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.

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.