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".