My weekend in Pietermaritzburg, 27 – 30 October 2016

Background

On 7 August this year, I was privileged to be part of a trio concert with two of South Africa’s jazz legends – Errol Dyers (guitar) and Mervyn Africa (piano). It was held on a Sunday night, at the Catholic Welfare and Development (CWD) building in Athlone, and it was well supported. I performed some of my original songs, and I learnt a lot from the experience of performing with these two fine gentlemen. I had worked with Errol before, but it was the first time I had worked with Mervyn. I remember feeling the distinct stirrings of a new energy - that feeling of some kind of new beginning. I knew that, in time, life would reveal to me what that was about.

Once all the photos and comments had been posted on various Facebook pages, someone in Pietermaritzburg, from a sister organisation of CWD, called PACSA (Pietermaritzburg Agency for Community Social Action), contacted Andre Marais, in charge of the cultural programme at CWD, to invite the trio to repeat the concert in KZN (KwaZulu-Natal), another province in South Africa! We were hired to do a jazz concert, as part of the 2016 Maritzburg Social Justice Film & Arts Festival.

Something I’ve encountered a few times in my life, is that some of the best (or most profound) things that happen to one, are often preceded by drama, or adversity of some kind. Without going into detail, let me say that this was no exception. Eish!

But, all’s well that ends well.

Thursday, 27 October

On Thursday, our party of five flew to Durban, in great spirits: three musicians, plus two people from CWD. Errol and I travelled with our guitars – a first for me. Shortly after our arrival in Durban (King Shaka International Airport), we were collected and driven to Pietermaritzburg. I felt a bit overwhelmed, as I was experiencing many layers of emotions, and not just the excitement of the trip and the anticipation of making music as a trio. Being in Durban took me right back to the four and a half years I’d lived there as a child, decades before. I remembered the feel of the place, the tropical heat, the humidity – so very different to Cape Town’s drier climate.  I realised something I had almost forgotten – I loved that climate! I was very happy to be back there. I kept thinking, “I have to bring my children here!”

                                 Mervyn Africa and Errol Dyers, on our arrival in Durban. 

After a drive of more than an hour, through the lush, rolling hills of KZN, we arrived at our hotel, the Regal Inn Xpress, in a suburb called Scottsville. It was a five-minute drive from the University of KwaZulu-Natal (UKZN) Pietermaritzburg campus, where we were to perform.

That afternoon, we checked in and settled into our rooms. Some went for a walk, in search of bunny chows, others rested. I’d seen a small shopping mall across the road, so I took a short walk to get a light meal. I was ravenous, and the bunny chow shop sounded far away. I was happy with my room, which had DSTV (don’t have at home). Later I discovered there was WIFI in the common areas, which enabled me to stay in touch with my children and post updates on Facebook.  I probably spent way too much time on my phone, as a result. (Sorry, guys!)

                The dining room at the Regal Inn Xpress, in Scottsville, Pietermaritzburg

That evening, we had supper at the hotel, then sat outside, enjoying the beautiful evening; it was nice to just hang out, talking and relaxing. Travelling with such colourful personalities guaranteed much laughter.  We chatted on the phone to the organisers, who arranged to pick us up the next day, and eventually retired to our rooms for our first night in balmy KZN. I was so happy, I wanted to run around shouting it out loud.  I loved the absence of my usual housework - ever-present, demanding, consuming, brain-numbing, always preventing me from connecting with my music. I loved having the freedom to be who I essentially was - a musician. I showered, played guitar till my eyes started closing, then fell asleep.  I must’ve slept with a smile on my face.   

Friday, 28 October

I savoured the luxury of waking up without an alarm, but my body clock ensured it was not a late sleep. After my  shower, I went downstairs  and enjoyed the experience of a hotel breakfast, with all its options.  So cool!  A total mom, I missed my children, and remembered our trip to Pretoria in 2013, when they’d experienced their first 5-star hotel breakfast buffet.

Later that morning, we were fetched by the PACSA staff, whom we met for the first time, and were taken to the campus, to rehearse. I sat around, enjoying the guys’ rehearsal, then rehearsed my songs with them. It was really good to get the feel of the venue. The rehearsal went well, and I was excited about performing that night. When it was time to order lunch, I opted for a bunny chow, something I had last eaten years before. It surpassed my expectations, and now I need to find a Cape Town place that can match its perfect combination of taste and strength (not too strong!).  Wish me luck.

There wasn’t a lot of time between the rehearsal and the evening, but it was enough to get back to the hotel, to  shower and prepare for the evening - and in my case, take a couple of selfies. Ja, ja! Once again, the PACSA people made sure we got to wherever we needed to be - five people and two guitars.

                                                       The obligatory pre-concert selfie

The concert was great fun. I loved listening to Errol and Mervyn, and even managed to record some of their stuff on my phone. We did one set, followed by an interval, during which we were invited to eat in a huge marquee I’d seen them erecting earlier that day. Again, yummy food, with a tasty vegetarian option! After the break, we did our second set, which also went well. My personal opinion is that I sang better during the rehearsal. The crowd loved our music, and responded enthusiastically.  Such a good feeling!

                                        The crowd's response to Mervyn and Errol's set

In the break, a young lady asked if she could sing a song with the guys. To my delight, she did a spine-tingling version of “Ntyilo Ntyilo”, a moving Miriam Makeba song.  The vocalist’s name was Thandeka Ntembi, and I sincerely hope she pursues singing as a career, because she’s got that X-factor. She’s actually remarkable!  We took a couple of photos together, and I got to meet some of her friends, including a young lady called Micky. Thandeka and I exchanged contact details and have been in touch a few times since I got back. I suspect that life will make sure we meet again. 

                               Thandeka (cap), Micky (black top) and a friend, posing with me

Post-gig adrenalin

As usual, I was so stimmed after the gig, that I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure what the others did, but I went to my room and tried to come down to earth after my exhilarating evening. Like I had done the night before, I walked over to the ironing room, and ironed my clothes for the next day, including my gig clothes, just in case we ran out of time. I showered, watched tv, played my guitar, watched more tv, and eventually fell asleep. I was thoroughly enjoying my time in KZN, and I started feeling sad that it would soon be over. My mind raced as I considered the logistics of coming back to KZN - with my kids.

Saturday 29 October

Woke up without an alarm, but once again way too early for someone who was finally able to sleep in. I showered and went down for breakfast, happily connected to the WIFI, and contacted home and Fb. The guys pitched up, one by one, and I found myself spending a prolonged time in the dining room, hanging out with them, each of us so different, yet connected by this really cool experience.

We were fetched by the PACSA people, and attended some of the activities at the festival. Because of limited time, I didn’t get to see any of the excellent documentary films, but I managed to attend the Food Fair, where everything was free of charge, and interesting people dished up food from their countries, for us to try. I have a very sensitive stomach, so I avoided anything that looked too outlandish. One thing I did not want to do was spend any of my precious time over there being sick.

                                                                      The food fair

And then the second most exciting part of my trip happened – I attended a ‘’Fees Must Fall’’ discussion forum, where university students spoke about what had been happening, what was currently happening, and what they hoped would happen. They spoke about the brutality of the security personnel, the one-sidedness of most of the media reports, and the awful experiences some of them had had, in the course of the student protests – including being shot at, having teargas canisters thrown into their second-storey hostel rooms and their doors forcibly locked, and being locked up in prison and deprived of food for more than 40 hours. Even though my presence at the festival was in my capacity as a musician (that beautiful, magical part of my life), I felt privileged and grateful to have attended that meeting, because it put me in touch with the pulse of the country’s youth. I was moved and impressed by the depth and insight of the students, and especially by their sophisticated political understanding, something few people acknowledge, thanks to the diluting of their cause by the media. They had organised a public meeting for a few days later, where they would address parents and other members of the public, to present their side of the Fees Must Fall movement.

                                                         UKZN, Pietermaritzburg Campus

I left there wanting to put KZN students in touch with students from my province, so that there could be greater cooperation and understanding, on a national level, and greater solidarity, in the face of the kinds of brutality, both physical and systemic, that the students had been experiencing. I felt outraged that authorities were treating the problem on a campus-by-campus basis, when it was in fact a national crisis, and not just an educational matter. The country was in crisis, and it was conveniently being side-lined as a protest by lazy students. These students have more understanding and courage than many adults I know. If only they were afforded the respect and audience to have their concerns and demands heard.

It disturbs me deeply that people who themselves were marginalised and treated as sub-human, not so long ago, can do the same to others, once their own nests have been feathered. Brings to mind George Orwell’s book, ‘’1984”.  What was that classic commandment? ‘’All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’’  

Saturday evening

With very little time between the afternoon’s activities and the evening performance, we nevertheless were ready in time and were once again fetched by the friendly PACSA staff. By this time, I was used to the sudden thunderstorms, and loved the fact that rain didn’t automatically mean cold, as it did in Cape Town. 

The second evening was a poetry evening, and the trio was to play a bit of music here and there. As it turned out, there was such a big response to the open mic poetry session, that very little music was played, and I didn’t even get to sing. Still, I was happy to have been there, to have heard Errol and Mervyn make their magic, and to experience a night of student poetry.

                                      The stage at the Colin Webb Hall, at UKZN

Language has always fascinated me, and that night was no exception. Even though most of the poets spoke in isiZulu, I could follow the emotions and essence of what they were saying, and the audience’s response was contagious.  I loved the intensity of the poets, I loved the rhythm and cadence of their voices, and was mesmerised by their obvious passion. These people, the youth of today, inspire me.  I have the utmost confidence in their ability to put this country back on the right track, given the space to do so.

We once again had delicious food served in the marquee, during the interval, and I tried to take photos of the thunderstorm, but it seemed the lightning was playing a game with me, disappearing everytime I clicked. Anyway, it was exciting standing in the rain and watching the storm. I felt alive.

                                           The best of the lightning pics I took. 

And then it was time to say our goodbyes. Mervyn Abrahams, the Director of PACSA, took us out for drinks, to say thank you and goodbye - a nice way to round off our time there. I think I flopped into bed after 1am, after packing my case and making a list of last-minute things to do the next morning. Before I knew it, it was time to get up again. This time I used my alarm, as we were being fetched for the airport at 9, and there was one last brekkie to be had. And WIFI.   

Sunday, 30 October

We ate our last breakfast together, and all the time I was aware of the time constraints. I felt slightly sad, when we handed in our keys and said our goodbyes to the staff. The drive to the airport was long and melancholic. Every now and then, I became aware of the others in the taxi, and noticed they were also quiet. Maybe they were feeling like I was. I stared outside the window, and took a few pics, trying to squeeze as much of KZN into my psyche as I could. 

                                                     The green, rolling hills of KZN

At King Shaka International Airport, we offloaded our bags, took our leave of the driver, and went through the formalities, before boarding the plane. Errol took his guitar on board, but I left mine with the prams, relieved that this time they put a tag on it and gave me a counterfoil.

The flight back to Cape Town was strange. I loved the excitement of being in the air, and of course that wonderful feeling of going home to one’s loved ones, but part of me wished I’d been able to spend more time in KZN, especially to visit my childhood friends in Durban.

Maybe next time.

This weekend opened my eyes and made me question many things, about my own life choices, as well as about my country. 

I am deeply grateful to the wonderful people at PACSA for inviting us to perform as part of the 2016 Maritzburg Social Justice Film and Arts Festival, for flying us over, accommodating us, providing all our meals and shuttles, and for treating us with so much kindness and respect.  

I’m sure many people reading this are frequent flyers, and might think that taking a two-hour flight somewhere is no big deal, but to me this weekend was special, and I will never forget it.

Till we meet again.

Peace

Friday 14 October 2016

Today we observed another milestone in my younger child’s life – her last day at high school before one week of study leave, followed by the final exams.

Their school’s tradition is to hold a Valedictory service in the school hall, attended by the staff, the student body, and the matric parents. A lot of crying happens at this gathering, and I was no meagre contributor. There are certain things they always do, like a formula, which is, I suppose, what traditions are made of. The school orchestra provides the accompaniment to the School Song, the Jubilee Song, Gaudeamus Igitur, and the National Anthem. A prayer is read, extracts from writings of world leaders (JF Kennedy and Nelson Mandela) are read, and a brief address by the Principal sends the students on their way. They also have a handing over ceremony where the current Head Girl and Boy hand over the reins to their successors. Quite touching. But all of those formalities seem perfunctory, in comparison to one feature on the programme: the address by the outgoing Head Girl and Boy.

This is the part that I’m sure everyone enjoys most. Today’s joint speech, told with loads of humour, revealed that both of them had arrived at Westerford High School as shy and introverted, in 2012. They spoke us through some of their experiences over the past five years, and many of their stories evoked laughter from all present. I don’t think self-effacing people realise how funny they can be. Dry humour, delivered with a straight face, gets me every time. And the reminiscences by these two were filled with that.  The funny photos (of themselves and fellow students) they were able to source and have displayed on the screen during parts of their speech, merely heightened the funniness of everything.

But it was essentially a day of goodbyes, a day of closure on five magical years of life. I think the actual magic of those years becomes apparent only in the last few months of Grade 12, when the reality of leaving it all behind starts to sink in.

As both Head Boy and Girl got to the serious parts of their speech, some tears broke the rhythm of their speaking. It was as though they had put up a sign saying, “You may now cry!”, because most people in the hall started “klapping a sentie” as the teens say – which is slang for “getting sentimental”. Yup – I had packed a huge wad of tissues in my bag, because I know myself so well. As happy as I was that my daughter’s high school years had come to an end (bar 15 separate days of writing exams), I also felt that feeling one gets when it’s time to say goodbye to the familiar and walk into the unknown.  I felt the enormity of the life change they were all experiencing.  

Another feature of the ceremony that I like - and here I suppose it’s because there are so few socially-acceptable (in certain cultures) ways to express emotion and thanks at a time like this - is the sustained applause that accompanies the students as they file into and out of the hall. Of course, on their way out, most of them have teary faces, just like most of the parents. Also special is the applause that accompanies the staff on their way out of the hall, at the end of the proceedings. How does one adequately say thank you?

Providing the soundscape throughout is the school orchestra, which creates a very special atmosphere. One almost forgets that it’s live accompaniment, they’re so good.   

I’ve only touched the surface of what’s on my mind right now. I’ll have to type a second blog post today. Later.

(Matric mom) 

Friday 16 Sept 2016

                                                                                                                                    

You know what people like me always seem to have too little of (besides chocolate)? Time! But right now, I have three glorious hours to myself, and all I’m going to do is write. Yay!!!

I’m on a day’s leave, which I’ve basically dedicated to ‘Mom Duty’, for my younger child.

I’m sitting in my car outside her school. It’s a big day for her and her peers. Firstly, it’s the final day of September mock exams, which brings them to just about four or five weeks until their study break before their final matric exams! But today is a Big Day for another reason – tonight is their Matric Dance, a rite of passage they spend many years looking forward to. Not without controversy, it’s nevertheless a huge event in the lives of those who do attend.

Three years ago, my son decided against going to his matric dance. Despite all his teachers and friends’ attempts at convincing him otherwise, he spent the night alone in his room, organising his paperwork, filing stories he’d written, and excitedly planning his future. It was the way he chose to mark the end of his high school years. That was what made him happiest, and that’s what he did. A sworn socialist, he also hated the thought of all that money being spent on an event of that nature. I have a very simple approach to my children’s decisions – if your decision is different to the ‘norm’, is not hurting anybody, and is an expression of your individuality, so be it. I may have determined 50% of your genetic make-up, and I may have guided you through your formative years, but who you develop into, as a young adult, has to be as unencumbered a process as possible. From what I’ve experienced, when you reach the end of high school, your essential personality and life direction are pretty much established. Life may add years of experience, some layers of complexity, and an appreciation of nuance, but you remain basically that same person.

What I do remember distinctly, though, is my daughter, four years his junior, stating unequivocally that she was definitely going to her matric dance.

So, here I am – doing one of the things I love most: writing. I’m sitting in my car, under a huge tree, with the rain pelting down. The sound of the rain on the car’s roof is loud and tinny, but it’s surprisingly comforting, making me feel cocooned from the rest of the world. I’m in my own world, a wonderful world of uninterrupted typing of thoughts as they tumble into my consciousness. Wonderful. Bliss. I fully understand why my son schedules his life around his writing. I know how compelling it is. He writes fiction, and he’s brilliant at it. Not my forte.  I have a style that’s more like journaling. In my dream home, one day, I’ll have a special writing space.

So why am I sitting here for three whole hours, when I could have driven home and enjoyed  hot cups of tea and some toast? The same old story – I’m basically saving petrol. This is me making lemonade from yet another batch of lemons. About three months ago, something happened – a decision by someone who’s had a destructive effect on my life for many years – which threw my finances into absolute chaos. Even though forthcoming events will ensure that this phase of scarcity is temporary, I am still reeling from this latest round of having the rug pulled out from under my feet. But one thing I’ve become very good at is choreographing steps that keep me on my feet, regardless of how that rug is pulled. I have learnt the art of survival. (“Keep dancing” is one of my 2016 goals.) For me, it’s a combination of using my skills and talents to earn extra money (as in, live music performances) and asking for help. 

I’ve also learnt that there are so many things that one can’t control. If you lend money to someone, and they promise to pay it back by a certain date, you simply cannot depend on that. And most of the time when that happens, people don’t tell you beforehand, so you wait until the day it was promised, and sometimes even a few days later, before you actually broach the subject.  By then, your other commitments are clamouring for attention, and your personal track record has been compromised.  

How does all of this relate to my daughter’s matric dance? Well, these things cost money. We had ‘Plan A’ perfectly worked out, but that was before the aforementioned rug incident. An additional setback, from said recidivist, added pressure I could have done without, at this important time in my daughter’s life. I am being as unspecific as I can, but the details explain why I am sitting in my car, right now, saving petrol. This whole thing is depressingly familiar  – it haunts me like a theme to a horror movie….. you hear the strains and wonder what the hell is coming next, how your life could possibly be made more difficult, this time. What has not already been done, to keep you from moving forward?  

But I am a survivor. And nothing is more important to me than my children. I would do anything for them. I would sacrifice any personal comfort for their happiness.  This is something I know how to do. And I’ve become good at it. Even while I’m going through the difficulty, I’m excited about the future. I plan to live long, so my time to spoil myself will come. :-) The truth is that life always sends me sunny days, even in winter. It’s never all gloom and doom. I have enough happiness and magic up my sleeve to sustain me. It’s like my secret pamper pack – my private little stash of feel-good supplies.

Besides the tickets, all other matric dance expenses are around the outfit. My daughter has known for years what she wanted to wear. She found a young designer, who came highly recommended. Her rates were reasonable, and she lived close by. At our first visit already, I could see she was perfect. She listened well, had a calm, no-nonsense way of doing things, and the dresses in her workroom and the pictures of her work, displayed on her website and in her workroom, said it all. We’ve basically seen her three times – once when we met her and she took the measurements, once for a fitting and some minor adjustments, and once for fetching the dress. I love it!  She’s a great seamstress, and her admin is on point! (Can’t undo the Virgo, sorry!)

Then there were the shoes, which my daughter sourced cheaply, a la ‘Plan B’, some make-up and some jewelry, including a headpiece for her flaming mane. What can I say? She’s my angel, and she’s going to look like a forest princess. My heart swells with pride.  Her cousin is doing her hair, which is a real blessing to us.

So, once again, despite all the challenges, we will achieve the goal at hand, and all will be well, just like we kept reassuring each other it would. Life has not been easy, for many years, but I have an irrepressible spirit. I’m like a cork in water – it’s just not possible for me to stay down. I believe that every hardship I encounter is temporary. Approaching life that way tips the scales towards success.

I also have a host of angels in my life, people who believe in me, and who are ‘the wind beneath my wings’, people who have helped me through the dark patches, with their love, their words, their energy, and sometimes their material assistance. Because of my loving network and my unsquashable optimism, I will always succeed. I will always rise, after falling. I will always find my smile. I will always sing another song. And I will always have a word of hope for someone else who might be navigating her way through the darkness, because I’m familiar with that neck of the woods.

I’m just lucky to have found a few paths that lead back to the light.

Peace

                               Taken one beautiful morning, as we were leaving home.

Mind Powering

Written on Wed 07 Sept 2016

So here I am, finally with a free evening, wanting to blog, a hundred topics on my mind, and I have no idea what to write.

Ok, here’s one. I’ve gone back to doing Mind Power. I’ve written about this before. I did the course in 2003, and have gone on and off the programme (on my own) over the years. I remember when I did the course, I thought I’d stay on the exercises forever. But of course life happens and one gets busy, and one loses focus. I also remember the facilitator, Robin Banks, telling us to do the exercises as part of our daily routines, and not only in times of need.

He knew what he was talking about. Maybe, had I listened, I would’ve been further along my journey.

The irony of my on-off relationship with Mind Power is that I really like doing the exercises, and I ALWAYS get results. Sometimes the goals you work towards in your exercises are realised only after months, even years, but sometimes it’s a really short turnover time, like days.

So what are the exercises I do? My daily routine consists of four exercises, each lasting five minutes:

1.       Contemplating one of the six Mind Power rules (You can Google them)

2.       Affirmation (a short statement clearly articulating your specific goal as though you’ve already achieved it)

3.       Acknowledging past successes (sets up an energy vibration of success in you)

4.       ‘A creating period’, where you visualise (picture) and ‘seed’ (feel the emotions of) your goal; it’s like running a movie in your head, like you’re experiencing the goal having been achieved.

The crazy and wonderful thing about the last exercise is that, by the time you actually achieve your goal, it feels familiar, because you’ve already gone through the achievement in your mind so many times.  

Here are some of the principles on which Mind Power is based, that impress me:

-          Your brain can’t tell the difference between something real and something imagined

-          The more frequently you think about something, especially with emotion/passion, the more likely you are to attract it into your life

-          At any moment of any day, your mind is full of thoughts – you can choose to leave them all scattered, or you can choose to focus  them in such a way that your life gains impetus and direction

-          You can consciously choose to get rid of negative thoughts and replace them with positive thoughts

-          You can insert any thought into your mind, at any time, in any place 

I knew, from the time that I sat through the free introductory lecture, that this was something that I would love, and I did. I still do. In my family, we even use ‘mind power’ as a verb, as in “I’m going to mind power our new car.” And, by the way, that’s what I did. I achieved my cool car and my cool job through Mind Power. It’s all about energy vibrations, and focusing your thoughts in such a way that you affect the vibrations, and strongly tilt the likelihood of something happening. This is how I’d explain it: you basically focus your thoughts so strongly, that a whole lot of other elements come together and somehow work together towards achieving your goal.

As a writer, I also like the freedom to make up my own affirmations (positive statement of your goal as though it’s already been achieved). Here’s one of mine: “I vibrate with an energy that is empowered, empowering and that attracts success. “   

One of the things I really love doing is singing my affirmations. That makes the five minutes go really fast, and I get to try variations on a melody, while repeating the affirmation.

Recently, I rediscovered how cool it is to get all my exercises done while driving – it passes the time, and it’s really fun. So that’s what I’ve been doing. A whole new take on surviving traffic jams (which I sit in on a daily basis). Many people enjoy doing Mind Power while exercising – it’s a natural high.

So, on Day Four of my current Mind Power programme, I am seriously ‘mind powering’ a goal that will radically alter my life. I feel that, this time, not only will I stick to the programme, but I will achieve my goal. Of that I have absolutely no doubt.

On 1 May 2015, I set myself a 100-day challenge to dance, to start regaining my fitness, and to feel   better about myself and about life. 16 months later, I’m still dancing. Still loving it!

In 2003, I wrote a quirky song, called Mind Power. Here’s the first verse:

Mind Power in the shower

Mind Power when I blow-dry my hair

It doesn’t take an hour

Mind Power means you live like you care

Mind Power

Always start my day with

Mind Power

Just can’t stay away from

Mind Power

It’s under my skin………

So, as you can see, Mind Power is something I highly recommend. Basically, you can do it anywhere; you’re thinking thoughts anyway, so you might as well focus them on one of your goals. Try it. Only 20 minutes a day, and you can split the exercises up throughout your day. Whenever you have five minutes of free time, do one of them. See how your life changes after thirty days. I recommend the book, “Mind Power into the Twenty-First Century” (John Kehoe) and also recommend that you attend the next free introductory lecture in your city. Then do the course. You won’t regret it. Also, Google Robin Banks, the Mind Power man. He’s a phenomenal example of what he teaches.

I may not be materially successful right now, but a lot of who I have become, over the last 13 years, is as a result of Mind Power. I’m talking about acquiring and shedding attitudes and habits, as well as operating my thought life in a certain way. It has given me greater clarity and much better boundaries.

What can I say? It works for me. 

Friends

Written 30 August 2016

I remember, when we were children, we always had lots of friends. As teenagers, too, no matter where we lived, friends were always around. My mother welcomed our friends, and now that I’m a parent, I understand that that was one way of keeping an eye on us, but not in a suspicious way – more like knowing who your children are hanging out with, and staying connected.

Of course, I didn’t know then that some friendships would last well into my adult life. I don’t think I realised either that one’s cousins could end up being one’s most loyal and supportive friends. I understand that this is not always so, but in my case, I’m really lucky. Somehow, I’ve always had a lot  more contact with my maternal cousins. Having said as much, I feel the same love and warmth towards my paternal cousins that I do towards my maternal cousins. The truth, though, is that I share a lot more memories with my maternal cousins, most of whom we’ve lived with, at some stage of our lives. And, when you think about it, it’s the shared experiences that form those bonds.

Aside from cousins, one of my oldest friendships is with someone I met in Durban, when he and I were both six years old. We were born five days apart, and met through our parents, who were friends.  He now lives in Australia, with his partner of many years. To my delight, they’re coming down to Cape Town soon, and we’re going to take our moms out for breakfast, to celebrate our birthdays.  He inspires me, because he’s in a profession he loves, and he’s living his truth, travelling whenever he can, and filling his life with things that are meaningful to him. Besides being a really lovely and lovable guy, he’s also a bookworm and a word nerd. 

Another very special friendship I have is with someone I met when I was 17 and she, 15. We belonged to the same performing arts group, where she was a dancer and I, an aspiring actress. Today, she is a full-time, professional actress, who seems to have become increasingly busy, as more people recognise the immense talent she’s always had.  She’s amazing. Even when we lived continents apart, that bond was always there. We’re very different, yet we have so much in common. She inspires me, because she’s overcome immense odds, and come out shining like the star she is. She’s one of the most talented, naturally creative people I know. Also a bookworm, also a word nerd. Writes the most riveting poetry, and basically succeeds at whatever she attempts. Life has given her some unbelievably hard knocks, but she’s proved to be bigger and better than all the adversity. She’s truly beautiful, and I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

And then I have, amongst so many other friendships, old and new, a group of friends who are in a category of their own – my high school friends! These are people I met 41 years ago, in 1975. Life just keeps bringing us back into each other’s world! In the past two weeks, I have had lunch with two of them (separately), and coffee with a third high school friend. I am due to meet a fourth person from this special group soon. Fortunately, we now work less than a kilometre apart, so it’s not difficult to get together.  She’s very bright, and was always winning the English prize at school. She’s really cool. I like her no-nonsense attitude and am in awe of how she has fed her wanderlust by travelling to many countries over many years. Also a bookworm, also a word nerd. One of the most endearing things about her is her laugh – a spontaneous, delicious and infectious sound.

In a most unexpected turn of events, I find myself working closely with someone who was my best friend at high school. It’s fascinating how life keeps looping, bringing special people back into our realms. I can only think that there are amazing things to be achieved, when these collaborations recur, especially so many years later, when one has gathered so much life experience and has reached a point of self-acceptance. Another no-nonsense person, dances to the beat of her own drum, and remains down to earth and connected to what’s important. She’s creative and a wonderful catalyst and inspiration to everyone she encounters. She's proved to be one of those exceptional people who can comfortably straddle the artistic and the business worlds Another bookworm and word nerd. :-)

   

Most of my high school friends were in the same class as me for the full five years. Some others  weren’t, but the friendships are as strong. I am proud of all my friends. Life hasn’t been easy for some, but they have persevered and pulled through. Others have very successful careers, and live comfortable lives. But the thread that binds us together has nothing to do with material possessions – there’s something else, an unbreakable bond that defies description.

I have quite a few other very good friends, people I’ve either studied with, worked with, or collaborated with musically, and I know those friendships will last, even if we don’t see each other often. As with so many other things in life, sometimes explanation and analysis are unnecessary – you just have to accept that that is what it is, and enjoy it.  

I recently met up with a primary school friend, after more than 40 years, and I was delighted to find that she was exactly the same person I’d loved so many years ago, and that our friendship was able to pick up from where it had had to pause, decades ago. And just to show how consistent the pattern is, she's also a bookworm and a word nerd. :-) 

I love life. I love every new day, and I give thanks when I wake up and realise I have been given another day. I’m 54 years old, and, for as long as I can remember, I have been deeply reflective. Hence the journaling, and hence the blog. But I do know that, coexisting comfortably with my solitary, reflective nature, is my wonderful treasure trove of friends, the golden thread running through the tapestry of my life. I hope they all know how much fuller and more filled with magic my life is because of them, and that a significant part of who I am, and who I like being, comes from knowing them.

And just in case you haven't realised it, I mean the term "word nerd" in the nicest possible way. 

Peace  

     Taken in 2008, near Rooi Els, on a weekend away with a cousin who's one of my closest friends.

Catching up

Written 23 August 2016

I have to smile when I look at my list of six main goals for 2016. Actually, I shouldn’t be unhappy, because I’m more or less on track.

Two of them I have, in fact, achieved: “Get a cool car” & “Get a cool job”. Another one I can definitely say I’m doing, although the frequency hasn’t been great: “Keep dancing”. Another one is funny because it’s so vague (“Perform a lot”), although even there I can say I’m on track, if having a weekly gig is “a lot”.  It’s all relative, right?

But then the last two – eish! One is “Blog at least 60 times”. Almost the end of August, and this is post no. 18 for the year……..! I’d have to do some serious posting to catch up. Let me see, that would mean 42 more between now and 31 December, which is 4 months + 8 days, so 130 days. That would mean one blog post roughly every 3 days. Ja, right!

As I’ve said before, on this site: I love writing. I think about it all the time. I take pictures of the world around me, every single day, and I could blog about every one of them. There’s so much to say. I observe people, and I sense energies. I experience nuances and subtleties from different people, as we all do, and I have so much buzzing around inside my head about all of that. So why don’t I blog more often? 

It’s just the same two things that have eluded me for so long – space, and time. But for writing, particularly time. When I’m at home, I’m usually doing more than one thing at a time. Like right now, I’ve got the washing machine going and every now and then I have to get up and hang stuff on the line.  Breaks my groove a bit, but I can comfortably do both. With cooking, though, I can’t blog. Unless I’m putting something into the oven. No, even that doesn't work, because I do the dishes while the food’s in the oven. And anyway, I don’t like the combination of food, wet hands and a laptop. Naah.

And there are other things I have to do every evening, like iron clothes and prepare my lunch for the next day. In a good week, I dance every second night, and that needs time, as well. I’ve got into the habit of journaling after dancing, so that takes time, too. I read before falling asleep every night – more time.

Right now, we’re out of data for the internet (thanks to my stupidity, downloading a huge file without checking the size), which means I couldn’t be on Facebook even if I wanted to. Now there’s the real time waster for me. Oh my word, I have absolutely NO willpower when it comes to social media! I have to set an alarm when I sit down, otherwise I will look up and three hours will have passed. I have a personal page and a musician page (Trudy Rushin, Singer-Songwriter), and I move between the two, usually spending most of the time on the personal page, where there’s lots of interaction with my Friends. 

But there’s another activity I could lose myself in for hours, and that’s playing my guitar. I will play later tonight, because I didn’t play last night. So I’m blogging and doing laundry with a time limit, because after this, it’s shower time, and then I’ll settle down with my guitar. 38 years later, the thought of playing my guitar still makes my heart skip a beat! My longest love story (yet). ;-) 

I think I’m incredibly lucky, to have so many things in my life that I love so much. And I haven’t even spoken about time spent with family, when I’m home, and friends, when I’m not.

So maybe I should just repeat tonight’s programme every three days. That way I’d reach my goal of blogging at least 60 times. Watch this space. 

And what about my 6^th goal? “Copyright my songs”. Oh, hell! Have I mentioned I’m a procrastinator? More time! :-)   

            A section of our CBD that I walk past frequently, when I take my lunch-time walks. 

How fat-shaming is like racism

Written 16 -26 June 2016

On Friday 10 June, my daughter, who’s doing her final year at high school, made a speech to the entire school, in Assembly, about how society engages in fat-shaming, with the full compliance of the seemingly-benevolent diet-pill industry. In her speech, which won her the school’s annual Public Speaking Competition, she shared her own journey of self-acceptance, saying how confident she was that she did not need to be thin in order to achieve her goals and dreams.

The next morning, I was listening to a local talk radio station, when I heard the presenters discussing the sentences meted out to two people who had made racist comments on social media: one had been fined a huge amount of money, and the other had received a sentence of a few months’ community service in a township. They spoke about how these sentences could act as clear deterrents to the rest of the population.

The very next thing they started talking about was how fat some politician had looked in a dress she’d recently worn. They went on to say she should have known better than to have worn it! I got really angry, and sent the following SMS to the radio station: 

“ To me, fat-shaming is no different to racism. It labels and shackles people, especially women, relegating them to second-class citizenship, and holding them back from living their best lives. Maybe we should look at the actual average size of people, and get designers and clothing shops to break the fat-shaming cycle.“

A few minutes later my phone rang, and, as I suspected, it was the radio station, wanting me to air my views live on air, which I happily did.  I had a chance to say quite a bit, but the presenter wasn’t interested in engaging with me - he was more interested in being right, and having the last word, before he ended the conversation. I felt like I do in all other similar situations – it doesn’t phase me at all. I know there’ll always be people like that, who use you for their own purposes - in his case to help fill that particular half-hour slot - and who, as long as it fulfils their agenda, will pretend that they’re actually interested in what you have to say. A radio presenter isn’t always right, and doesn’t always have to terminate someone’s input with yet another assertion of how right he believes he is – that’s just verbal masturbation.

Why does it seem as though I’m personalising this tirade? It’s because some radio presenters start to see themselves as above reproach, often crossing the line, but because they’re so highly regarded, they get away with it. This presenter said in so many words, that, if he walked into a place where he could choose which assistant he would go to for help, he would steer clear of the fat employee! This shocked me. It always shocks me when people who themselves have been discriminated against, so readily don the hat of the oppressor, when it comes to other forms of discrimination.

So, in the absence of a self-righteous, elevated-to-celebrity-status-for-no-apparent-reason radio presenter, let me say what I did not have time to say on air – why I believe that fat-shaming is akin to racism.

Fat shaming is about looking at a person, focussing on her physical appearance, and making assumptions and decisions, based on her physical appearance. Sound familiar? It is about deciding that that particular physical aspect  implies that the person is less intelligent, less capable, less competent, less desirable and less deserving in every way.

When you are teased for being fat, in your childhood, and called names because you’re rounder than someone else thinks you should be, it’s hard to outgrow the shame that you felt at that time of your life. It will always be a sensitive subject for you. I found a photograph of myself at about age 16, wearing a red one-piece swimsuit, taken at the beach, with my dog at my feet. I was a healthy, relatively happy, physically active teenager. The photo was obviously intended to be sent to someone in a letter, because I’d written on the back of it, besides some information including the date, the place and the name of my dog, “As you can see, I am very fat.”   Looking at that photo now, I feel so sorry for my 16-year-old self – I wish I could tell her to focus on other things, to free herself from the shackles, and to be all that she was meant to be.

Fat-shaming can be as blatant as name-calling, or as subtle as “Thank you for your application. We regret to inform you that you have not been successful.” While there are obviously occupations – like deep-sea diving, or sprinting – that depend on certain physical criteria, most jobs just need you to be in a state of average-to-good health, in order to function effectively. What annoys me is how people are excluded from jobs because they’re perceived as fat (“It’s not the image our company wants to portray”), regardless of their level of education, or their skill at that particular job. Sound familiar? This impacts on the person’s ability to earn a certain income, which is the deciding factor for everything else – where she lives, whether she owns a car or not, which schools her children attend, how she takes care of her family, and so much else. These are the same struggles you have when you’re excluded from positions  because of your “race”.

When you’ve been fat-shamed, and made to feel inferior because of that aspect of your physical appearance, you start to internalise that inferiority. You carry it around, and it informs everything you believe about yourself.  Years, even decades, after the last incident of overt fat shaming, you still feel the effect - that I’m-not-good-enough twinge, like a psychic scar that throbs when it’s cold. Again, exactly like internalised racial inferiority.

And fat-shaming is not just about being called names – it’s an overriding theme in mainstream culture, which clinically separates people into two groups, with every individual from as young as four, with relentless media promotion, knowing which group he or she belongs to. You know how apartheid taught you to “know your place”? It’s exactly the same.  

While it might seem like I’m referring only to ‘morbidly obese’ (no less of a slur because it’s a medical term) people, the most blatant effects of people who feel fat-shamed are all around us. At a gathering of friends or family, no matter how much of a good time you’ve had, when it comes to a certain time in the gathering, all of that changes – I’m talking about photograph time. Watch people when group photos are taken. People who regard themselves as fat automatically adopt a set of defensive behaviours we’ve learnt over time, usually through those same glossy magazines that devote monthly articles to how fat people can look slimmer. Those of us who perceive ourselves as fat and who’ve taken on the mantle of shame that society has insidiously suggested we wear, will either stand behind someone (usually with no part of the body visible), or at the very least, stand at an angle. Magazines and television programmes obsessed with telling women how they should look and what they should do to compensate if they don’t look like they should, can get really specific about how one should lean slightly forward, put the weight on the front leg, and tilt the head just so…….. I mean, really??? Have you ever seen how (predominantly-female) audiences applaud when these tips are given, as though they’ve just discovered the secret to eternal life?

We all buy into it, stoicly avoiding horizontal stripes, bold prints and bright colours. It becomes such a part of our thinking, that we don’t even see the funky outfits our essential, free-as-a-bird selves would naturally be drawn to, and instead make our way to the rails of shapeless, darker-toned items. These days, you even have entire shops dedicated to “plus-sized” women. I’m still trying to decide whether that’s a good thing or not. Now you’re labelled by just walking into that shop. You tell me you’ve walked into one of those shops and not felt a slight twinge of something negative, and I’ll applaud you. Even when you know the issues, and intellectually grasp the multi-layered ramifications, you are still tainted by years of being socialised into the skewed, hegemonic version of what’s acceptable and what’s not – basically, you know your place.  

And have you noticed how boring some of those clothes for ‘plus-sized’ women are? The message is clear, even from designers – if you’re bigger than a certain size, you don’t deserve to look cute, pretty, stunning, gorgeous, sexy, or any other adjective we automatically associate with slim women. The truth is that you can be an obnoxious individual, but have all kinds of positive attributes inferred on you, simply because you are slim. Let’s face it, a slim, chain-smoking woman, wearing a pencil skirt and stiletto heels, is always going to be more likely to land a job than an overweight non-smoker.

So many other issues arise from keeping women, in particular, in a state of belief about themselves as inferior, and we see this over and over again in the prevalence of abusive relationships. Keep a woman believing that she doesn’t deserve love and acceptance, and she’ll remain in an unhealthy situation for years, trying one thing after the other to figure out how she can change herself, to make the situation work. For some of us, we end up replicating this toxic dynamic in a series of relationships, wondering why we keep choosing partners so clearly wrong for us. Until we reach a point where we know the truth, love ourselves, and understand how worthy we are of being loved, we will remain stuck in successive variations on the theme. Until a disenfranchised population rises up against oppression, the abuse will persist.

I now live in a post-apartheid South Africa, where our constitution guarantees freedom from all forms of discrimination. Excluding people from living full lives as citizens, because of a physical feature, whether it be skin colour, disability, or weight, is a form of discrimination pathologically similar to racism, and has to be challenged at every possible opportunity.

Still dancing

Written 17 June 2016

Yesterday was Day 413 of my dancing challenge and I did Dance workout No. 148. So many things pull me away from my 3-times-a-week goal, that the frequency has dropped dramatically. But I refuse to give up. I love dancing, it makes me happy, and I’ll keep at it. With my new job, I come home about two hours later than when I was teaching. This not only means I have a lot less time in the evening to achieve everything, but I’m also a lot more tired, especially after the one-hour drive home in peak-hour traffic (which I find rather stressful).

The truth is, I’m still trying to find my equilibrium. I’d given myself three months to get my act together, but some things take longer than we think. I just need to be patient. The latest complication is the biting cold weather. When you’ve left home in the dark, worked a full day, and returned in the dark, cooked supper, spent some family time, ironed clothes and made lunch for the next day, all you want to do is have a hot shower and get to bed. My big time-guzzler is Facebook – I have to set my alarm in order to tear myself away from it. I recently decided to skip Facebook every now and then, even for two consecutive nights, because it cuts into the time that I could be doing something else.

Like I’ve said in so many other posts, dancing makes me incredibly happy – it’s just hard to get started, especially on a week night.  Or a cold night. The thing with exercise is, even if you’re freezing when you start, after you’ve warmed up, you don’t even feel the cold. For me, sticking to my dancing goal requires a lot of discipline, and sometimes I find it hard to prioritise dancing around my room when my body’s clamouring for sleep. 

Another complicating factor is any commitment between work and home that adds even an hour to my day – it just messes up my evening. Getting home after 7pm automatically means there’s no time to dance. Do that more than once a week, and the whole week feels wrong. I need routine in order to fulfil my Trudy agenda – which means scheduled sessions to dance, play my guitar, write and read. Four things that mean the world to me, and that make me feel balanced. When I haven’t done one of them for a long time, I can feel myself moving away from my essence. Not a nice feeling. 

But when I do dance, I feel like I like to feel – as free as a bird, and in tune with my essential self. I’ve always loved exercising to music.

For now, this is my workout playlist – called “Dance, Mama, Dance”. J The first seven tracks are from the soundtrack of the movie, ‘Chef’ – lovely, rhythmical salsa:

1.       Track 1 – Pete Rodriguez – I like it like that

2.       Track 7 – Roberto Roena -  Que Se Sepa

3.       Track 8 – Louie Ramirez – Ali Baba

4.       Track 9 – Gente de Zona – Homenaje Al Beny Castelllano

5.       Track 10 – Nickodemus & Quantic – Mi Swing Es Tropcal

6.       Track 15 – Perico Hernandez – Oye Como Va

7.       Track 16 – Perico Hernandez – La Quimbumba

8.       Donald Fagen – Florida Room

9.       Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On?

10.   Natalie Cole – Good to be back

11.   Jamie Cullum – What a difference a day made 

By the time I get to the end of song no. 7, I’ve done 30 minutes. On nights when I’m super-tired, I go from that track straight to Jamie Cullum, for my cool down. When I get through the full playlist, it’s a 52-minute workout.

Tonight’s not a dance night, but tomorrow is.

“I’m just a girl whose intentions are good,…….”

Coloured Mother

(Written 12 May  - 16 June 2016)

South Africa achieved democracy in 1994. With the euphoria of the first post-apartheid elections came all kinds of expectations, on international and national levels, but – even more significantly – for each one of us involved, on a deeply personal level. For each of us, this forms part of our identity, part of our narrative. When the stories of our lives are told, whether spoken or written, apartheid, its demise, our expectations of life after its demise and the reality that prevailed (as seen from each one’s perspective), will constitute a significant set of chapters.

I was classified as “Coloured”, under the racist apartheid system, and raised in that context, with all the joys and limitations that came with it. When I eventually decided to get married, I ended up marrying someone who’d been classified and raised as “White”. Before 1992, that marriage would not have been allowed in South Africa.

One of the many things that people from South Africa have to deal with is the baggage of apartheid. All of us who lived in SA during that era, as well as our children, have to navigate our way through some very strange waters, even now, 22 years after ’94. The baggage includes many beliefs and fears, even superstitions, after all those years of indoctrination. For example, when a ‘mixed’ couple - e.g. White-Coloured - is expecting a baby, there’s huge speculation about what the baby will look like. If the baby’s looks are more White, there are sighs of relief from certain quarters, accompanied by comments that the baby turned out well. In colloquial-speak, they say “Die kind is goedgebaster”, with “Baster” referring to a hybrid (probably more like ‘mongrel’) of sorts. The phrase is an Afrikaans one, meaning “The child is a good hybrid.” A more recent term used to describe children like these is “Top Deck”, referring to a chocolate that has a layer of white chocolate and a layer of brown chocolate. While this term is regarded as humorous, it is are not as inoffensive as one might think.

As you can imagine, I have many stories to tell, after having had two children from this ‘mixed’ marriage. 22 years later, the narrative reveals an interesting sub-plot, as my children apply for admission to tertiary institutions. The topic of identity arose, recently, around the supper table, and I was intrigued by my children’s answers. They concurred with each other that, mainly because of the schools (formerly White) they attended, their exposure was largely to that of a White culture. For me, as one of the parents who had consciously selected mixed schools, where our children would be comfortable growing up in a diverse, multi-cultural environment, this came as a surprise. Then again, talking to my daughter on a daily basis about what everyday life is like at their high school, I can see that there’s a lot more to it than “With which culture do you identify most?”, because our children are definitely growing up with a lot more exposure to people from different backgrounds than anyone of my generation (in South Africa).

(This, of course, is my personal story about my children.  For the majority of South African children, the schools they attend were set aside for Non-White people, built with inferior facilities and, in many cases, appallingly deficient in many ways.  A sad reality of post-1994 South Africa is that apartheid based on ‘race’ has largely been replaced by apartheid based on economics: when we say the best schools are open to ‘everyone’, we actually mean ‘everyone who can afford the exorbitant fees’.)   

But back to the topic. People who don’t know our family assume that my children are White, and there’s a peculiar set of responses when they discover their rainbow background. My daughter has had to deal with all kinds of reactions to schoolmates’ realisations that her mother is not White. And so began the issue of the “Coloured Mother”. It’s become a joke for us, but for many people it’s a talking point: she is a curiosity because she has a Coloured Mother, and I’m a curiosity because I am the Coloured Mother. You see school kids surreptitiously peering at me, checking out the Coloured Mother. What’s even funnier for me is that it’s not only White kids and their parents who express surprise. J  Oh, the shackles that bind us……

The thing with any family is, when you’re living your life, doing things as a family, eating together, washing the dishes, hanging out in the lounge over a game of Scrabble, you’re just a family. You’re not looking at each other all the time thinking, “Wow, you look so White and I look so Coloured”, any less than a family with a disabled member  thinks about the disability everytime they look at the person. As clichéd as it might sound, a healthily-functioning family is a nucleus of love and acceptance, of nurturing, and of joy in each other’s uniqueness. It is only when that family is looked at by outsiders that the othering and the judgement begin – “Oh my God, look at that disabled boy!” Or, in our case, “Oh my God, have you seen her Coloured mother?!”

I really hope that in my lifetime – maybe in my grandchildren’s generation? – I’ll see a different South Africa, where diversity is celebrated for the beauty that it is, and not whispered about as though it’s a shameful secret. I long for a society where what we look like is not the huge determining factor it currently is.

What can I say? I always have been, and always will be, an idealist.