moving home – 3 – and car accident


Well, we spent our first night as planned in our townhouse last Friday night, 21st June, the winter solstice.

What was not planned was a bad car accident the day before, Thursday 20th June. I’d just had my oil and water checked, the tyres filled with nitrogen, and was on my way home to check on the family and their packing. I did not see it coming; I was driving along the road I live in. It was about 11 a.m. A truck did not stop at the stop street and smacked into me flipping my car over the centre of the road into an oncoming motor cyclist who  connected with my overturned car.

I vaguely remember crawling out of it and seeing my mangled and bloodied right hand out of the corner of my eye. I gave someone my husband’s cell number and he and son Davey were there within moments. My hand was operated on for 2 hours that afternoon at my husband’s clinic and I spent the night in hospital. The movers came at 1.30 on Friday as planned and things were moved to the townhouse. Jane my housekeeper made up our beds, take out food was our supper that night. We all slept well, the quiet and silence of where we are is healing. Sunday night was the super moon.

Davey posted on FB about this event which I am sharing with you below. Also, the other evening when we were sitting around the dining room table eating proper food, he said that we have all become closer as a result of this. I expressed surprise because we are a close family anyway. He said; ‘pain sews the seeds of joy’. My good friend Monika said that maybe this crash was an outer manifestation of unacknowledged inner turmoil about the move. I went to see the orthopaedic doc this past week and stopped in at my husband’s rooms en route. Pat, one of his secretaries said; ‘I see you’ve had your wings clipped’. Susan my friend in Phoenix Az said about these times of major transitions being times when the demons have a field day.

Apart from bruises and aches all over, including my face and my hand now thoroughly stitched, pinned, plastered and bandaged, I feel alright. I haven’t had time to digest this all in the manner required but I give thanks daily, hourly, that it wasn’t worse. When strangers see my enormous bandaged hand and facial bruises and enquire and I tell, they are so sympathetic and say ‘God is great’, ‘by the grace of God’ and I feel the corpuscles around my heart area swelling a little. My WASP friends seldom mention this although they are, of course, sympathetic.

My right hand is out of action for at least 6 weeks; no driving – at this stage I have no car anyway as it is a write-off; I type with my left hand and do much else with my left hand. Who knew the left (sinister) hand could prove so beneficial. Getting dressed or undressed, bathing, brushing my teeth is difficult but not impossible. Flossing is impossible. Daily tasks are difficult. Sorting out the new townhouse is difficult.

I give thanks to G.d that it wasn’t worse. My family has been hugely supportive and helpful.

Davey’s face book message:

 Never wait for tragedy to strike before you tell someone that you love them. I could’ve easily have lost my mom in a car accident yesterday, but she survived. While she was lying on the ground next to her car which was flipped, bloodied and bruised, I told her that I love her and I prayed for her. Seems crazy that something like that had to happen for me to tell my mom how much I love her. New perspective on life!

If you enjoyed this post please consider commenting (I always respond) and sharing. Thank you.

moving home – 2



Someone said to me recently that moving home is one of the most difficult  transitions/experiences to undergo and that it ranks alongside the death of a loved one, divorce, losing a job and so on.

I wonder sometimes if I am in denial about our imminent move. Pretending to myself that it will go smoothly. And wondering if I am in denial, whether this is a form of resistance in me, in one of its more insidious forms.

There is something meaningful about my visits to the townhouse when I cart stuff from home that fits into the spacious boot of my small car when the back seats are down. I like entering the townhouse and unlocking other doors and especially going into my study to unpack books and placing them consciously and strategically in the newly installed, very large, brand new bookcase in my study to-be. The days are so bright and sunny and warm right now in spite of it being winter so the driving backwards and forwards is a pleasure. The freeze is yet to come.

I also keep on wondering how to position my study desk and drawers from home, so that all is comfortable and cosy, inspiring and conducive to creativity for me.

 It’s been rather wonderful to discover some old books like those slim ones by R.D. Laing. I remember his ‘Knots’ from when I was a young adult and how it made an impression on me; I will definitely re-read it soon and no doubt get tied up again in knots. There’s something rather special about untying knots and seeing whatever it is for what it is. I brought back home a few days ago his ‘Politics of Experience and the Bird of Paradise’ which I am currently re-reading in the bath at night. Deeply disturbing and psychologically penetrating and so apt for today’s world despite being published in the 1960’s.

I can’t say I feel stressed about the move because I don’t, not right now. I certainly feel more tired than usual and I put this down in part to the changing seasons here in South Africa, from autumn to winter. My skin is a bit grim and my erratic and appalling eating habits leave much to be desired. So maybe this is an expression of inner processes going on.

We have an indigenous herb in South Africa called impepho (do google it – it is a Zulu African Sacred plant and I am sorry I cannot yet figure out how to do a link but it is particularly interesting), which I used once before many years ago when tenants from hell in the townhouse finally moved out. It was an unbelievably stressful time over a year or two ‘dealing’ with those crooks. When finally, finally, they were out and locks were changed and all their stuff left behind was gotten rid of and the townhouse cleaned from top to bottom, side to side and inside out, I sourced impepho from an African market downtown and burnt it and let the smoke waft in and through and out. I could feel the horrible destructive negative energies leaving.

I won’t go the impepho route this time because there is no need. Our last corporate tenants loved the townhouse and its own well-tended garden and surrounding gardens in the complex and they left behind good vibrations.

I am hoping that our sons can fly up to Johannesburg and come and help with the final move on June 21st, (if that is when it is). In my fantasy I see the four of us having dinner at our new home on the longest night of the year, of bread and wine, blessing our new home and my husband’s father whose home it was until he died in it about 10 or 11 years ago. I will smudge the home with sage and ask the ancestors for safe passage for all.

All of that is looking forward in a positive way and saying hello to the new; but how will it actually be, I wonder, when I have to say goodbye to our old home. My sister is flying up from Cape Town next week and will hopefully keep me focused on the straight and narrow. I may well have a birthday lunch in the middle of next week as part of the ritual of goodbye and drinks later in the evening for those who can’t make lunch or tea or whatever I decide to do. Somehow it’s important that I do this.

That’s next week … and then the week after is the final push and pull.

moving home – from the old to the new –

photo of oak tree
photo of oak tree

This is a photo I took yesterday of the oak tree outside my front door.

I don’t know when the final moving date from our old home to our new one will be. I have in mind that it would mean something if we spent our first night in the townhouse on June 21, the shortest day, longest night of the year in the southern hemisphere. To sleep in the townhouse in our bed from our old home on June 21.

A way of bringing in a ritual – moving into our new home on the longest night of the year.

Already we are heading into June – sundown comes far sooner and sunrise much later. Our elder son Mike was here recently for 4 nights and days and helped enormously with lifting, carrying, manouevering, directing, guiding, suggesting placements of furniture with a fresh imaginative eye. Those few days have seen us using some real muscle power in carting things from our home to the townhouse. Nothing is final in terms of final placements of anything. We will not have enough cupboard space for linen, towels, blankets etc. My study is about a quarter of the size of the one I have here at home and I can’t figure out quite where to place my desk. My chaise longue will have to go into the bedroom. Much has already gone by way of auctioneers, still much to be sold privately, much to be donated.

A few friends have said to me that this is such a big thing we are doing, moving from our much loved home of 26 years to a much smaller place. They have said about loss, emotional upheaval. Because I value their concern, I wonder about this as regards my own feelings. I seem to not have any emotional upset about this imminent move, at least not now. Yes, it is true that I have little time for myself, my writing, or walking around my familiar block enjoying these beautiful autumn days.

But as my good friend Lynda said the other day, you never know until the actual event happens. As a medical doctor who has witnessed cancer in others, she never imagined it would happen to her yet would wonder sometimes how she would respond should it happen to her. It did happen to her – awfully so – and as we discussed recently, one has no idea until it actually happens to you personally. So, while there is no comparison about illness and moving, this is my sentiment about moving from the old to the new … I will wait and see, to feel how I experience this.

My gardener, Lowan, dug up some clivias and azaleas from my home and we transplanted them into the townhouse garden, while removing some plants from it and bringing them bagged, back home for any friends who may want them. There are about 60 pot plants whose fate is yet to be decided. There is something in me that wants to have something of my old garden in the new. I will have to say farewell to my secret garden at the bottom end of our garden, visible to no-one. I won’t have that at the townhouse.

Treasured books and note books, dream journals, files forever. As someone said this morning, you never clear out until you have to. I am not a hoarder yet I cannot imagine getting rid of the afore-mentioned.

Friends will be coming by in the next days to take from the garden here at home what they want. This makes me feel a bit lighter about it all, knowing that the plants will live on. I will make my own blessing on them as they leave my house hoping that they fare well in new homes.

The cats, Harry and Angie – already we think that they sense something.

Change is in the air …

a dream considered


Talmud: An unexamined dream is like an unopened letter.

I returned from Cape Town this last Monday evening after attending the Franschoek Literary Festival for 3 nights and days. Franschoek is one of the most beautiful places on  earth nestled as it is amongst imposing mountain ranges. It is about an hour drive from the Cape Town city centre. It is part of the garden route of the Cape and is famous for its wine-lands inter alia.

Before setting off for Franschoek on Thursday midday, I spent Wednesday night at my sister’s home in a suburb of Cape Town. I had taken down a pile of letters from our parents to me from a long time ago that I came across in tidying things up in preparation for our imminent move from our home to a new one here in Johannesburg. Included in this pile were a few letters from my sister to me. We each read them as if anew – they were from about 30 years ago. It was an extraordinary ‘something’ re-reading this old correspondence, hearing our long dead parents’ voices.

I spent Sunday night at her home before leaving Cape Town this last Monday to return to Johannesburg. On Monday morning, my sister told me of a dream that she had had the night before or in the early hours of the present day. It was the first dream that she recalled in a long, long time.

In her dream was a huge black dog terrorising her now dead (about a year ago) small black poodle, Pepi. The big black dog repeatedly flung Pepi into the air who would circumscribe a circle in the air, then when it got to the ground, the big black dog would catch it by its scruff and swing fling it into the air again and again and again. The big black dog was extremely cruel to the small black dog.

That Monday morning we walked for about an hour at a small dam nearby, picking up trash as is our wont in service to Mother Earth. I asked my sister if she recalled that Churchill was affected by the ‘black dog’ of depression. She did. We wondered about the dogs and about Cerebrus who in Greek and Roman mythology guarded the gates of the underworld, Hades. Sis wondered if the dog was two headed – I had forgotten this. It is often depicted as 3 headed, each head seeing the past, present and future. Other sources say the 3 headed Cerebrus represents birth, youth and old age. We talked about dogs and their domestication.

She would wander off to a part of the park where we were walking picking up trash and I would wander in another direction. We commented when we came together again, on how it is that when we traversed the same ground we had been on, coming back, we saw more trash that we hadn’t seen before. I saw the metaphor in this and said that this is how it often is in our psyches; we think that we have sorted all the trash but to our amazement there was more that we hadn’t noted before that needed attention.

The circle circumscribed by the small dog was interesting. Pepi, much loved by my sister, went round and round in never-ending circles. Round and round in circles … on top and then flung down to the bottom, again and again … the big black dog exhibiting cruelty in extremis, and enjoying it.

We came to a piece of plastic sacking, part of it sticking out of the ground. Sis said she had tried earlier to remove it but it was immovable. I yanked hard and out it came showering us with dust. She said she had stood at a particular angle when she tried. I stood in front of it and yanked. I said how interesting that was, that it is like that sometimes in real life. Sometimes we have to try different angles to get at the wound, or dig deeper and try harder.

I have no intention of joining any dots to make an analysis of my sister’s dream in this post and I did not do so with her. I am fairly certain that the re-reading of our parents’ letters and her own to me pricked something in her. I urged her to write down the dream and continue to ponder on it as an archeologist might, digging ever deeper in her search for more clues. I did say to her that she might consider what qualities of these dogs in her dream that she herself owns. And to consider the circle. And dog on top and other on bottom. One big, one small, black …to see beyond and to try to relate to the image that was speaking to her ….etc etc.  I have her permission to relate this dream.

REFLECTIONS ON A-Z blog challenge.


It was an extraordinary journey for me … very time consuming but so worthwhile. I only wish that I could have read many more posts but it was impossible. Not only responding back to those who commented on mine, but responding to theirs and checking out and commenting on my neighbours who interestingly, did not do likewise save for a few.

I am not computer savvy by any stretch of the imagination and I am sure there were easier ways of doing things. I know that the blogger ID did not work, that many looked at my posts but when that blogger ID came up it said ‘no posts found’. I could not rectify this sad to say. So my apologies if anyone was irritated.

Also, I was awarded a few awards from different sources – I had no clue how to put them up on my A-Z blog, though obviously thanked those who so kindly gave them to me. Hopefully when there is more time I can put them up.

I am not even sure that I have added the correct link to this reflections post. Which reminds me of the mess up I made right at the beginning of the A-Z; some kind soul rectified this for me at the request of my son who lives far away. My sons put up the 2 musical links in 2 of my posts, from a distance.

It was so gratifying to be a part of this. I met so many wonderful people from all parts of the world, from my home here in Johannesburg, South Africa. I so enjoyed their posts and it was a thrill to see comments on mine. I am keen to get this off now before deadline and would like to mention them all by name, but am nervous of messing it up.

My sincere thanks to all of you at the A-Z for inspiring us. Thank you thank you thank you!

And to all of us who finished it, so well done!










         Who can forget the music from the film?

Who of us has actually read the book by Nikos Kazantakis, published in 1946?

Who can forget Anthony Quinn playing Zorba, those of us old enough to have seen it? Alan Bates played Basil, the young intellectual who Zorba helps in Basil’s business venture on Crete, a large island off Greece. Who can forget the lessons in the film, that of resilience of an indomitable spirit such as Zorba’s. No matter how many times life knocked him down – ‘the full catastrophe!’ – up he got.

Much of the focus in the novel is on the law and politics in which Kazantakis was deeply interested, himself a philosopher.

In premodern Greek society, women’s status was second class. Patriarchy ruled, iron fisted, and the fact that a widow refused to re-marry incensed the men who wanted her led to her murder, honour bound as they were by their own rules and regulations, to keep shame at bay. *‘Women without husbands were viewed as worthless and shameful by both men and women’.

Basil is a young, very detached intellectual who immerses himself in a Buddha type life style in service to his soul. Not so Zorba, who lives for life, who is involved in the ‘full catastrophe’ of life with all its pain and pleasure, love and food … ALL of life is to be experienced, first hand, all the good and bad bits. He is just himself.

So, these two opposite characters who meet and connect with each other.

The April A-Z blog challenge has also been like that, many of us connecting and learning from each other. It has been an exhilarating journey for me, coming across so many talented writers, who have made me smile, laugh out loud, reflect, and be in awe. I am indebted even for the many distractions which had me reading previous posts or following a link supplied. I am full of admiration for so many, from whom I have learned much. To those who have shared the meaning of words and how to use them to build up characters in writing, I am indebted. Animals stories …There are so many: Barbara, 2 Elizabeth’s, Patricia, Sherrey, Kern, Kristen, Ida, too many to mention … and Damyanti, popping in to give us encouragement to go the long haul.

It has been so gratifying to receive comments on my own blog and I thank you all for taking the time to do so. I learned so much from those comments!

A few quotes from Zorba:

“I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else.”

“God changes his appearance every second. Blessed is the man who can recognise him in all his disguises.”

“Every man has his folly, but the greatest folly of all … is not to have one.”

* Barbra Dillon, Managing Editor, Fanboy Comics, 28 March 2011.




There’s something so simple and yet so complex about yoga. I’m in awe of those who hold  tree poses with apparent ease, perfectly aligned, with one foot resting against the other inner knee, knee turned outward, hands in the prayer position and then they raise arms high, bring them down again, and change legs.

The head stand: arms in triangle on the floor, forehead on ground, then in one fluid moment, legs up and body in one straight line, perfectly inverted.

My late mother was a yoga teacher. She took up yoga when diagnosed at around age 45 that she was likely to be wheelchair-bound because of a particular medical condition. Not acceptable to my mother. For many years she studied under the best teachers and then she began her own yoga teaching practice. So many years ago it was considered rather esoteric and odd. The results of her yoga teaching were remarkable; so much so that medical doctors began referring patients to her. I have several letters in a file I have on my mother from GP’s and specialists who referred their patients to her and reported back that ‘Mrs so and so seems much improved’. And dozens more from grateful pupils who found this time out in her studio to fill ‘..a much needed place in modern life’ (1969). Another: ‘…I couldn’t walk far…lack of breath…especially your breathing exercises…you said to me it was a challenge to overcome…I haven’t had a single asthmatic wheeze or tightening of breath…’. ‘I…my limbs feel as if they’re becoming firmer’.

She was a practitioner of Hatha Yoga. ‘Ha’ means Sun, ‘Tha’ means Moon I gather. Her yoga teaching involved holding the posture with breathing exercises. Do you know that most of us don’t breath correctly? When you breath IN, it is like filling a balloon with air so the tummy rises. When you let the ballon deflate, it is the same when you breath OUT; the tummy deflates.

She also taught pro bono at homes for the elderly. Many of these patients in their 80’s and 90’s were able to leave their wheelchairs and walk unaided; I have press releases that show them doing the shoulder stand! (Though head stands and shoulder stands were postures that my mother alllowed only after a few years of regular yoga). And dozens of testimonies from grateful patients who said goodbye to their e.g. asthma inhalers.

Letters from mothers who very successfully delivered their babies , one of whose doctors gave her ‘…101% for my performance and it was all due to you’.

The relaxation at the end of class would be my mother’s voice instructing her pupils to feel the breathing, from the tips of our toes to the crowns of our heads, stretch, stretch in between, sinking into our mats, further, deeper, letting go, relaxing, relaxing until we were almost comatose. This would be followed by a recording of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata Movement One – blissed in and out –

I am listening to it as I write. If I could embed it and share it I would, but neither of my sons is available right now to help me with this telephonically.

It’s never too late to take up yoga.

X: Xenophobia



We know that xenophobia refers to fear of the other, fear of the foreigner. Here in South Africa where I live, xenophobic attacks occur. Sometimes small scale, sometimes large scale. Irrespective of race, colour or creed, we are shocked to see such violence perpetrated on other human beings, sharing the same living space.

What is it that is instrumental in our own people here in South Africa burning down the Somali’s shop and livelihood, the Zimbabwean doctor’s rooms.

I wondered about xenophobia, fear of the other, fear of the foreigner, the stranger amidst us. Such irrational and dehumanising acts of violence against those who have caused no harm and who provide a service to the community.

What is it that causes inter alia The Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust, Rwanda, Cambodia.

Could we be xenophobic toward ourselves using the above definition? Could we take this from the macro to the micro level? It’s a bit of a leap, but why not?

On the personal micro level, we too have that shadow lurking within who we do not want to acknowledge. That shadow that belongs to us and is as real as the shadow we see on the ground when the sun is shining. And even when it’s not. That repressed inner other to which we pay scant attention. Those parts of ourselves that we don’t want to own and that we project out onto the other. And if not actually onto the other, then in some form of self destruction towards our own selves as in e.g. eating disorders, drugs, alcoholism in our attempts to fill an empty space.

Could we bring our own mostly unconscious shadow – ‘the thing a person has no wish to be’ *- out in to the open, without doing harm to another? Can the shadow live side by side with our waking lives, in a peaceful way? Can what we perceive to be the demon within be our daemon if we befriend it and use it’s endless, renewal resource as we come to know ourselves better? Can the simple art of listening for the inner call, change our habituated pattern of perception? Can we break the pattern of fearing the stranger within?

As our perceptions change, so too does our reality. Gold can be extracted from the dark.

Can we play our small part in preventing xenophobia? 

 This is a quote by Albert Schweitzer, medical missionary who established a medical facility in a jungle village Lambarene, Gabon. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952.

‘You know of the disease in Central Africa called sleeping sickness. There also exists a sleeping sickness of the soul. Its most dangerous aspect is that one is unaware of its coming. That is why you have to be careful. As soon as you notice the slightest sign of indifference, the moment you become aware of the loss of a certain seriousness, of longing, of enthusiasm and zest, take it as a warning. You should realise that your soul suffers if you live superficially’.

Today is “Freedom Day” here in South Africa, the day Mr. Nelson Mandela was elected in our first democratically held elections, in 1994.

Song below is The Kiffness ‘Never Again’ and uses voice samples of Mr. Mandela in this pumping vibrant piece of music, made by my son David Scott in honour of Mr. Mandela.

 * C.G. Jung

W : WHY?

                  W: WHY?



My late father told me a story a long time ago from a long time ago. He was a Rhodes scholar selected from his school in Cape Town in the early 1930’s. At that time, Rhodes scholars at Oxford typically read PPE, Philosophy, Politics and Economics. They were sitting their Philosophy exam in Brasenose College. The exam paper was put before them. On it was one question.


I remember my father saying that the students were writing away furiously, filling up their papers with all sorts of explanatory answers within the 3 hours allocated. One student thought for about 5 minutes, wrote down his answer in a second or two, lay down his pen and left the examination room. His answer was –

Why not?

That pupil got full marks.

Well, I think it’s a lovely story and something I think about from time to time in one way or another. It expresses a deeply interesting philosophical, if perplexing question. It requires a sort of justification or explanation as to e.g. why did this happen? – and to further questioning e.g. what is the cause of this? What is the meaning behind this? How can I understand this? Why me? I think of Job remaining steadfast in his wrestling with God.

The whirlpool of why’s are never ending, and yet I believe it is important to never stop asking why. We may never have any final answers to our questions much as we want them. The answers remain a mystery and perhaps sometimes this is how it should be.

In a previous post, my friend on the Internet, Van, commented last night on my ‘Tree’ post, 3 back. I have his permission to quote him. He wrote that squirrels bury the Oak’s ‘…acorns in the ground in order to have food in the winter. But they never go back to get them all. In fact, most of those acorns hidden in the ground have a better chance of becoming oak trees than dinner for a squirrel. Maybe the squirrels can remind mankind of a way long forgotten before it became practice to consume more than what is replenished. Besides conservation, the squirrels and the oak trees offer to teach us the value of cooperation’.

Can we learn something of value from this? Why not? But I am asking this question in a positive if rhetorical way ie. why not observe and reflect on all we observe all about us. See the reflection in the mirror, in a lake of the trees, the birds, the sky, ourselves. Why not learn from our relationships? Why does the same pattern keep on repeating itself? Why not keeping on asking those questions, why? and why not?




light in the darkness


*And no, my post is not on ‘vacuum cleaner’ – (which works on the vacuum principle but pardon me if I don’t go any further on this).

This morning driving home from teaching reading for pupils (for those who need assistance) at a primary school, I was going through in my head about words beginning with “V” followed by a e i o u. I thought variously of ‘vacillate’; ‘vexation’; ‘vicarious violence’; ‘voice’; ‘vulture’. I felt in a vacuum, vacuously wondering –

And while driving, I realised that a vacuum may occur when the A-Z is over. 

Natura vacuum abhorret. Nature abhors a vacuum. I may find myself living in an existential vacuum at least for a while. Not for a moment will I have nothing to do; all those many other activities that have been neglected will come to the fore; packing to move into the townhouse (vacating our 26 years here in our lovely old home); maybe vacuum packing precious glassware; my own writing and much more. Maybe I’ll be able to provide a decent supper for my hard working husband on the odd occasion – veal as a treat?

‘Vacuum’ is defined as a region of space in which there is no matter, there is nothing.

Viktor Frankl writes on the ‘existential vacuum’. He posits that when we as individuals sense a vacuum in our lives, we ensure that we have stuff to do to fill it up which will provide ‘satisfaction’. Anything that keeps that vacuum-filled feeling at bay, an emptiness within, a sense of futility, we will find a way to fill it. We know in what way we fill it. A compulsion to passivity e.g.TV where violence real or otherwise is played out on the screen and from which we derive a vicarious pleasure because it is not us; conformity from a fear of being just ourselves; over eating. We vacuum up everything we can. We suck it up, faster, better, brighter. In some societies, where the government of the day is not fulfilling their promises to the population, people may find themselves living in a vacuum where nothing is happening. They may align themselves to a fundamental sect, right or left, to give their lives meaning, thus filling the vacuum.

Naomi Klein: ‘Politics hates a vacuum. If it isn’t filled with hope, someone will fill it with fear.’

Desmond Tutu our own recent past Archbishop and Nobel Peace Prize winner: ‘I am a leader by default, only because nature does not allow a vacuum’.

I often find myself in a vacuum when I try to create with words. My mind feels vacuum-filled. I imagine others who create with different media e.g. paint, canvas, chisel, block, film feel similarly. The screen or canvas or the instruments remain motionless and nothing comes.

Yet, somehow the voice comes and out of the nothing all is contained.

*Sophia Loren: Spaghetti can be eaten most successfully if you inhale it like a vacuum cleaner.




Oscar Wilde: To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.

A compliment, a gift, a phone call from a long lost friend or relative (just as you were thinking briefly of them); a powerful piece of piercing prose that unexpectedly punches you in the paunch; bright sunlight after dreary days of downpour; a note of appreciation from someone least expected; finding money thought lost in the most unexpected place possible; all these events seem to happen out of nowhere.

Happy instances of the unexpected.

A novel, or a fairy tale, where the wind or seemingly callous creature guides the hapless sojourner and against all odds, all is well. Roald Dahl’s unexpected twists and turns in his writings that has us on edge, wondering what next? (Actually, now that I think about it, a book of his is called ‘Tales of the Unexpected’). A dream that was thoroughly unexpected – they usually are – perhaps disturbing, maybe comforting. Scientists arriving at unexpected results when researching, opening up other ‘avenues’; artists seeing the unexpected happen as they craft – going places in their work not originally imagined –

An unexpected pregnancy when all else has failed. Unexpectedly falling in love with the person least imagined. Making unexpected and unplanned for friendships over the Internet, as in this A-Z April blog challenge. Receiving nominations for awards from them which was so unexpected and for which I am grateful thank you!

All this is light and bright, and things seem to work in our favour, giving life extra flavour.

So many times though, we’re ambushed when the totally unexpected happens. It comes out and under from left field, a curve ball, urgently smacking us hard in the face.

Later: 12 noon

I drafted the above this morning. I had an 10.00 a.m. appointment with my husband’s 91 yr old aunt this morning, so off I went to her retirement village a way away with a gift of a pot of tulips (the buds tightly closed and of a crimson hue) and a small bar of her favourite nougat. The sun was not shining, it was cold and overcast.  I entered the front door, another woman the back door. Granny Barbie was dozing in her arm chair. I placed the small pot of tulips on a side table next to her. Mary and I introduced ourselves to each other and we gently woke Barbie.

Mary was an extraordinary woman, small, white haired, bright blue eyes and she held me captivated as we talked about all sorts of things. Somehow we talked of soul and the holy spirit (I think she is a lay pastor), the Bible, contemporary books on the Bible, Israel and ancient biblical stories, her upcoming trip to Iceland on a cruise with her cousin in Kent UK.

I felt my blood cells expanding as we talked, my heart opening in conversation with this erudite, ageless woman. All of a sudden she said: look at those tulips – they were opening up as we talked. From being tightly closed, they were opening. A ray of sun came through the windows. I felt a shift within me, the synchronicity to me was extraordinary. I said to Mary as such, and that this was a manifestation of something entirely unexpected and that it was a good feeling.

So, for me, an entirely unexpected meeting with Mary … and I’m so glad it happened.


                                                                T:TREEDSCN0617 A2Z-2013-BADGE-001Small_zps669396f9
The picture on the right is one I took late yesterday afternoon. My friend Jan helped me put it on my computer last night at the meeting that we had here at my home, so my thanks go to him. It is an oak, some say alba oak (white oak), some say black oak, others have identified it as another type of oak.
I don’t know how old it is, I imagine 100 years. It is huge, in terms of its width, 23 paces.
It is outside our front door, though the picture I took is from another angle. You can see all the leaves that are being shed – autumn here in South Africa, winter fast approaching. I wrote about our imminent move from our lovely home for the ‘C’ letter, and now that day is coming closer.
The estate agent, buyer and his 2 architects came by last Friday a.m. It was a dreadful morning, cold, raining. I knew that this would be my opportunity to find out what the buyers’ plans were – to bash down the house, build townhouses? But what about the tree? This was my biggest concern.
I had a fantasy of chaining myself to the tree, when they came at 11.00, but frankly, it was too darned cold and wet. Instead, I made a huge sign on red paper and attached it to the tree just before they came; thankfully it had stopped pouring. The sign said:
I am an old oak
Please may I stay
I will protect you
Thank you
I was the happiest person when assured over and over that the tree was staying and that one of the reasons Eugene and his partner bought the house was because of the Tree. They’re bashing down the house down and rebuilding it – and now that I think about it, it’s the same sort of thing we did with my husband’s late father’s townhouse, the one that we’ll be moving to.
So, The Tree: standing tall, like a sentry, guarding and protecting, its branches spreading wide, enduring weather, always regenerating, a symbol of strength.
I like the further symbolism of the Tree – ‘…its connection with the three levels of the cosmos – the Underworld through its roots burrowing deep into the soil; the Earth’s surface with their trunk and lower branches; the Heavens with their upper branches and top, reaching up to the height’.* So the connection is there with the upper and lower and in-between.
And of course, the two trees in the Garden of Eden, the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. And Yggdrasil, in Norse Mythology is the World Tree, where the gods lived. Isis, the tree goddess..
I’ll be picking up an acorn or two to plant in a pot at the townhouse as a symbolic gesture, at Jan’s excellent suggestion.
*The Penguin Dictionary of Symbols: Jean Chevalier & Alain Gheerbrant

view from my study Oct 2012

 This is a photo of trees from my study …




moon on water


Soul sinks. Spirit soars.

Soul resides in the depths, spirit in the heights.

Different images of these words.

If we use the ordinary language of logic and law in trying to define what each means, we lose the essence of these image laden words. Let’s look at them metaphorically and imaginatively and hopefully get a better sense of why they initially need separation; and if they can both work together.

Soul does not attempt to escape the grittiness and hardships of life. Spirit seeks to transcend them and rise above them. Soul resides in the psyche in each individual though  there are times when call a person soul-less. ‘S/he has no soul’. Spirit is formless, impersonal, abstract, the breath (pneuma) of God given to each of us from the moment of birth yet is always above and overshadowing us.

Soul resides in the vales (valleys), in the deep ground of our being. It is the raw material, the experiences we have on a daily basis, both good and not so good. It is in the blood, sweat and tears of everyday life, the precious salt of life, the dark of life, the depths, the swamps – the cooking, crooked, circular complexities of our being in e.g. relationships or on our own. It says yes: it is this and it is that also and all belong. Transformation happens in soul work, the deeper we go.

People who seek spiritual enlightenment very often seek them in the highest altitudes, those peaks where the light is bright and piercing. Illuminating? Often it is a solitary journey, leaving the soul behind, in ascent of spirit. It is usually goal oriented, seeking inspiration, absolute truth, yearning to be inspirited in those distant, superior lofty heights. The linear approach to spirit says: it is this and not that.

Is there a middle position between the two?

Do we experience soul in the world, and is spirit a split off from the soul? Can they be reconciled? It is of immense value to have a spiritual vision, one of divine perfection. But this is an ideal, and is not necessarily ‘of the world’, this world in which we live. Can they be metaphorically, mystically married? Can the one animate the other? Can each feed into the other using our gift of imagination to bring these two closer together?

John Keats: (In letters to his sister Georgiana) “Call the world, if you please, the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world”.

I am indebted to the work of Carl Jung, James Hillman and Thomas Moore for the elucidation of soul and spirit.
And – I am adding this 7 hours after posting it, that both north and south stars are lodestars that are guiding lights and show the ‘way’.














OT: Psalms 118 vs 22 “The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone’’.

Our history is littered with events of overt rejection and repression that are clearly recognizable and with which we are familiar. The ‘other’ is too often rejected and repressed, or resisted against.

But what of less clearly recognizable ‘events’ of, and in, the psyche? Those more covert ways in which we reject others, or we reject what we don’t like in ourselves and thus seek to repress them? Or we resist asking ourselves what role we played in situations that did not work out. Are we even aware of these dynamics repeatedly going on, in ourselves and towards others?

Anything that is rejected, repressed and resisted within ourselves, or without, or simply buried in the hopes that it will never be unearthed, will always find a way out, in fateful manner, for good or ill. That which has been banished will always return, albeit in a different guise in its natural bid for expression (e.g. Lilith in guise of serpent in the Garden of Eden).

We know that sometimes our illness is psychosomatic, e.g. raised blood pressure, a skin rash, a dark mood, a stomachache or worse. This may be the result of denied and unexpressed feelings of rage and anger, even towards our most beloved.

What are we to do with these unexpressed dark, unhappy emotions? Those highly charged emotions are meant to disturb us and are valuable for that very reason – they want our attention; they want to be recognized for what they are and not lie festering in unreachable places. They want to brought out into the open and reconciled with ourselves in some constructive way.

Too often, we project onto the ‘other’, though the ‘other’ may well be the ‘other’ in you, which requires a willingness to step into those disowned and unknown parts of ourselves. Hard work, yes. And if we are still under the yoke of our patriarchal conditioning, it is quite possible that we unconsciously fear that any questioning or displays of anger or disagreement may result in a punishment, rejection and banishment similar to that meted out to Lilith and Eve.

So, we need courage – to not resist getting to know ourselves better, to not repress what rightfully belongs, and not reject the cornerstone. If we can dig, and dig some more, into the reaches of our psyches, we may find the treasure or the Philosopher’s Stone that resides there.

If one does not reject, repress and resist what we are, and rather considers it in a new way, using the skills of differentiation, discrimination and discernment, one may change one’s thinking and feeling about the situation – in the inner and outer – and ponder it anew.

Don’t ignore what seems to be irrational. Give them their due. Be responsible for yourself. Reality is freeing. Illusions keep us bound.



%d bloggers like this: