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

Think Before You Speak

We were talking about, pregnancy, babies, stretch marks and labour. Stories were flying thick and fast. I had lots to say!

 

In a moment of sheer excitement, I turned to the woman sitting next to me and said “Right?! Did you also suffer from morning sickness with your two?! Blahhh”

 

She laughed. I cringed.

She laughed some more. I cringed some more.

 

I had known her for many years. I knew her kids too.  I knew that they were adopted. I knew the whole beautiful story of how that came to be.

 

You can only imagine my embarrassment when I realised I had asked her how it felt to have been pregnant with them!

She handled it graciously.  She said that she loved the way my heart leads me. (She found it endearing that I didn’t see them as her “adoptive” kids and that I made no distinction in my heart between her and the other moms around the table).

 

I quite liked that description.  So, I went along with it.   I walked away from there telling myself that I was all-heart (and only half blonde).

 

© A Heart Full of Stories, 2016

 

P.S. Do allow me to wish you well as you try and think before you speak.  Aluta continua, as they say. The road is still long for me….

 

 

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.

 

A Village Missing its Idiot

My new friend told me that her husband didn’t like her talking to me. 

She would end her chats with me very abruptly and hurry away each time she heard him in the distance. 

I asked her what exactly the issue was. She said “he thinks you will give me ideas.”
 

The dude was right, in a way. I guess I did give her ideas but they were all about food. That’s all we ever talked about: food. She and I both loved cooking. 

I wondered what the thesis for his “ideas” paranoia was but didn’t dwell on that too long. I knew it was futile to try and understand his mental jumble sale. 

I bumped into him at a supermarket one morning. He pretended to be looking at something else. I was looking homeless, so I went along with the game.

When it happened a second time, I had to laugh. The dude seriously wasn’t messing around. I watched him stare at some Listerine for 7 minutes straight. 

They moved to another city soon afterwards.

She gave me no forwarding details because Mr Listerine told her that they didn’t need to keep contact with any “old friends”. 

I was relieved when they left. (Because God knows that a village somewhere was missing their idiot) 

© 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

To Listen or NOT to listen

It was nearly Christmas.

Everyone was talking about their holiday plans. Most were going skiing in Europe and then back to South Africa for a beach holiday over New Year.

I could not even thinkkkkkk of taking leave. Firstly, I had only joined the company a month or two earlier and secondly, the most junior person on the team always stayed put. I accepted my fate maturely.

About 3 days before Christmas, and on the last real shopping day, I got the call I had been waiting for. I was free to pack up early and go home. I was elated.

I planned to light a candle for my deceased granny (old tradition), pick up my Christmas pudding from my mom, book my Secret Santa Girls Lunch and finally get all the little gifts for my family. I was excited.

As I was driving out of my office, I got a call. It was from a colleague. She needed my “help”. 

I listened. 

She had a deadline to meet and was not going to make it.

I listened some more.

She explained that she had loads of “important” things to do.

I continued to listen.

She had gifts to buy, cocktails with friends, carols by candlelight and oh yes, a spa day. She simply had “no time” to do her work and she wanted me to do it. It was a 5-day job that required working over Christmas in order to meet a submission deadline.

She sensed my energy dip, so she added something extra. She explained that she had already talked to the CEO of the company and “cleared things” with him.

She ended her pitch by adding that she thought that I “wouldn’t mind” because I had “nothing exciting to do anyway”.

I stopped listening. My ears just stopped playing ball. 

For a moment, the CEO ploy flashed across my mental dashboard as I envisioned beautiful gold stars next to my name and a promotion. Fortunately, that shit didn’t last long. I came to my senses. Quickly too.

I said “I can’t help, I’m afraid” and when she said “And why not?” I said “Ear trouble”. 

I did!  I could have high-fived myself right there, I must say!

I hung up and went to light that damn candle. 

© 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 “Brief”

I ordered two young girls.  No, not in a strip club.  I called an agency that dealt with students.

I was organising a large trade show and two of the regular staff members had called-in sick.  I needed backup promo girls.

The brief was simple.  They needed to use their good looks and charm.  Not to get anyone into trouble with their wives. No, just to welcome dignitaries to the event, usher them to their seats and drive alongside them in golf carts twice a day. Simple right?

The first couple of days went well!  The girls were well groomed.  They were professional and I got the feeling that they really understood the integrity of our brand. 

That evening, I saw the girls drinking.  They were off duty, but still at the function.  They were drinking tequila with the important people, and laughing a bit too much for my liking.

As I drove home, I considered that perhaps I was just hormonal.  I had, after all, just spent 15 minutes expressing milk out of my breasts during each lunch break.

The following morning, they were back on the job.  Using their good looks and charm once more.

I heard one of the girls say “We have the best job here. All we have to do is look hot and make the men melt”.  The feminist in me cringed slightly, but I guess they were right.  That was the brief.  Well, I would have settled for something that left out the “melt” bit, but ja, I guess those mama hormones were pretty damn powerful. 

The next morning, one of the girls was in tears!  She was insulted by a text message.  It was from an important client telling her that she was “fat and ugly”.

The HR gurus in our team took over quickly.  They processed the facts and paid due attention to the sensitive young girl.

I was angry.  Angry and sad.

That’s when the other girl appeared in my office. She said “She’s lying”.  She was talking about her colleague.  She claimed that the girl fabricated the text message because “none of the guys like her”. 

I realised there was trouble.  My anger dissipated.  I was just sad. 

I decided to butt out and let the professionals handle the rest of the drama.

But, it left a very bad taste in my mouth.

I didn’t need to know who was right, who lied, who the victim was and who had actually made the girl cry.

The fact is, she was crying.  And, it was about SOMETHING.

So, friends, that got me thinking about the lengths we go to in order to execute “the brief”.    And the position we put other people in when we describe “the brief”.  Because, let’s face it, this story isn’t about whether the girls should have been given a better grounding, whether the men who rule the business world need to change or why sex sells, it really is about boundaries and self-worth.

May every situation you are called to engage in this week, have clear guidelines, crisp boundaries and may your personal mandate always serve the best, and highest version of you.  

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.

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.

I believe in the women that have gone before me

I believe in the women that have gone before me.

I believe in proper spelling and full sentences.

I believe in using punctuation.

I believe in kaftans, turbans, doeks and head wraps.

I believe in bookclub. I believe that bookclub should be 10% about books.

I believe in space cleansing.

I believe that each time my ego has driven my decision, I have not made the right call.

I believe in emojis.

I believe in making lists.

I believe in scheduling.

I believe in chance meetings.

I believe that I don’t need to explain myself to morons.

I believe that not everyone gets my drift and that that’s okay.

I believe in my essence.

I believe in eating the topping off pizza, the caramel off Twix and the leaving the merinque on the side of the plate after devouring the lemon tart.

I believe that chivalry is not dead.

I believe that where attention goes, energy flows.