now, it doesn’t take a PhD student to understand why this was so problematic that it actually left ME speechless.  I think it may have something to do with the tone.  The tone of the 3 “facts” wrapped up as compliments, when in fact they were not.

 

I went through them in my head again:

1. Accusation 1:  I am the one chasing with gusto (implying that I am workaholic running uphill at high speed). So, a GREEN light sort of person?
2. Accusation 2:  Things just come (implying that I am in neutral, just waiting). So, an ORANGE light kind of person?
3. Accusation 3:  I don’t have to work very hard (implying that I pretty much rely on my fake boobs to bring in the moola). So, a RED light kind of person? – Every pun intended!

 

And, here’s the part where the penny is supposed to drop and I am supposed to deliver some profound sermon, dispelling the accusations and leaving the daft woman looking dafter. But no.  I fancy a different approach….

 

I’ve decided that the next time I see her, I will play the famous Trompies Song “Madibuseng” featuring the late and very great Lebo Mathosa (“Sometimes you red-y, sometimes you green-y, sometimes you orange-y”)  in my head and say:

1. “Good morning, can’t talk, gotta run…to Paris for my croissants and then back to Dubai for a meeting with Oprah and finally back to a TED Talk in Vegas. Gosh, when will I eat?” (The colour GREEN should come to your mind right about now)
2. I will continue “Oh wait! Sorry, I think I will just go back to bed and meditate. You know? We can have anything we want if we just believeeeeeee (and do “ohm” with my hands)” (You feeling organgy yet?)
3. Acting all excited I will then add, “No, no, actually, let me call my butler. I sooooo need a wax (roll eyes), a spray tan, my extensions fixed, eyelashes lifted but first…let me pop this pill. You know? It puts you in a coma so you don’t have to be awake during the process” (at which point I can put a red Smartie in my mouth).

 

Crap man! Who am I kidding?

 

While I do love that Trompies song very much, I won’t have timeeeeeeee to disarm the woman because I will be so busy driving to work on a tank with a flashing orange fuel guage to finish a PowerPoint presentation in order to meet a deadline in order to meet my KPI’s, hoping to get a bonus while touching up my grey hair with mascara and wondering how to turn leftover KFC into Chicken A La King for a family dinner!  You know? I will be busy chasing, working, running, hustling, doubting, fixing, negotiating like the rest of the world…..

 

So, before I let old Chairman of the Peanut Gallery get to me, best I remember that what other people think of us, is actually none of our business.  © A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

Aluta continua, as they say. The road to learning to run our own race and let others run theirs is longer for some than others.  I wish you a short one, friends.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Sweeping Things Under the Carpet (A story about leading by example)

My 2 year old took a tub of black eye shadow and sprinkled it all over our cream bedroom carpets. He didn’t spill. He sprinkled. Liberally.

 

 

I was very upset. And the look on his face told me that he understood how I felt about his “magic dust”. 

 

 

After I calmed down, I took a small Persian rug and threw it over the black marks.  Out of sight, out of mind you know?

 

 

While I took a shower to try and calm down (it was too early for wine), my son called for help from his most trusted ally and together they got busy with Operation Clean-up.  They had it all figured out:

1. Soap (Green dish liquid)
2. Water (poured into a nearly empty cranberry juice bottle)
3. Sponges x 2
4. Tell Mama the good news
5. Ask Mama if the sushi date was still on

 

Well, the 7 or so dry stains turned into one giant wet puddle of green/cranberry and MAC Carbon Black.

 

 

So, my daughter tells me (behind her brother’s back), they abandoned their mission after Step 3 and followed my example.  They took a rug and covered up the catastrophe.  Out of sight, out of mind you know?  

 

 

Well, let me tell you, I took the darlings for sushi.  Right after that shower.

 

 

 

I figured that some things are indeed best left swept and left under the carpet.

 

 

Besides, what’s a childhood without memories of “magic dust” anyway?

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

Aluta continua, as they say. This parenting road is indeed still long…. (for me) but gosh it can be funny sometimes.

 

Something Fishy (A story about value judgement)

Our seafood platter arrived and it was spectacular! I grabbed a fat king prawn, downed it and chewed hard on the shell, spitting the crushed muck into my cupped right hand. Next, I broke off a piece of sweet lobster and sucked hard, making sounds my mother would not have been proud of.

 

Then, just as I reached for that second scoop of lemon butter for my crisp squid heads I heard a loud smack.

 

The recipient: a red-faced 8 year old.

The smack-deliverer: his father.

His crime: eating with his hands.

 

That blow was right in the face. Hard.

 

My little people kept working their mussels and muscles too. Dipping, twisting, licking, squeezing. Hands, hands, hands is all you saw. I reckon they were quite delighted that I lost my appetite. You know, more Cajun calamari for them?

 

I tried hard to shift my focus away from the child and more towards the delicate Sole before me but my head was spinning. Not from salmonella setting in, but from the shock horror of that smack and the many young men I had the displeasure of seeing with that very expression in my life.

 

When my husband got back from talking to a friend at the bar, I whispered to him that I was upset, and when I pointed (discreetly) in the direction of the smacker, all he saw a smiling dad kissing his son on the forehead as the happy mom snapped a holiday pic for their album with the caption #blessed, no doubt.

 

My husband said he “smelled something fishy”. And, of course it did look like I was drunk and just trying to distract him from the sad chips and 3 pieces of dry hake left on the “Deluxe Seafood Platter for 4”. 

 

I tried to sleep but could not. So, I wrote a note:

 

“Dear Sir

 

I noticed with absolute horror that you hit your son in the face at the dinner table last night. 

 

Sadly, I cannot get his face out of my mind. 

 

I have no doubt that your intention was to teach “discipline”. I also have no doubt that your family business is “private”. 

 

But, I do believe there is a better way. 

 

I speak from experience. 

 

Love,

Tired Voyeur

 

P.S. You know what they say hey?…Once you know better, you have to do better. Aluta continua, as they say. it is indeed easier said than done” 

 

What I did with the note is a story for another day.

 

…but, let’s just say that my head won.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

The Call to Rip off the Band-Aid

Hardly 24 hours after my mother died, someone walked up to me with the soul (yes soul) purpose of telling me that they were “angry” with me.

 

They felt further entitled to pour out the details, as though I had any capacity whosoever to indulge such a “sharing” at that particular moment in my life.

 

The more I reflected on that emotional ambush in the days after the funeral, the more I tried to empathise, the more I tried to see it from their perspective, the more I rationalised that death brings “complex emotions”, I realised that I was asking the impossible of myself.

 

I had to STOP! 

 

My job was to grieve.

To honour my own tears.

To sit with my own pain.

To validate my own loss.

 

Instead, I was diverted to a lower spectrum of emotions that sought to distract me. 

 

And, I indulged them. Sadly. 

 

Now that all that is in the past, my heart wants to go back there again. To that very point in my life.

 

The voice is gently asking me to lift off the Band-Aid I smacked on the emotional wound and to face what’s been festering there. 

 

And, again I will indulge. Gladly this time. 

 

You see, for me there is real therapy in dissecting the pieces, relooking the complexities with a view to disinfecting the wound in order to clear the inflammation.

 

I know, right? Whooooo volunteers to reopen their own wounds?

 

I do. And, I wish you the courage to do the same.

 

Rip off the Band-Aid! Sure it will hurt for one sick second, but once that initial rip is over, you’re on your way! Then, look at the wound, see it in all its gory complexity and then plot an enlightened way forward.

 

Hey, real healing is a great prospect and it may be just on the other side of your fear.

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

Aluta continua, as they say. This road is indeed still long…. (for me) but gosh am I ready!