Saturday's Email of the Week: Beautiful People

Saturday's Email of the Week

Someone sent me this clip, asking if I felt it was true. For those of you unfamiliar with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, she is considered the expert on grief studies and set the standard on the five stages of grief (in case you are curious, they are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You don't necessarily go through all of them, but you might get hit with waves from any of them at any stage of your grief). I have read a lot of grief books and have come across her and her theories more than once. She has merit in her thoughts, but her rigid stages have been debated.

While I had not read this quote before, I thought I would share it with you today. What do you think? Do you have to suffer, struggle or battle strife to transform your soul into a beautiful thing? I can recognize some of these traits in myself, but was it due to my struggles or was it in me before? Can't anyone have a compassionate soul? I like to think I was compassionate before my grief journey, but was it ingrained in my soul early due to the loss of my father at an early age? I know that I get swarmed by children on the playground, as soon as I am spied. Is that because these young humans see my gentle soul and can't help but respond to it?

Well, I just might ponder this a little more on my road trip this afternoon, but I am curious what you think. Would you care to weigh in?

Thoughts?

The Pick-Up

Arms swinging wildly, she swam. Desperate to escape her thoughts, she pushed off the wall and struck out for the far end. Blurred vision forced her to pause, but she pressed on again and again.

Finally limp, she pulled herself from the pool, only to be met by the young man’s gaze.

“Come here often?”

*???*

And with that our heroine ran screaming for G-Man's place to escape those few 55 words. But hey,

"It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!"

The Trip Home

The last of my days in Africa slipped through my fingers. We returned to Cape Town and I managed to sneak in a few more visits here and there. I visited with my cousin Greg, went out to my aunt’s house for a last cup of tea with her and enjoyed a final braai with my uncle’s clan. It was heart-wrenching to let go of the continent, that I felt like I was just beginning to get to know, but it was also time. I had been gone for ten months and my homeland called to me. I longed to see my mother’s face, to feel my sister’s hug and to hear my friend’s excited banter. To know that this new continent that I had come to love would be so far away in a matter of days was bewildering, but acceptance tamed my qualms. It had to.

A phone call arranged a layover in Germany to visit with an old dear friend on my return flight. I would have a week to decompress and adjust to life away from Africa, before winging back to Canadian shores. It all felt so lacklustre, but I tried to muster up a little excitement at the prospect of seeing a long-lost friend and catching up on her life and times. I wondered though, how I would process stepping onto European soil after my earthy African adventures that spanned the southern half of the continent. Europe would be like a different world. Of course Canada would be an adjustment all over again the week later.

For now though, I tried to imprint every image, taste, feel and smell of this land that had gotten under my skin. The concept of leaving was akin to abandoning a homeland that I dearly loved and feared I would never see again. Africa was home to my soul and I ached at the thought of leaving. The fates refused to give me reason to stay though and I begrudgingly packed the last of my things, adding last minute trinkets to my battered backpack to keep Africa close forever.

On August 29^th the last full moon arose to wish me adieu to the continent of my dreams. The following day, I drove to the airport with kin that would forever hold a piece of my heart. With a few strings pulled, I was upgraded to the luxury of Business Class and slid into the ample seat with a sad sigh. A flight attendant materialized with a champagne glass topped off with orange juice and a smile. I peered out the window of the plane, tipped my glass to Table Mountain and let a tear slide down my cheek in farewell. I was going home, but leaving a heart-space behind. All the moments that I had lived in this amazing continent seared into my brain as the jumbo jet lifted off the ground. Just like my first flight, there would be no sleep on the return journey. With aching soul, I left a piece of me behind, but more importantly, took a bigger piece of Africa with me. It would always be, and continues to this day, to be a part of my heart. 

Friday the 13th

With a siren in the not too far distance, the school bell rang. I thought nothing of it, although the bell seemed to be early. A quick look at my watch confirmed this, but the children were gone by the time I looked up. All of them. With doors swinging shut behind them. Firmly. Only tracks remained in the fresh snow to urge me to get on with the day before it got too sloppy to drive in.

An hour later and I was glued to the radio. I desperately scanned the local twitter feed for news.

"Code Yellow - School is on holding pattern"

     ~LOCKDOWN~

and my babies inside

my life! my God.

"40-something year old male, possibly armed, over a dozen police vehicles surrounding the scene. Refusing to communicate."

This scene so close to my babies' school that they are locked in for safety. But what safety did I have from the panic that threatened to overwhelm? Tears, friends and prayer. For several excruciating hours. Walking round, and round, and round again, wearing grooves in the floor. Leaving a trail of fear behind me, only to stumble upon it on my next tour around the kitchen.

"Have a tea for your nerves."

"Breathe"

Distractions that didn't work, because I didn't want them to. All I wanted was for it to end. And end now.

And it did. Safely and without harm to anyone, aside from 600 some-odd parent's nerves, plus teachers and their loved ones. Ten hours worth of stand-off. This on Friday the 13th. This after 5 bank robberies in a single day this week, a Hell's Angel biker shot (and 3 others injured), plus several rub 'n tugs torched. This after a full moon that has obviously made my part of the world go a lot too crazy.

Is it Friday yet? Can I call it a day? Can I sign out on life for this week?

My babies lie in their beds sleeping, unruffled by the events of the day. They were curious why I showed up early to sign them out. And why other kids were leaving too. They wondered why I cried all the way home and hugged them fierce once the door was locked. They thought it was a hoot to start the weekend early. Movies, popcorn, pizza and a fire? Sweet!

Sweet; the feel of my life blood tucked under my arms, as we snuggled in our blanket cocoon with blinds drawn to keep out the world.

Breathe. Remember to breathe. Remember that tomorrow is a new day and this one is now done.

The Moon

   "The moon"
you say,
   was magnificent...


but I was too scared
to look it in the eye
for falling into your heart
and never turning back

I am vulnerable
to her advances
my delicate moonshadow
- have been before

Ethereal ebb and flow that
connects distant ends
of this small world
and maybe even you and I


You talk of words
caring, sharing and more
with a tear
- mine or yours?
Certainly my fears

now the rain delicately drips
washes away this first sweet moment
that could have been
should have been
and was