I do my best thinking while driving. I drive a Fiat Panda.

Archive for the month “February, 2013”

Heart sore

Dear Blog.

Nice to be back.

Sadly, I am not my usual ‘every cloud has a silver lining/the glass is half-full/I can do this; yes I can’ self today. (Sorry President Obama, you actually didn’t invent that last one; you just globalised it, and good on you by the way and yes, I’m a fan, but just for the record I was there all by myself with the Yes One Can scenario like I said.)

I digress.

Today I am heart sore.

I am heart sore for a few reasons.

Where to start.

I am heart sore today because.

Amongst others.

Not a completely comprehensive list.

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because of the Oscar Pistorius ‘fallen hero’ desperate, desperate story that has been invading us through the media for nearly two weeks now. So many lives ruined. So, so many. So much human sorrow encapsulated in the bitter story of this fallen demi-god.

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because little Layla died a week ago, despite so much love and hope and optimism and energy and goodwill that got poured into her brave, wonderful mother’s ‘Love for Layla’ campaign’ and the bravery of the little girl herself. And their family, and the community at large.

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because little Adam’s  condition is unlikely to improve significantly unless stem cell research and miracles come together super-fast, like, oh, say, no really – super fast.

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because of the children – yes, children – who are raped and stabbed and left for dead and outright murdered in South Africa every day. Male and female, birth to teens. Cry, the beloved country. Cry. For shame.

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because of the corruption and ineptitude that seems to be endemic around us at the moment. For shame, I say again. For shame

Because my father is so fragile now.

Because today I am not in my twenties and I now know I am not invincible.

Because sorrow has etched its way across my heart.

Because I can’t fix it.

Any of it.

None at all.

I will look for silver linings again tomorrow. Today, I am heart sore.

Because my father is so fragile now.

And because my mother is so brave.

Be my Valentine

Today at work I observed my younger colleagues exhibiting excitement about Valentine’s Day in varying degrees. It got me reflecting.

Frank and I have been together for over a decade now and married for almost nine years, and in that time we have weathered a few storms. Within the framework of ‘For richer, for poorer; in sickness and health; for better, for worse’ we have had our fair share of those ‘worse’ moments. And those ‘poorer’ moments. And those ‘sickness’ moments also.

And every now and then a humdinger of a shouting match.

Yet through thick and thin, we still manage to have moments of romance; moments of ‘for richer’ – although this doesn’t always mean in monetary terms; moments of ‘for better’.

And even though we are long overdue (in our opinion) a nice romantic getaway for just two people, not four, I think we have been very lucky in finding and keeping each other.

For us, as married parents, our Valentine’s Days are not always measured in romance, jewellery, perfume, chocolates and other enticing gifts. And yet we have been Valentines to each other in other ways down the years.

We were Valentines when we took turns to look after sick children with roaring fevers and gastro bugs erupting from ‘both ends’.

When we made ourselves go to work the mornings after those long sleepless nights that come with looking after sick children.

When the garden was tidied and the deck was built; when precious weekend time was used for grocery shopping and washing, drying and folding laundry so we all had clean clothes for the week ahead.

When we each worked through the night on extra freelance jobs to keep the family finances afloat.

When we made the choice to be a one-car family because finances were tight and we had to find money for school fees.

But let’s not forget that we were Valentines during the fun stuff too. Like – as just one small example – the time I painted the children’s bodies green with food colouring and they leapt out at Frank from the top of the stairs and frightened him when he came home. That was excellent…

little green men


And the sunsets on the deck, and the family holidays we’ve been fortunate enough to share.

V and boys upstairs

I don’t always get flowers as often as I’d like and I don’t always get to buy Frank the gift of his favourite men’s fragrance as often as I’d like to either.

But there are roses in my children’s cheeks as I kiss their sleepy faces at bed time, and the smell of my tall lean man in a clean laundered shirt is frequently aphrodisiac enough.

So as I am still at work typing this, I am now going to go home to my Valentine’s Day roses and scent, request that we crack open a bottle of wine, and hand over some chocolates, and gingerbread men for the boys.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Must just send Frank a quick message telling him to put on a fresh shirt.

Déjà vu, déjà me, déjà you…

Do you ever have the feeling, in a particular moment, that you have been somewhere before? I suppose I am talking about déjà vu but I think I’m also talking about dreams – and other phenomena that I’m not even remotely clued up on, like astral travelling and the questions around who really did build the pyramids in ancient Egypt and ancient Peru.

lunar sky

It’s that whole mysterious connectivity thing – where you have a moment or two of slight confusion because you don’t quite think that you have played out this role, this moment, before, but yet something about the moment is so familiar you can almost, but not quite, predict what’s going to happen next. You are almost, but not quite, sure that… you are aware of something that is about to happen. Somewhere deep within you, whether it’s your physical gut or your subconscious mind, something is familiar. Almost like an out-of-body experience but not quite, yes?

Yes. It’s nebulous in the extreme.


Luckily for me, most of these moments in my life have been positive. But I am puzzled by a world that is so mysterious in so many ways: never more so, for me, than when I truly get an inkling that the past, present and even the future really can collide; that people actually can communicate with the dead – and vice versa (and those whom we call dead may or may not be at peace at the time); that ghosts really might exist; that people whose connections are long severed in day to day life really might call out to each other in their dreams.

Once or twice in my life, I have gone to see a medium or tarot card reader, and from time to time I read my horoscope and revel in being born under the sign of the twins – I like the allowed (and avowed) duality of mind that comes with being a Gemini persona.

One of the mediums my younger self once went to see looked into my palm and told me that if I really wanted to, I could also cultivate ‘the gift’. I didn’t ever try to cultivate it, actually, but for a short while there it seemed, many years later, as if ‘the gift’ was trying to cultivate me.


Now, I do have Celtic blood running through my veins, and so it gives me licence to be poetic sometimes. Even fanciful. So humour me. The Celts have been on the cusp of strange and mysterious things for a long time.

There are three specific incidents to mention here. (There are others to mention, but not here.)

It began with my late grandmother, Jean Paterson, who was, as my sister poetically phrased it, ‘a tall feisty Irish woman who loved the mountains and the sea’. Her death came relatively suddenly and I, for one, was not really prepared, although thankfully I think that her daughter, my mother, was prepared – or at least more so than I.

My gandmother would have known this beautiful place - the 'Heads of Ayr' in Scotland. I walked here in my early 20s.

My grandmother would have known this beautiful place – the ‘Heads of Ayr’ in Scotland. I walked here on this very beach in my early 20s.

I once gave my gran the gift of a toy puppet in the form of a dog, a little white scruff of cuteness, and when she died I asked my mother if I could take the toy with me. It sat there for a couple of years in my flat, and some years after my gran’s death, I was at home with my now-husband, Frank, one peaceful weekend. We were chatting in the lounge and I mentioned how much I wished he had known my grandmother.

“She would have liked you a lot,” I said to him. “She would have turned you into her smoking-partner-in-crime, and you would have enjoyed the view from the garden with her when she enticed you away for a nicotine fix and thumbed her nose at my parents!”

Cheers, Jean Paterson, would-have -been smoking partner in crime...

Cheers, Jean Paterson, would-have -been smoking partner in crime…

Then my own nose started to run and I went to my bedroom in search of a tissue. On the way back, I passed the little toy puppet sitting on a shelf, and on a sudden impulse I put it on my hand and held its furry softness to my face.

And suddenly, just there at my shoulder, my grandmother was with me. Nothing to see, just – a deep and abiding presence. And most importantly, a calm and peaceful presence.

I went back to the lounge where my beloved was still sitting on the couch and said, almost as though in a trance, “My grandmother is here with us now.”

And to his eternal credit he believed me.

We sat as the late afternoon light faded and I dreamily told him things that I felt were coming from her, and mainly that she was telling me she was happy and contented. And then she faded away as suddenly as she had come and besides the tears on my face, and the soft toy on my hand, there were no signs of a visit or a physical manifestation, just an abiding sense of peace within me and in the room.

peaceful moon

Later I told my mother the story, and she also believed me. And she looked happy while she heard it.

But the next time I got a visit from the other side was terrifying.

Frank and I were on holiday one December with our then eight-month-old baby. I awoke in the night to a pitch black room that I had no kinesthetic familiarity with, and an overwhelming feeling of terror as I have never felt fear before. It came from nowhere because I wasn’t dreaming (as I am wont to do). One minute I was oblivious in sleep, and the next I was awake with my pulse racing and a feeling of terror taking over my whole being.

I tried to switch on the bedside light but it stayed off. I then crept my way down the bed to where my baby was sleeping in his cot at the foot of the bed. In absolute pitch blackness – as I have never before experienced – I felt my child’s face and body and he was just fine.

I shuffled my way to the door of the bedroom and tried to turn on the light, and again no luck. I assumed that it was a power failure within the holiday complex, but I needed to know. So I crept to the bathroom and again couldn’t put on any lights, though I had a tiny bit more ambient light as I moved around. I crept back to bed, having checked once more on my baby – I would have put him in bed with me but the blackness was so inky that I was afraid of bumping him on something in a strange bedroom if I picked him up and moved him. So I simply got back into bed and listened to husband and infant son breathing peacefully in the room with me, and eventually fell asleep clutching onto Frank’s back.

The next morning my enquiries brought no confirmation of a power failure in the complex, and I put the odd incident out of my mind. After breakfast we all went for a swim.

And then we came back to our holiday apartment and found out that a very dear friend of Frank’s, who had helped us host our wedding, had been murdered in the early hours of that morning: a dreadful crime of stealth, committed in the night by an employee who took a mobile phone and a few hundred rands together with Ian’s life.

Over seven years later I can only say that the tragedy of his death still brings a rawness to our throats and a mist to the eyes.

I still don’t really know what to make of that night, though I do believe that Ian has long since passed into the peaceful realms. The terror is now only a memory, but I don’t like to dwell on it because it still has a hold if I allow it to come through.

And my third visit from the other side was our beloved friend Heinke, who took her life when my first child was just days old and who quite a long time later – I’m very sure – also visited me in the guise of a dream to let me know that she was peaceful and happy. For probably the first time in a very long time.

I still miss her and I am still mad at her for not sticking around long enough to meet my boys.  She would have liked them so much.

Liam and Matthew Heinke

So what does it all mean? I was not looking for these manifestations and they came to me from out of nowhere, when my gaze was distracted.

Does everyone have the possibility of such visitations?

Is there really such a thing as a second sight?

Are there doorways to other dimensions touching our reality all the time but we just don’t normally see them – like, as a funny example, single-celled amoebas that are only visible when we train an appropriate tool on their seemingly peaceful waterborne existence?

And maybe the most important question of all: if you could actively choose to cultivate such a gift, would you want to?

Rest in peace, dear departed ones. I’ll see you on the other side.

Alone on a shore

Just, I hope, not too soon. I’ve still got too much life to live over here.


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