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.

 

 

 

Do you have a heart-wound after a LOSS? If so, come listen to my story….

All this talk about Mother’s Day has me feeling anxious, I must admit. My heart-wound has only just begun to form a scab and I have been taking good care of it.

 

My approach to its healing has been quite simple, actually. Like a good mother, I have looked primarily at INFECTION PREVENTION.

 

For starters, I took a conscious decision that I needed to keep the environment sterile and germ free.  And while I am under no illusiions that one cannot engineer every social environment or interpersonal encounter completely (particularly with family), I knew that it was indeed possible to focus on “access control”. So, I did.  Quite intuitively, I have been terribly circumspect about who I engage with, what I share, and how I could avoid people with energies that felt harsh to my sensitive film. The daily “disinfectant” through meditation and “fresh dressing” through prayer have helped tremendously.

 

Secondly, I focused my attention on creating a HEALING ENVIRONMENT for the heart-wound. Once more, led purely by my instinct, I began to draw on my good memories of my mother and to allow that positive energy to flow into my home, into my work and into my relationship with my own children. I have also played, laugh, rationed screen time and increased my reading time.  I began to seek out real experiences, people, food and music that made me smile.  And sure enough, the smiles came.

 

I am, of course, always mindful that with this sort of wound, research tells us that there is no prescribed time frame for healing completely. In fact, research tells us that there isn’t really a “cure” at all.  Like diabetes perhaps, one simply learns to “manage” the beast and one learns to adapt one’s lifestyle in order to lead a productive life.

 

So, adapting I am.

And it would seem that the wound is indeed closing up.

And the scab will fall off.

And all that will remain is the scar. 

 

How I will relate to the scar, is of course another story entirely, but I will tell you this honestly:  there IS always light at the end of the proverbial tunnel after a loss. Yes, even when you think your entire world has gone black forever.

 

You will one day be able to reflect on your scar and know for sure that every single day is a GIFT. (After all, no scar is able to form on that which is not alive). And like me, you will also be able to CELEBRATE not only on Mothers Day, but every single day that you are alive.

 

Aluta continua, as they say.  May you never take a day for granted.

 

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2017

The Power of “Thank You”

I have always marveled at the way mothers perform their miracles. 

To me, these superpowers seem to really come alive at Christmas, Eid, Diwali, Birthdays, Weddings and Barmitzvahs. You know, those milestone moments that go on to the mantelpiece for a lifetime. 

It fascinates me the way these moms press-on despite limited budgets and family dramas, despite the exhaustion and lack of appreciation to create something out of nothing for their loved ones. 

It also fascinates me how “thank you” seems to be the spark that ignites their hearts and gives them enough energy for another 600 rounds of madness. Those two little words seem to be the magical formula. 

I had sat down to write a story about Gratitude for these mothers (and my own miracle worker mom) when another story fell right into my heart. 

He was drunk. No, he was pissed. He said that he was drinking because he was sad but I thought that he was sad because he had been drinking.

The man told me about the loss of his kids to drugs, the loss of his cash to gambling and the fact that the red wine in his hand was his only real friend. 

His wife was home preparing Christmas Eve dinner for 20 people. He told me that she always went “overboard” and that it was a complete “waste of time and money.”

I would have loved to listen to the rest of his story, but I had to dash. My husband sent me a text message telling me that the coast was clear to go and set up the “milk and cookies” scene at home.  

As I left, the grumpy man proudly showed me some pictures of his family. I noticed that they were all special occasion pictures of birthdays, Christmases and graduations gone by.

I prayed that one day he would remember how to say “Thank You!”

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2015.

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NOT your Friend

He was 50.  I was 20.  We took the bus together 5 days a week.

I asked him questions about his wife and children. He asked me questions about my ambitions and dreams of traveling the world.

It was cool.

So, bright and early one Monday morning, just before the bus arrived, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Someone peeking through a curtain.

It was his wife.

My instinct told me to abandon the conversation. He was just getting started telling a joke. He was very animated.

The next time I saw his wife, I said “Hello Mrs X! You must be excited about your trip”. Her husband told me that he was planning something special for their anniversary.

Her response left me cold.

She said, “Listen little girl. I am NOT your friend”. 

Friend? Who said anything about friends?

The next time I saw her husband, he was full of smiles again. He had a bunch of brochures from a travel agent in his bag. He said “I will let my wife choose the best ones and give you the leftovers, okay?”

I was excited. I reallllllly hoped she would leave the Contiki Tours of Europe one for me.

Then my dear mother (bless her wicked vocab) stepped into the soapie right on cue.  She said, “Do me a favour? Please don’t talk to those f*ckers again. You don’t need other people’s twisted views and insecurity issues in your life”.

And of course she was right.

Mothers always are.

© 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.

What You Resist WILL Persist

I took my kids to a petting zoo.  My daughter reacted exactly as expected. She looked for a quiet corner where she could observe from afar.   My son dived right into the rabbit den and chased the bunnies, giggling along.

A woman was standing right next to me.  So close that our handbags touched each other on the floor.  Hers was a fake Louis Vuitton and mine was an old, worn leather Vintage no name brand. They were completely incompatible but had no choice. They had to share a space.

She called out to her son in Dutch. Bad Dutch.

I found it lovely.  Afterall, we were in South Africa.  Dutch is not something you hear every day.  At that moment, her son ran up to my son and grabbed the bunny away from him.  My daughter screamed “Stop that!”  in Dutch to the boy.  It was hard for her.  She doesn’t shout easily.  I felt proud.

The woman responded to her son in very broken Dutch, asking him to find his own bunny.

I looked in the direction of the woman and said “Wow, small world huh?! You speak Dutch too?” I had a big smile.  She said “Yes! We are from overseas, just visiting”.  She had no expression on her face.

She was South African. Dead straight.

She moved her handbag to another part of the playground.

I put on my shades and thought “Strange woman! Believe me, I am NOT in the market for new friends”.

From afar, she said “Your kids also speak Dutch? Where you from?” and I said “Well, yes. We are South African but have been spending some time in Amsterdam, so yes, they do speak Dutch. Kids learn so fast!” She put on her sunglasses too.

She was very skinny, lots of makeup, tight yellow pants, very high heels, hair like Amy Winehouse and her son wore a bright yellow GAP branded top with yellow trainers. The family clearly liked yellow.  Friendship was ruled out right there forever.

I persisted.  “How about you?  Do you live in The Netherlands?”  She nodded and flicked her hair. It didn’t move.

I persisted some more “Oh right!? Where exactly”.  Her answer astounded me.  “Next to the airport” she said.  The airport? Really?

She put her handbag on her shoulder and modelled a little further away from me.

I enjoyed her discomfort.  It intrigued me.

For once, I was not the one shying away from someone.  For once, I was not the one putting up the wall. For once, I was not the one running away from some random woman.  It felt good to be on the other side.

She spent the rest of the morning, trying to convince her son not to follow mine.  I spent the rest of the morning, observing her and wishing our sons would be magnetised further.  We both kept our sunglasses on.  Talking further was not an option.  The feeling was mutual.

I saw her leave the venue along a longgggggg stretch of grass in high heels and thought “I wonder what her story is”. 

About 15 minutes later, there was an announcement on the intercom with my car registration.  When I reported to reception, guess who I found waiting for me? Yes, she reversed her car into mine.

© 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 Bicycle

The boy wanted a bicycle.

He had always wanted a bicycle.

Father Christmas had not played along for many years. Neither had the birthday fairy.

Shortly before his 12^th birthday, his fortunes changed. His mother walked to the second hand store. She negotiated a great deal.  She paid her first instalment. She had 5 more to go.

She planned to wrap a big blue ribbon around it.  The look on her son’s face would surely be imprinted in her heart forever.

It’s all she talked about for the next month or two. She was so proud.

The boy told old his estranged dad that he knew the secret that his mom was hiding from him.  He was happy to play along. The anticipation was intoxicating.

One evening, his mom was walking home from the bus stop and in the distance she saw the boy.  He was riding a bicycle.  Either her mind was playing tricks on her or he was riding someone else’s bicycle.  Surely those were the only two options.

She quickened her steps.

“Look mom!” he said “Dad got me a bike!”

Her heart broke.

The look on her son’s face was forever imprinted in her heart.

The boy had many happy days riding his bike.

On his birthday, his mother said “My son, I pray that God still has plans for me to melt your heart”.

The boy said “Mom, you ARE my heart”. 

© 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.

Man in Torment

He watched his wife lift her skirt to many men.

He lived through the humiliation.

He ate her bitter words routinely.

He faced her rejections nightly and he sniffed the smells of other men knowingly.

He perfected the art of saying NOTHING.  He was so good at it that when his kids did hear his voice, they ran.

On his mother’s death bed, she said “My son, please do me a favour. Leave that woman. You can’t go on like this without killing yourself or someone else”.

He was shocked. Surely the medication was messing with the old woman’s head.

He could go on! And he did.

© 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.