All the things
A mother of teens, a teacher of thousands, wife, daughter, sister…I find myself nearing 50 (that’s half a century folks, that’s not nothing) and so utterly gatvol of all the roles. For those who aren’t South African, look it up. I decide to run away from my life because I still haven’t learned, despite repeated efforts in that direction, that it’s impossible.
A Year Ago
I take myself to the West Coast National Park to walk a 13km trail amongst the Spring wild flowers. I’ve invested in a new pair of hiking boots, two sizes too big so that my Piscean feet don’t feel claustrophic, but needing to be broken in before my 5 week solo trek in Nepal. The weather is dicey, but in between squalls and a wind that ceaselessly tries to pluck my windbreaker from my aching ears, I enjoy the colours, the tortoises, the solitude.
Now
Beside myself with overthinking - something I once told a high school student of mine was impossible - I decide to ditch my responsibilities and go frolic amongst the daisies. The rush hour traffic of all those going about their daily deeds diligently is awful and it takes twice as long to get there as it should. My solo Annapurna trek still stings and I don’t walk alone nearly as much as I used to. Near death experiences, what are they good for, if not some behaviour change?
The weather is sublime. The flowers are bold and bob their heads as if in acknowledgment, “Oh, it’s you again?”
An African Wildcat casually strolls across my path. It’s my first sighting, though I remember two springs ago chancing upon a caracal kitten here. I do love a cat.
I walk. It’s hot. David Sedaris chats to me amicably via podcast. His ability to turn tragedy to comedy is just the kind of alchemy I’m most in awe of. This week’s episode of This American Life shared a story of his in which he talks about his sister who died by suicide. “Doesn't the blood of every suicide splash back on our faces?” It rings too true. I can’t stop thinking about it, so I promptly download every podcast I can find featuring Sedaris.
Quickly I learn that when he’s on a book tour his fine mind is reduced to a few anecdotes on repeat. That old truism - familiarity breeds contempt - comes to mind. Even this great wit, possibly my favourite memoirist, whose Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim I’ve recommended to everyone I care about, becomes tedious.
Then I hear him talk about how you must kill your darlings in writing. How your favourite sentence is the one you really should cut. He mentions a line from a story that his editor suggested he axe, but that he wanted to keep.
Can you guess which line it is?
What do we keep?
How do we know what’s any good, what will ring true?
What do we share?
Coming towards
One of my passions is facilitating retreats. It’s a tremendous privilege to watch people transform in the space of a weekend. Epiphanies everywhere. Once a retreatant said to me: “It shouldn’t be called a retreat, it should be called ‘coming towards.’”
So here I am in Paternoster. I’ve fostered a dream of bringing myself here on retreat for at least a decade. Very last minute and with no little trepidation about the cost, financially plus the strain on my family, I book a super cute little loft space a stone’s throw from the beach.
On arrival I discover a building site adjacent. I am currently typing with jack hammers shuddering my last nerve.
Not usually one to complain I immediately what’s app the manager and ask for another spot. She obliges, bless her. It’s on the other side of this small village. And across from two building sites. The builders and I regard one another balefully. Plus the interior is dark, dank and smells of dog.
I go walk the labyrinth at Tietiesbaai. A sweet old dog greets me and we walk and breathe together. Then I move back to the original spot which is at least light and fresh inside.
On second arrival, the builders have thankfully packed up for the day. The sun is setting in lurid fuchsia. A sudden peace descends. I hop on my bicycle and feel carefree. Like “hey, it all works out in the end.”
Good Grief
My daughter at about age 3 asked, “Are we going to our holiday house in Paternoster?” We had visited a couple of times and she had claimed it as children do. Freely, unapologetically. The combination of quaint fisherman’s cottages and bougie restaurants on this wild coast is undeniably special. Hence the building boom no doubt.
My brother died by suicide, I ache for him and the daily battle of staying alive. Partly the insane trek I endured in Nepal was an extension of the years I spent traipsing about the Table Mountain National Park that I’m lucky to call home. This was my grief management plan. I just walked and walked and walked. Not so much a plan really. It just happened.
But Nepal was also partly about trying to find my feet as a mother of two teenagers who need to find their own feet, and there’s nothing much I can do about it, except let them.
Perhaps we retreat to surrender. To all the discomfort within and around us. All the things we can’t so easily cradle. Because they have outgrown the baby phase. They are awkward. Don’t want to be touched because of how uncomfortable they are in their own skin. My brother was never easy. Neither am I.
My husband climbs into bed the night before I attempt escape and murmurs, “I love you.” I quietly cry because we can be well loved, well supported and still struggle. A lot. Probably because we simply refuse to surrender. Surrender to it all, especially the loss which is implicit in love.