The Music of Life

This morning, with the scent of rain still just a promise in the air, my ears picked up a sound. In a house where silence is a rare commodity, this should not come as a surprise. But this was not a sound which I could identify. The soundtrack of our daily life has become so familiar to me that I can recognise the creaks and groans of individual floorboards, the sighs of the tin roof in different patches. But this was not a sound I could own. "What was that?" I asked my boys. The oldest of the two, with a spread of his expressive hands answered without hesitating: "It is the music of life". Somehow, the origin of the sound no longer seemed important or threatening. In his characteristically elaborate manner, our son captivated the moment and changed it into something grand and light.

I have always preferred the score of my own life to be "a capriccio" (A free and capricious approach to tempo). In other words: I set the tempo, determine the pace. Most often leaning towards the more "adagietto" (slow and gentle) movements. Especially since "half a century" now equates to the length of my own existence... Our two lively children have somewhat changed this tempo to an "accelerando", which still leaves me breathless at times. But whatever the tempo or key, the execution of our symphony is no longer "ad libitum" (the speed and manner left to the performer).

Music has been a part of my life for as long as I remember. My mother had a beautiful alto voice. She could pick up the harmony to a song quite effortlessly, and the three woman of our household often sang as we washed up after supper. Mamma with her hands in the soap-suds, while my sister and I dried and packed away with light hearts. My two brothers played the trumpet and french horn respectively, and my father had a cherished collection of vinyl records in a cupboard in the sitting room. These were brought out on Saturday evenings or Sunday nights and tenderly placed on the record player with work-worn hands. We attended concerts in the city hall, sinking into deep, musty smelling seats. Rapt and absorbed by the music washing over us, drawn together in the darkness. Televised recordings of symphony orchestras, performing in awe-inspiring cathedrals, opera, chamber music. An impressionable young girl was transported to an era of both grandeur and simplicity. There was a squeaky electric organ next to the front door of our home. I was to receive music lessons from a diminutive, rodent-faced lady. It went awry. I disliked the restrictions and discipline, the humdrum of scales and the unimaginative childish "tunes" I was forced to learn. "My Grandfather's Clock" still evokes images of a wooden ruler rapping away a four count beat on that poor instrument. I was bored and the ruler was dismissed. But it did not diminish my enchantment. It simply meant that I did not need to excel, sit exams or win prizes. I could just be an open-mouthed audience of one, not yet aware of my part in the grandest symphony of all time.

Over the years, I have often reached for a favourite recording to lift me from a sombre mood. To ease the burden of sorrow, or simply to fill the empty silence. To celebrate the beginning of a new day, or to accompany an urge to twirl and shimmy until beads of sweat trickled down my back. Music was an indulgence, an undemanding friend. Like a much loved book or film, waiting to be called on when the moment called for it. It served unassumingly to bring friends together, to play in the pit while my life took center stage. As a secondary school pupil, I often took the bus into "town" after school. Two streets below Church square - at the back of a drafty arcade, was a - crammed to the ceiling, poster pasted, glass fronted, musty record shop with a grand name. Universitas. For a while, it was like an unexplored, miniature universe to me. You had to walk through Uniewinkels (now John Orrs I think) to reach it. To enter it was to slip into the reverence of a music library. I'd tiptoe on scuffed Bata toughees past other customers, each encased in their own sound bubble. Large unwieldy headphones clasped to their ears. Then I'd sidle up to the counter with my clumsy leather schoolbag on my back, and ask if I could listen to a particular record. It was a time of escaping, discovering and being found in the undemanding embrace of world music. I became a mental traveller, a traverser of borders, without so much as moving a limb.

Friendships were often formed and cultivated on the basis of whether the person in question liked the same music as I did. Naively, I believed that these "connections" had to be authentic, sincere. The biggest shock came when a friend of a friend became "born again"; and on the next day, dumped his whole music collection in the dustbin. We had always been "good", church-going folk, but no one had ever told me that we were only allowed to listen to sacred or worship music, and that the rest would all lead to sin and waywardness. At first I scorned the whole notion of having to give up anything in order to be a "good" Christian. But this is an entirely different subject, which I'd rather not venture into at this point. But having said that, in my own experience, when your focus as a Christian is on Christ, the "things" that no longer belong, leave you.

There have since been a few unfortunate recordings burnt, some given away and some simply "outgrown". Some of these convictions grew from feelings of guilt. Some were sincere and the "cleansing" process has made way for more freeing discoveries. The discovery that all around me there is a continuous symphony of worship, which never ceases, regardless of what I like to (or feel that I should) listen to. There is an incident recalled in the bible, where Jesus was coming down the Mount of Olives and the whole multitude of his disciples began to rejoice and praise God with their voices lifted high. The Pharisees told Jesus to rebuke them. And he answered with these amazing words: "I tell you, if these (his followers) were silent, the very stones would cry out!" In Isaiah there is this beautiful promise: "For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." The Psalmist writes: "Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens; praise him in the heights! Praise him, all his angels; praise him, all his hosts! Praise him, sun and moon, praise him, all you shining stars! Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens!" Can we then assume that we alone, have been given the ability/gift to worship our Creator, or that He demands a specific genre of music to bring glory to his name?

Music has emotional weight. We may "feel" overwhelmed by a particular hymn or song of worship, and mistake it for a sure connection with the heart of God. But then Maria Callas sings "Nessun Dorma" and the same feeling sweeps over me... I am becoming convinced that we do not sing to worship God. We worship God and therefore we sing (or dance or play music). Everything in this vast universe does. Galaxies of stars and planets, the creatures of the sea, all of creation praises Him. Each bloom that opens with tender beauty or extravagant depth of colour does so with the same purpose. To join in the unimaginable symphony, in honour of our God. I may just be the piccolo or the triangle, but oh boy, when it comes to my part, I want to do it with all of me! Whether it is with song or dance or simply in silent awe of the God that gave the gift or genius of music to man.

Quite recently we attended a morning soiree in a friend's house. The musician was also a teacher and unashamed lover of music, across a broad spectrum of genres and styles. He was not a master of any of the instruments he played, but he played and sang with so much heart and understanding, that it truly did not matter. It was intimate and interactive, and we all walked away from it feeling uplifted and richer. I remember him saying that what he particularly loved about African music, is that it was not necessarily the perfection of the execution, but the participation that mattered among the tribes of our beautiful land.

I think we can take a "note" from that approach when we "make a joyful noise unto the Lord". So take up your lyre, your harp, your bugle or your "blik kitaar". (Guitar made out of tin). But join in. Ad libitum. Bravura (boldly) or gentile (gently). Facile (without fuss) or fuocusso (passionately). However, whenever. But do not miss the cabaletta - the concluding, rapid, audience-rousing part of the aria, which with a bold trumpet call; will announce the arrival of the Bridegroom.

May we each be a "singing" bride.

Weighing Words

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
Sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. ~ Proverbs 16:24

Magnified scale from a butterfly wing

I step outside into the sting of wet wind - to collect a crateful of wood for the hissing fire. Two crows cross the weeping skies, etched briefly for me to watch their melancholy flight. Towards the forest, our "wolf" stretches his neck, and a howl, purer than silver light, flows over the veiled landscape. The lonely beauty of birches, bent wetly towards the earth, the stillness under fallen leaves and stones. Air crisp and sharp into the mulled corners of my mind. It is all strangely inviting. But the pull towards my children's voices, this warm contented chaos of home and belonging, is always stronger. Board and hearth. A lusty life of foraging and feeding, scolding and warning one second, helpless with laughter the next.

Just recently, a small child, unwittingly cruel in his observations, declared us to be "poor". Our youngest son came to me with this word, not sure how to weigh it in his small hand. He knew that from his friend's mouth,  it did not sound like a good thing to be. But he knows enough to declare in his own words, that to him, we have everything he could wish for. "We all use different ways of measuring", I told him. When we place what we have on the scale, it sighs heavily. There are riches that can and will not be displayed or compared. But it is our words that we need to weigh with care.

No word in itself can be wicked.  It is the way words are intended or perceived that turn them into an acid that collects in the ears, or a sweet libation - both seeping downward, irretrievable. The "weight" of our words may be a blessing for some, a burden to others. Their value may be used for an unintended gain, their meaning for an unintended purpose.

Luke, (the physician from the Bible, not our son...) wrote that out of the overflow of a man's heart his mouth speaks. We tend to perceive the heart as the seat of emotions and feelings. But the Biblical word “heart”, denotes the inner aspect of a person, consisting of three inseparable parts:

1) The primary part, the mental process, which is where action and reaction take place, and which is to lead a person in life.
2) Emotions, which process reaction, like the frosting which enriches our lives.
3) Will, the seat of the will (discretionary, volitional, decision-making) where decisions are made between the rational and the emotive.

That is why it is not so easy to divide humans into the physical and metaphysical. For me, speaking "from the heart" can not only be emotive. (For this we could use those cute emoticons on social media). Speaking pure words from the heart has to be a mental, emotional and rational process. Brought together in harmony by the Spirit of Christ, sealed into my heart and guiding me in all things.

For someone who has had a love affair with words for as long as I can remember - words have the ability to defy gravity and give flight. They pirouette and strut through my mind, almost never letting up. As they align for a synchronised dance, I am all too easily swept away. Surrounding noises blur and blend, like the hum of our fridge on wooden floorboards. I can taste them, smell their sharp or subtle perfumes, see their colour, shape and texture so tantalisingly near. They are the food and spice of day-dreams, the distraction from duties, the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down.

But there have been other words, which have long been forgiven, even forgotten perhaps. But at an unguarded moment - a conversation, phrase or word washes up. It lies there, staring accusingly with milky, dead fish eyes. I stare - knowing that I shouldn't. But it is too late. The rotting smell of an ancient hurt is suddenly as vivid as the sun.

The human tongue is a beast, which few can master. I am learning that it is always safer guarded, than given reign. Exactly when I have felt most confident about voicing my own opinions or (perceived) clever arguments, have I ended up with a hefty slice of humble pie on my plate and an apology for desert.

On a merry tour of the Western Cape's finest wine farms, I once stepped into a cellar, lined with rows of softly glowing vats. The winemaker was moving unhurriedly through his underground domain. Dwarfed by barrels, stacked in grandiose symmetry. A velvety mole content in his dusky tunnel. When he finally noticed my presence, he became animated and agile, ready to verse and immerse the stranger into his world. I have forgotten much of the knowledge he shared that day. But when I thought about the flavour and quality of our words - the analogy of good wine from prime oak barrels came to mind. Oak is used in viticulture (the clever word for producing wine) to vary the colour, flavor, tannin profile and texture of wine. Back in the glare of day-light, piled high as a barren mountain, were the discarded vats. Dried out by the elements - no longer of use, except to pose as tavern tables or vain decorations. (Like most analogies or theories - this one is by no means water- /wine-proof... but it hopefully serves to get at least a part of the message across.)

Having said all that - words that have flown off an unchecked tongue, or have been written from an unguarded and -guided "heart", still only have the power to wound when or if I take them in. The same heart, the seat of the will, gives me the choice and discernment to discard these words, should they be false. Or to try and see the wounded place that they came from with compassion. I could have saved myself a lot of anguish and even bitterness, had I learnt this lesson earlier in life...

My two boys are masters at turning my angry retorts into a meltdown of affection. This day began as one of those typical shivery Autumn mornings in the mountains. Calling for fire and caffeine to get the bones going. Being a woman, I am supposed to be able to multitask quite efficiently. But I think I push this a bit at times. With the milk heating on the gas for a batch of yogurt, I packed the fire, checked my Whatsapp messages, tried to end the quarrel behind my back, while sipping from a steaming cuppa by my side. Halfway through the kindling, there was a request for a soap bubble mix. So I blew on the fire - which sent ash flying all over the rug - and got up with a groan and a grunt. I hunted the cupboard for an empty spice-bottle in which to pour the "bubble mix". Half-way through this distraction, the milk, which is supposed to be brought gently to the point just prior to boiling, bubbled over with hissing abandon. Deep breath. (The guard was still at his post at this point). I handed over the bubble mix and pointed mutely towards the door. Halfway through the mopping up process I heard a crash. I tripped over a discarded gumboot on the doorstep, skidded on the spilled bubble-mix and let rip. (The guard fled in terror...) Stupefied stares. At this point, the "let's woo this ogre back to the woman who is our mother" look passed between them. With pouting lips and tear-bright eyes the words tumbled out like a jet of foam on the wicked witch's fire: "I am the baddest boy in the whole, whole world! Just send me away (sniff). You do so much for us and I can't do anything right..." If you have ever seen what happens to a snail when you pour salt on it - this is what followed. The fury simply dissolved, just leaving a guilt stain and a harmless shell.

So - we are born with it, this ability to placate or manipulate. Words being only one of the tools in the armoury. And as the vocabulary grows, so does the skill. We refer to smooth talkers as having "the gift of the gab". A talent for verbal fluency, especially the ability to talk persuasively. This aptitude can be used in speech or writing, and we are often won over by (or tempted to use) both. At times I have re-read some of what that I have written over the years and been horrified by the pompous tone or pretentiousness of my words. Or amazed at the grace that sparkles in them - hardly remembering them to be my own.

This morning while I was searching for something on "Google" - I found this honest little poem. In an instant - I could feel and remember the same choking feeling of sadness and the same relief from wordless gestures of surrender and love.

Missing my old life ~ Nikki Grimes

Some days
sad is a word
I can't swallow.
It swells inside my throat
until it's stuck.
I hurry home from school
and beat Mom there.
The second she arrives,
I crawl onto her lap
like when I was little.
She holds me, quiet,
and strokes my hair.
I stay there
til the sadness shrinks
and I can breathe again.

There is much which will always remain beyond words. There is a saying about being a witness for Christ: "Preach the Gospel at all times, and if necessary use words." But when words are called for, in any circumstance - I would want them to be words with wings. This includes my thoughts - for this can be the place were words are born or borne. Words given flight and life by the the Holy Spirit, who guards and guides the whole heart. Or words that, unweighed - tumble in ragged spirals toward an inevitable fall. Sometimes, when I am grappling for the right word or words - I try to compare the concept, with a substance or a melody, a colour, an emotion or scent. Or a place in time, when I remember feeling what I want to express. But the words which soar the highest and longest, come from a place far beyond substance or sense and sensibility. Received straight from the honeycomb, these can truly be sweetness to the soul, health to the bones. Life to a drowning man.

Forgotten Fatherhood

"The Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in."

~ Proverbs 3: 11-12

Much has been said and sung about Motherhood. And rightly so. It is a noble vocation, natural calling and privilege, as well as a life changing shift in a woman's life. That does not imply that woman who have not had, or do not want to have babies, have missed their essential calling. Women fulfil many roles, motherhood being just one of them.

Seven and a half years ago, my life was catapulted from a predictable, fairly self indulgent routine, into the chaos and wonder of "motherhood". I should really make that "our" lives, since I know a father's existence is also turned inside out, even if it is less visible. I have since been tried, enchanted, stretched, surprised, exhausted and exhilarated by it. I have to check myself not to bore other people with ongoing anecdotes about life with our funny, resourceful, adorable boys. So - having said all that, I checked myself once again this morning. I woke up thinking that I'd really love to write about all that I've learnt from being a mother, for what has passed in a wink, but contains the complexity and riches of a lifetime.

Words like motherhood or motherly, sisterhood or sorority, lay lightly on your tongue. To most of us, they represent kindness, gentleness, nurturing and forbearance.

But stepping away from this oestrogen filled world of milk and vanilla, there is another rather unlauded "world" (or is it a planet?), which has often been overlooked. Fatherhood. ("Hood - A substantive suffix denoting a condition or state of being").  Not being a father, and not having had the luxury to interview a host of fathers, to probe their inner thoughts and feelings, (though most would probably be loath to reveal too much if I did) - I shall have to rely on a bit of research, perceptions and my own witness of fathers in action.

Unlike the feminine opposite - "brotherhood" or fraternity tends to make us think of secret societies, men with white pointy hats and cloaks, or solemn hooded figures chanting in a cloister. The men in dark suits in a hushed church congregation. A true "brotherhood of believers" among men who know and follow Jesus, is beautiful to witness. And there may be many examples of positive brotherhood, but that is a different subject.

But what about father, fatherhood or fatherly? Nervous pacings outside the maternity ward? Camping and fishing trips? The ominous threat at the end of the day when you've been naughty? The one who frowns over stacks of bills and overdue payments? The man who leaves home before dawn and returns tired and drained at the end of a long working day? The guy with whom you rough and tumble, who shows you how to kick ball and aim a mean left hook? Who sends your boyfriends scurrying? Or is it the greying man who sits opposite you when you down your first beer, or possessively grips your arm on the way to the altar....

These may be some memories of my father. But I would dare to say that the face of fatherhood has undergone a quiet revolution. Although still much unlauded, they are often the silent (or is it dumb-struck) ones who "bear" their women giving birth. They wipe, rub, hold, support and lift. They endure the groans (or screams), the whole passionate blood and guts experience of a baby tearing its way into the world. They watch with obvious conflicting emotions, as the women they love, pitch and roll with the tides of labour. Wanting so much to take the pain away, and at the same time in awe of the emerging miracle which God has been forming in secret. They ferry little ones to creches and doctor's rooms and sing lullabies and untangle Barbie's hair. (all right - maybe that's pushing it a little...) But you get the picture.

I found some interesting accounts of  how men experienced their wives giving birth. Spontaneous crying, a "monsoon of tears", is something many new fathers seem to encounter. Most men say they felt so proud of their spouses, and amazed by what a woman's body can endure. Some are horrified, stupefied, nauseated, shocked. But the sense that they have witnessed something mysterious and beyond real understanding, seems to be the silver strand that threads these moments together. I have chosen a few quotes from the horse's mouth, which I found to be touching or amusing:

  "Watching my wife bring our son into the world, and consequently, his birth, was one of the most stunning, ineffably beautiful things I've ever seen. I have a hard time understanding why men would look away or find it harmful to their romantic relationship later on. Women are human transformers, and childbirth is without doubt one of the best examples of this fact. I always tell people they can delete photos and footage, but they can never go back in time to recreate it. Trust me, now or later, you'll want that experience captured. It's the moment your whole life changed irrevocably."

   "I used to look at parking spaces and wonder if I could squeeze my SUV between a badly parked station waggon and a pole. If you’ve seen a baby come out via a very small space, your perception of space is changed forever. Seriously, women are tough. I carry on like a soccer player when I stub my toe."

   "When I was holding my daughter in my arms I realised that life, as I knew it, would never be the same again. Life’s not just about you anymore. You have to put a tiny person before yourself. It’s as if the whole world is put on mute for a little while as you stare at this little person that is entirely dependent on you for everything. It’s a great responsibility and the greatest honour that I’ve ever been given."

   "The two nights we spent in the hospital, I had to get up every hour to make sure he was still breathing. Not because a doctor recommended it, just because in my expert medical opinion, he could always stop. He clearly could forget at some point. I would often poke him just to make sure he was still moving. The next few months were spent doubting myself at every turn, being sleep deprived, trying to get his attention for any length of time I could, trying to think of cool things we could do when he turns five, and poking him every other hour to make sure he was still breathing."

When we told family and friends that I was carrying our first child, I remember my husband's aunt saying that he was most certainly destined to be a father. At the time, I could not understand how she could be so confident about this, seeing that she's never witnessed him be one... But it turned out to be true. After the high of child birth, I often just felt totally inadequate. Being a mother did not live up to the expectations I had. It was hard, tedious and exhausting. My husband slipped into fatherhood, like worn-in corduroys. But unlike his favourite pants, it has not worn out. It has grown into something strong and consistent, but also fun and light. He got to hear all about my fears and doubts and the roller-coaster of feelings I was experiencing. Although I am sure he had many of those himself - he hardly felt it necessary to share them with me.

My own father was a solid provider, a constant current in our lives. Within this steadfast dependability, he mostly kept his distance. Probably not uncommon among men and sole providers of that generation. But he did not shy away from exercising discipline when it was needed. The lines never blurred. The roles of a man and wife, mother and father were clearly defined. And my father was not one to overstep his boundaries.

When our boys were little - older women of my own father's generation often used to tell me how they would have given much to have the support of their husbands with the care of their babies and small children. They used the term "hands-on" fathers, which pretty much sums up what present-day dads have become. It is probably not necessary to speculate on how this has all come about. Presumably everyone understands how circumstances have changed and how men and women have had to adapt.

Here are a few more quotes - on how men experience being fathers:

   "You are now responsible in a way that you have never been before. You may constantly realise just how seemingly unqualified you are for the job of fatherhood; you may question your ability to care for a child, and your worthiness, every step of the way. But rest assured - you're not the first dad to feel this way: We didn't come programmed on this whole parenting thing, but we were programmed to wing it."

  "Although you're overly aware of your role as a provider, you may become intimidated and frustrated by what your gender's limitations are.

  "You will feel that no matter how much money you make, it will never be enough to care for your new child's needs."

  "Gone are the days of being called just "a guy"; you will now be forever seen by all as a dad. The sports you used to play with your buddies eventually become the sports you teach your kids. That overpriced latte on your desk in the morning has been replaced by work coffee in a mug that reads "I love you Daddy." And, honestly, you won't even mind the changes because the biggest change is your biggest reward: your kid."

What I'd like to call attention to, is that perhaps we should also let our acknowledgement of what has happened to the face of fatherhood, catch up with the times. Yes, mothers are wonderful and I personally could never live up to the amazing woman who gave birth to my siblings and I. But lets take it from the top and keep in mind that:

• Conception is a partnered dance, of which the Creator and Father God is the choreographer.
• A woman carries the baby in her womb, the man mostly carries the concerns over their future.
• Women labour with a single purpose in mind - men are torn between anxious worry about the mother and child's welfare, and are often left feeling helpless on both accounts.
• While the woman nurses and nurtures against her skin, what has been growing in her womb, the father has to get used to two strangers in the house.
• Women naturally reach out to other women with "new babies". Just because a new father's breasts don't leak and hurt, does not mean they don't need support.
• Right perspective, acknowledgement and respect of a father's role in a child and his mother's life - is much more important than how many milliliters of milk the baby gets in.
• Responsibilities and capabilities can and have changed, but roles should not. We were created with a specific purpose - to which woman and men should stay true.

When our second child was dedicated to God our heavenly Father, the dear and wise man who had agreed to do this, told us two things. 1) He prefers to dedicate parents rather than their children, and 2) The greatest gift a father can give his child, is to love his/her mother.

I am being honest in saying that if our marriage, as well as our roles as parents, had not been anchored in Christ all those years back, we may not have been together any more to share in the joy that these two boys have turned out to be. It has not become a breeze, and without my husband by my side, I may have approached being a mother from a very tilted and weighty angle. For us it keeps balancing the scales - and I know it is not us moving the weights around. There are brave and wonderful single parents out there, who have done and continue doing an amazing job of raising children. But praise God indeed - I am not one of them. 

For me the sacrifices that parents make, which may seem manifold at times, will always pale in significance, when measured against the sacrifice that God the Father made to give us all eternal life. Part of the miracle of being able, as well as being told to procreate, is that there is always a hope and a purpose for our children, regardless of what the world may sink into.

Parenting is also one of the ways that God helps us humans to understand part of His character. Him being like a husband and like a father to his creation, but also for us to understand the depth of the Father's love for his adopted children - in that he would give his only Son for them. He has set the standard for fathers (and mothers), to develop a like character, and display this character to the world. Even the act of procreation itself mimics in a sense (as a child imitating the parent) God's act of creation. Parenting wears very abrasively against self-will and self-sufficiency and parents simply need to prioritise and surrender the use of time and other resources.

Laying down your life for another. No greater love is there than that. We know that our Father let part of Himself die for His children. Many earthly fathers have died protecting and defending their families. Many more have been willing and are still willing to do so. But still more just want to be all that they can be for their families. And I don't hear too many complaining about it either. Give a man, husband and father the rightful place in his home, and not only will the family benefit greatly. Society could salvage the backbone it so desperately needs to stand up before God and be healed.

And no, men are not going to claim or demand it - society and media have done a sterling job at making women believe that they can and often should do it on their own. In their own way. As well as convincing men that it is easier and all right to just let them be. Yes, we are strong. Incredibly, wonderfully so. But the strongest women I know, are the ones who have no desire to prove it to anyone. Their strength is a gentle one, the kind of patient strength that wins over lovingly rather than by force. And the courage to choose to surrender and save her family, rather than fight for her rights and loose sight of her true purpose.

Work from the Womb

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb 

~ Psalm 139:13

We begin this new journey of glimpses and reflections from life, with a thought provoking guest blog.

I am quite thrilled to introduce writer, poet, artist, and "new" pen friend, Silke Heiss. She is a gentle fellow mountain dweller and we formed a connection through our mutual passion for words and verse. We hop from boulder to boulder in a wide sparkling stream, finding gems and treasures - holding them up for each other to see.

Silke is a writer and artist, living and working in Hogsback, often collaboratively with her husband, the poet Norman Morrissey. She works as a professional editor and proof reader to help sustain her service to the muses. She has published poems, short stories, a verse novel and reviews in local journals and anthologies and has produced seven books of poems together with her husband. She compiles a monthly newsletter called "Give Your Writing the Edge". The journey of motherhood has given her insights into the creative process per se. (*More about Silke at the end of this post).

I received this guest blog while I was in hospital recently. In that stark, sterile environment, the keenness of her words reminded me of possibility and regeneration. The possibilities of life refreshed. Learning and creating from the deep, wondrous place of Truth.

"Mothering" is another aspect which features largely in both our lives. Silke writes from the "core" and gives us some gutsy and visceral, albeit tender impressions of her "Work from the Womb":

Work from the Womb ~ Silke Heiss

I had the privilege in January this year of settling my son into his university res, as he begins a new life phase. On my return to Hogsback, the following poem came to me:

Kept up
for Kai

When I fell
pregnant with you
I fell

into new makings -
poems would wake me,
I'd sit sewing sheets for your cradle

at dawn,
taken
with the life inside me:

you. I learned
my womb
where you lived for some time

is the place
of springs, of beginnings,
of growings and knowings -

like now:
I've taken your room
for my work,

am hatching a new baby book
while you're hatching yourself
as a student.

I've kept up, kept growing
thanks to you.
I guess that's what mothers must do.

The poem in many ways, clinches the essence of my life. Since as far back as I remember, there were two passions that ruled my soul - (1) the urge to bear children and (2) the urge to write, or, more broadly speaking, to create artistically.

I cannot claim to speak for all women in this regard. I know women who have neither of these urges, and I know many who have only the one, or the other. However, all women, whether mothers or not - possess (or have possessed) that organ of creative possibilities which I daresay influences us with a far subtler power than its obvious reproductive function would suggest.

Hysteria was diagnosed by the ancient Greeks as a dysfunction of the womb, a notion, which Sigmund Freud took up in his study of neuroses. I am neither ancient nor Greek, nor a medic or psychologist, but I do have a body's common sense and experience to say that it is only too easy to be possessed by the organs we are given - the mind being one of those, the womb being another. (Not to mention the heart!)

Being born privileged, it was perfectly natural that I be denied the choice of early motherhood. The question didn't even come up. I must get tertiary education. I did get tertiary education. But oh! Did my womb remonstrate, literally fighting against my privilege. Crazy. Hysterical. Neurotic. All those things was I, being denied the option of becoming a mother there and then. I got involved with sensitive caring boyfriends, who knew that my life would end if I fell pregnant. Patience? I did not know the meaning of the word, or at any rate, my womb did not.

I threw myself into writing creatively, compulsively. My studies were completed "on the side", so to speak. I decided never to have full time employment, because that would interfere with my motherhood as well as with my writing; in short with my Womb Work, which must come, if not right now then very soon. If it meant being poor, did I care? My womb hypnotised me: it was a trove of endless wealth. I muddled along by freelancing.

I married a man and prayed for a son exactly like him: soft spoken, dancing and with a sense of humour. Then I discovered I had married the wrong man: he was a Feminist. Horror! He did his best to save me from becoming pregnant. He was adamant that motherhood oppressed women. He hated my cleaning up after our puppies, pitied me for being a victim of ideology. I enrolled for a PhD, oh colourless fate, because what else was there to do? But hah! While I was diligently and submissively pursuing my research, my cunning womb blackmailed my husband: It used my tongue to tell him that it would get cancer if I did not have a child. To his credit he gave in and my PhD ended up being a baby; beautifully alive and kicking. Joy! I was 33.

In the mindless regimen of nappies and feeding and burping and napping, my creative activity gradually became more orderly. If you experience paradox, you are in the vicinity of truth, said a wise ancient Greek. (That's wisdom from the balls, if you ask me.) My baby taught me hard. It was terribly boring, often, to look after him. All my learning and privilege were of little use. The following poem came about six months after his birth. With its metaphor joining together the image of "stars in the daytime" with "my baby's face, his eyes" it provides me, and I hope you too, with a record of the miracle of existence in that almost otherworldly, yet utterly earth-bound space of close listening, watching, feeling, which a mother and her baby occupy willy-nilly:

Nothing

Nothing
fills my world.

It loosens my limbs,
opens my ears.

Nothing points
at stars in the daytime -

my baby's face,
his eyes.

Nothing silences all others
while I listen -

begin
to understand.

My baby helped me to see truths no academic modules could teach. Don't get me wrong, I am not criticising the wonders of education, I wouldn't even be here, writing this, without my education. If I had a daughter, I would never let her get away with NOT getting a decent education, preferably a formal one. That said, I would do my best to make sure that her womb be heard, that mysterious ocean that tides through a female body with the movement of the moon. Fact: even if we can describe and record its rhythms, the process is beyond measure.

Although the inconsiderate will of my womb was constrained, or delayed rather, by my education, that education nevertheless prepared me for this: to speak the womb's work, as I am trying to do now. And let's not forget that without Feminism, a piece such as this would be nigh impossible to publish. Credit where credit is due. Embrace complexity.

The sensitivity that is needed to stomach, never mind embrace, complexity, contradictions - that sensitivity is unimaginable for me without the awareness of my inner organs, without the tidings from my womb.

The following poem came about during my son's pre-school years, when I sometimes taught him and his friends to handle clay. Working with children provides exquisite insights into the numinous, into that mystery of the as yet unborn that is constantly wanting to become manifest through them. It provides beautiful experience of the gentle, pressing ambition of life itself, which I would hope the poem pays tribute to.

The child speaks

The child speaks
like a thought -
blurry, difficult to grasp.

The child makes a clay bird
or mouse
like thought -
wobbly, about to fall over,
half painted
in need of rescue or love.

The child is a thought
belonging there where things get being,
no one getting killed for real.

He tries to be proper,
slurring his words in his aim
to get that perfect snake
of a phrase or sentence,
which the adult has captured
without consciousness.

I see him be,
and speak, and make, and try
from within the brave child body,
that shy thought,
a willingness. A willingness.

I'd like to think you cannot but become deep and humble and glowing, if you create from the place where life naturally begins. Whether it is books or songs, laws or cupboards, houses or clothes, gardens or money you're making - get it with womb wisdom. Be ballswise, if you're a man. Get kicked, you feel it right inside, and that inside is well worth bearing in mind.

*More about Silke:

Find out more about her writerly activities and Give your Writing the Edge Newsletter by clicking Publisher: Give Your Writing the Edge Newsletter https://www.facebook.com/highriding
and
https://www.skambha-village.org/give-your-writing-the-edge/

She is a member of the Ecca Poets: https://eccapoets.blogspot.com

She also leads writing and walking workshops with her husband: https://hogsback.co.za/activities/hikuhikes.aspx

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A Parting into a New Beginning

The week before last, I witnessed the return of the yellow billed hornbills to our garden. There is something distinctly comical about a hornbill. The huge beak like a too large nose, ready to be poked into others' affairs (and dog bowls at times). The keen eyes, inquisitive turn of head. We sized each other up for a while and with a little formal bow, the largest of the pair took to the air with a piercing cry. "Until next time strange one" he seemed to screech. They brought a smile to my day, and inadvertently reminded me of my years in the heart of the Bushveld. There, during the simmering heat of the day, in the dappled shade of a Knobthorn, a dignified hornbill once ate from my outstretched hand. He returned for many days after, and I attempted a sketch of my little friend, while he waddled around, pecking at the hot soil.

Now, after so many years, a pair of these cheeky birds make an annual return to Inesi. The day of their arrival this year, was a shamelessly clear day, with just a hint of a haze over the valley. I looked out at all the verdant summer green surrounding us, with wing beats and morning songs breaking the silence. Hearing our boys' clear but distant laughter, the raspy call of a Loerie. There was an unmistakable sweet presence over it all. I felt a need to put it all into words, but somehow, I didn't. The moment came and went and I tucked the fragile memory away in a safe place, alongside many other treasures. Until now.

I have no idea (fortunately) what other people think. (Although I have become quite proficient at guessing what goes on in my children's minds at times.) But my own mind is often a quagmire of words and phrases trampling about constantly. I turn over at night - a simple procedure you would imagine. Not necessarily... In an instant, it becomes a phrase. The phrase births another - and off I go, story-writing or musing when most rational people sleep. It could go something like this: "Sighing and feeling the sting of an old injury, she turns towards the wall, remembering... It was a day like any other. The day before fractured vertebrae, x-rays, titanium brackets, searing pain, stiff back-braces and isolation." And so on... Sound or feel familiar? If not - perhaps you are among the fortunate. People who write, professionally or not, are hooked to some network of never-ending words and ideas. For me the discipline is not to write consistently. I could really be self-indulgent and type away all day long if given half a chance. The discipline is to write discerningly. And in line with God-given priorities, which is the hardest part.

As some of you may know, I write in two different places at the moment. This one, "The Tree of Life" - Laura's story. A bit disjointed, struggling to take shape, with varied inputs and long intervals. But it was still fun, good "exercise" and an opportunity to express, research and share. The other: "In the Shadow of His Wings" - where for many years now, I have tried to write openly and honestly about the journey that I am on with Jesus, and the Truth that He has placed in my care to share.

The writing takes place in stolen moments. Moments in between the responsibilities, demands and delights of my days. I always imagined that I would be able to write so much better, if only... But I realise that the soundtrack to my writing, however distracting and noisy it may seem at times, none-the-less lends an unique music and rhythm to all I do. I have had to adjust to this, and it has not been easy. But I believe it has added depth and humility to the way I view, what I need to write. Writing will always be self-indulgent to an extent, as it provides a platform for processing personal and often intimate thoughts, experiences and opinions. Writing in the spaces in between has enabled me to step away from it, without getting too upset or irritated. To return to it only when the next opportunity presents itself.

The faces of my children still hold much more allure than a screen waiting to be filled. Being a part of the adventure that life still is to them. To teach, to learn, create and play. To make space for the mundane in this off-beat rhythm and letting it be the necessary pauses between the notes.

It remains a blessing that I may write freely - without feeling the pressure to perform for a specific or critical audience. Who may analyse the style and content, with the necessity to fit into a genre or expected format. Or for deadlines and financial reward. I hope that I do not come across as cynical, or critical of what other writers do. I simply value this freedom. There are many professional and freelance writers and poets whom I admire deeply. But I have never had the discipline, ambition or persistence that it must take to produce sweeping novels or autobiographies, volumes of prose and anthologies of poignant poetry. Writing is simply part of  my personal journey. Disjointed at times. But an ongoing expression of faith and love.

I cannot separate my life in Christ from what I write. I have probably attempted to do this at times. Consciously or sub-consciously. To write for a wider, secular audience. To be popular and understood. But it just does not ring true - and it would mean sacrificing the same freedom which I have come to value so much.

So; with this lengthy prologue to the bi-monthly edition of "The Tree of Life"  - let me attempt to let Laura speak for the last time. When I thought of how to bring "her short-lived story" to a close, using few words, but lingering impressions, a song came to mind. I'll let Laura sing it for you:

"Thank you for hearing me,
thank you for loving me.
Thank you for seeing me,
and for not leaving me.
Thank you for staying with me,
thanks for not hurting me.
You were gentle with me,
you were gentle with me.

Thank you for silence with me,
and saying I could be.
Thank you for holding me,
thank you for helping me.

Thank you for breaking my heart,
thank you for tearing me apart.
Now I've a strong, strong heart,
Thank you for breaking my heart..."
~ Sinead O'Connor

Watch the beautiful video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_CaHRA7CYs

Well, that was that then. We say goodbye to Laura and open an enticingly new notebook. Under the same title - since I believe it still to be relevant. In future I hope to use this space to write down more personal experiences and life glimpses. From being a wife, mother, friend, sister, teacher, learner, nurse, spectator, etc. But most of all - from being a daughter of the King, a child of God. And from the daily joy of letting these different me's all become one. "One" with many layers and facets perhaps, but made whole and new by grace and grace alone.

Thank you for continuing to "hear me". 

A Sufficient Grace

Our story continues with an early sketch of Laura as a girl and her grandmother. As the floor remained open for this chapter - I had fun doing some mental traveling on the Internet and blending fiction and history as I went along.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.
~ 2 Corinthians 12:9

There is a story, which I read as a girl. An awkward asthmatic girl with acne, who read voraciously and dreamt crystalline dreams. Dreams of travelling and writing. Of bringing about change. Of having a room of my own to set down the constant flurry of phrases in my mind. This particular story gave me the stubs of wings, the promise of flying. These were the opening lines:

"It is with a kind of fear that I begin to write the history of my life. I have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike over the years that link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest." Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting and important."

In retrospect across the years, I see that this is how we all relate our stories. As a series of sketches of the most interesting and important fragments of our lives. The mundane dust of the in-between, the waiting, the indecisive hovering of the quill - is lost. This was how Helen Keller began: "The Story of my Life". Of which the beginning was simple and much like every other little life. An assertive happy child for one brief spring, from which there remained few, almost unreal memories. At nineteen months she became gravely ill. A family doctor diagnosed acute congestion of the stomach and brain (most probably scarlet fever or meningitis). The fever left as mysteriously as it came. But the elation over her recovery was short-lived. The illness had plunged her into the unconsciousness of a new-born baby. Without sight or hearing. But during that brief season of wholeness, she had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers. Which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out. She writes: "If we have once seen, the day is ours, and what the day has shown." It was the persistence and faith of one woman - Anne Sullivan, which lifted her up into the world of perception once again. Their story was one of  victory. Of miracles. A "story" which inspired many to see and hear more truly. It was many years before I realised that the miracles were most certainly preceded and interspersed by hours and days of frustration, failures, endless repetition and anguish.

I waited for my own miracles to show up, to give me something inspiring or great to write about.

But my own life seemed to crawl along at a rather tedious pace. Occasionally the monotone would be broken by the visit of a colourful relative, the initial sweetness of young love, a hint of deeper meaning from the other side of the veil. During this time, the only things I ever wrote down, were my secret longings and unflattering perceptions of the people who shared what I thought to be the daily humdrum of my existence.

I remember being introduced to Tolkien by a history teacher, Mrs Mayes. An unassuming spinster, with a wizened, quizzical expression and a quick wit. She recognised something of my longing for greatness, even if it was only on the pages of a fantasy novel. Bilbo Baggins, the protagonist or hero of "The Hobbit", is an ordinary, respectable, reserved hobbit (half-ling). He gets tricked by Gandalf the wizard, to join a band of dwarfs, in spite of his trepidation at the thought of adventure. The dwarfs set out to reclaim their Lonely Mountain and the vast treasure guarded deep in it's bowels by the dragon Smaug, who lies sleeping upon it. There is a scene in which Galadriel (a noble Elve, fairest and mightiest of all Elven woman) asks Gandalf why he chose the hobbit to be part of this dangerous quest. He answers in a whisper: "I do not know. Saruman (another wizard) believes that it is only great power that can hold evil in check. But that it is not what I’ve found. I’ve found it is the small things, every act of normal folk that keeps the darkness at bay - simple acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps it is because I am afraid, and he gives me courage."

I was not so convinced that our family was what one would classify as  "normal", but my life certainly seemed to revolve around small things. Perhaps if I could find the means by which to make these small things count, there was still a way to unlock the undefined legacy which I so hoped for?

I started with my grandmother, who featured largely in my childhood. Mostly, because of her generous proportions, but also since she was the undisputed matriarch of the Pederson family. She was ordinary enough, but was made to seem formidable, in that she had survived two husbands,  a world war and three tragic miscarriages, before giving birth, on the kitchen table, to my father Adam and his twin brother Andreas.

I waited until she flopped into a deep settee on the porch, at the end of a sultry day. The last rays of the sun casting an unlikely halo around her hair, damp with perspiration. As she set down her teaspoon and raised the rose-budded cup to her lips, I said: "Grams, can we chat?" She eyed me suspiciously over her steel-rimmed glasses. "What about?" she asked, her one eyebrow raised. "Shouldn't you rather ask your mother? " she mumbled. "I'm afraid I may have forgotten these... um, details a bit you know..." The last few words were swallowed up by the tea-cup, her eyes concentrating on the contents to hide her discomfort. I suppressed a giggle. "Don't worry Gran" I smiled. "It's nothing like that."

"Can I get you some more tea?" I offered. Now I had her really worried. "I don't have money Laura", she said. "And I'm not good at keeping secrets". I realised that this was going to be harder than I thought. She saw right through my supposed "small act of kindness" as a way of getting into her head. It took about two weeks before she let down her guard. By then I had made a few surprising discoveries about the shuffling old woman, who seemed to take up so much room in our home, but very little space in my heart. She sang. Softly, under her breath, barely audible. Nostalgic songs of lovers and lonely hearts. Of girls with moonlight in their eyes. She talked to her English roses, pruning sheers in hand. The wide-brimmed hat, hiding her vulnerability. At times she seemed to forget what she was doing. I'd see her wander to the gate and peer intensely down the road. Fumble in the post box, looking lost. Gran with the sharp tongue, sensible shoes and faded apron, became a woman with a soul. I had never even noticed the colour of her eyes, until one morning, I looked up from the toothbrush in my hand into the mirror. And for a weird moment, saw her looking back at me.

That same day, I sat down and wrote my very first poem.

I was thinking of love,

and you came to mind.
There is much about me,

I'd like to rewind.

I know I've been blind,

and this you have seen.

Yet never told me,

how foolish I've been.

Is there a chance,

to start over again?

For me to know you,

to be your friend?

So much, so much,

which I long to know.

But only if you wish it so...

By Laura Pederson for her Grams

I slipped it into her apron pocket while she sat napping by the window after lunch. Later in the afternoon, I thought I saw a moistness in her eyes. But she did not let on that she had seen, or read my offering. My heart sank. When she sat down to her cuppa that afternoon, I picked up my book and started up the stairs to my room. My foot was on the bottom step when I heard her say: "So lass, would you still like to talk?"

In the weeks and months which followed, she became a faucet to which I returned each day, thirsty and curious. My curiosity broke the seal on a trove of memories from her past. I was given glimpses of my grandfather, who up to that time, was just a sepia face behind bevelled edged glass. I got to know about how the baker in their village wooed the washer-woman for months with offerings of  fragrant bagels. Until she finally gave in. Regardless of the fact that she could not stand bagels. During this time, her pig did seem to become remarkably fat...

She told me poignant tales of loss and courage. Of men fighting wars and women working, watching and waiting. Of babies being born and restoring hope for a while. Of my own father, and his dream to build a lighthouse, so that his father's ship could find it's way home.

There was one particular story which I took with a healthy heft of salt. It was of a certain young man who was the sweetheart of one of her distant cousins for a short while. Before the end of the first semester, he dropped out of Cambridge University, joined the British army and was sent to South Africa to fight in the Boer war. The self-same soldier was said to have fought in four different wars. Survived being shot in the stomach, groin, head, ankle, hip and right leg. He was also meant to have survived two plane crashes and five escape attempts from a POW camp. He was shot twice in the face, loosing a left eye as a result. He wore a glass eye for a short time after. But, while travelling in a taxi with the wind stinging the dry socket of his lifeless eye, he threw it out of the window and donned a black eye patch, which he wore for the rest of his life. During the year of 1905, the cousin received news that he had embarked on a steamer to France. As an infantry commander on the Western Front, he was wounded seven more times. Soon after his arrival he lost his left hand (biting his mangled fingers off when a doctor declined to remove them!). News also reached home, that he won the Victoria Cross, the British Empire’s highest award for gallantry in combat...

"Oh Grams" I gasped, when she ended the tale with a sigh and a shrug. "You certainly got carried away a bit with that one." She seemed indignant, and insisted that there was no elaboration on her account. "The story is authentic" she said, "and the details quite clear in my mind."

Many years later, browsing through a musty old bookshop, an image caught my eye. An old uniformed man, stared out of the picture with one stern eye. The other, covered by a black eye patch... Right there, in the embrace of a torn leather chair, I read "Happy Odyssey", from cover to cover. The autobiography of Lieutenant General Sir Adrian Paul Ghislain Carton de Wiart. Grams' story, written by the man himself. I felt like laughing and crying. How I wished she were there with me, a pot of Earl Gray between us. I could fill in the bizarre details for her. From the real life account, which reads even more far-fetched than an elaborate Hollywood plot. How she would have frowned and scowled at his flippancy about the loss of various body parts. "Frankly, I enjoyed the war" he wrote. I doubt she would have still regarded him as a hero.

She was the first one to show me that it is far easier to aspire to greatness, than to be satisfied with just being who God intended me to be. "Ours is a God of small people" she said. With the wistful smile I had come to love so much. "Small people, who are happy to be small in the eyes of the world. And content with the greatness that flows from His presence in their hearts".