A Tale of Two Cities

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us...” – Charles Dickens

These are the famous opening lines taken from Charles Dickens novel A Tale of Two Cities. I’m sure many of us at some stage in our high school years during the ‘80’s, held a copy of this small, scuffed-up set work under our arm. Of course few of us would have appreciated it for the literary masterpiece that it is. Most of it went right over my, otherwise preoccupied, teenage mind.

But if you did pay a little more attention, you will recall that it tells a magnificent story of chaos, conflict and despair, as well as a story of happiness and hope. Dickens always knew the perfect ingredient for a strong story! In this tale, Dickens compares two cities, Paris and London, during the French Revolution. He tells a story about extreme opposites, different classes, rich and poor. A captivating narrative about joy and hope on the one hand, and suffering and despair on the other. 

Every great story leaves us changed. Yet back then, as a ‘know-it-all’ teenager, I wish I had listened more and appreciated what this story had to teach me. But the other day, as I took a trip around two cities, this remarkable tale, with all its lessons about controversies, contradictions, contrasts and comparisons came flooding back to me. Perhaps it had changed me and I just didn’t know it.

The morning began like many during lockdown. My daughter, Joanna, was up early and waiting for me - tackies on and her small pink bike helmet tilted sideways on her head. She rides her bike while I run and we’ve found the perfect route through the leafy streets of the Southern Suburbs. The road winds along the banks of the Liesbeek River and we feel like Dorothy on her yellow-brick road with a bright warm carpet of leaves paving the way. It’s a great reminder that while we’ve all been locked down, nature has flourished more than ever and the burning autumn colours literally take our breath away! Joanna kicks her legs up as she rides through the puffed up leaf piles. This sends a million orange shades scattering and her stomach into a fit of little-girl giggles. 

The normally quiet suburban roads are as busy as ever in the morning and many families are still making the most of the slower pace of lockdown life and the new stay-at-home routines.

Dads often join in - one hand holding a dog leash and the other supporting a small bike with trainer-wheels. I can tell there are smiles beneath the masks. Eyes always give a smile away and the chatter and laughter tell the story. It’s the happiest of morning routines and a daily tonic that helps me clear my fogged-up, locked-down brain and Joanna prepare for a morning of online school behind a computer screen.

My afternoon was quite different. The weather had changed during the course of the day and as we headed out on the N2, it was clear that the balmy morning had secretly been ushering in a cold front. Today the car was packed with boxes of much needed masks that Jacqs and I had collected, sorted and packaged to deliver to the schools in the Makhaza community in Khayelitsha. 

If you don’t know them well, the roads of Khayelitsha can get confusing, but after many visits, I’ve got to know my way around the Makhaza area. I still rely on my own landmarks to navigate me: the turquoise container of Nosisi’s Fishery;  the God is Great Hair Salon (well that’s what’s painted on the side wall along with a brightly coloured mural of hairstyles). The braai shop on the corner, as always, is buzzing with people and its big rusty half barrels sizzle with boerewors. Then just before we turn off Govan Mbeki road towards Chris Hani High School, there’s the sunshine-yellow fruit and veg shop with its heavy pockets of oranges hanging from the roof. 

Today we drive slowly as there are lots of people milling in the streets - much more than usual. So many are facing huge daily struggles, grinding poverty and unemployment. Those who still have jobs are hard at work. A group of young men load bags of cement onto a bakkie – I presume they are dad’s as children are milling around close to them - some helping to load the heavy bags. The more I look the more children I see. Most are not yet back at school; so older children watch over their younger siblings as they drag sticks through the dirt making patterns or kick a soccer ball … even a stray dog joins the games, anything to pass the long days of lockdown. Quite simply put, for this community locking down at home is hardly an option - shacks are just too small and too confined and work must be found.

Our time at the school was really good - a harsh eye-opener too. Despite all the challenges, thorough safety measures were being taken – temperatures, social distancing and sanitizing. The staff and headmistress we chatted with looked tired. It’s obvious they’ve had so much to deal with. They shared with us their daily struggles and fears and most of all the fact that no online schooling has taken place. These children are all 3 months behind in their schoolwork and the task of catching them up is overwhelming, if not impossible. Our conversation outdoors was eventually cut short by heavy drops of rain and an icy wind that began to sweep through the barren, and still largely quiet, school grounds. 

As we drove out and back past the still bustling Spaza shop the wind began to pick up. Flurries of dust rose up into the air – no blowing trees, no autumn leaves. Some people began to seek shelter amongst the over-hanging oranges at the fruit and veg shop, whilst others just continued their work - resolute and undisturbed by the swelling storm around them. 

I returned home to be greeted first by my daughter, who by now had finished her online school for the day. My eldest son had surprisingly taken the initiative of lighting the fire and, much less-surprisingly, was making his fourth sandwich of the day. My home felt warm and inviting – my family together and a cup of coffee in the making.

This season of Covid-19 has left us all with much to contemplate, much to consider and much to change. For some it has been “the best of times”, yet for others, “the worst of times”. For some it's been a “season of Light”, yet for many more it’s been a “season of Darkness”. I think we all realise that we still have a long winter ahead of us, yet we remain hopeful that by spring Corona might be moving behind us. So for some it may be a “spring of hope” with “everything before us”, but let us make every effort to be aware that for so many more it will remain “the winter of despair” with “nothing before them”.  

Today was indeed The Tale of Two Cities - worlds and cities much closer together than London and Paris, yet still separated by a deep abyss of controversies, contradictions, contrasts and comparisons. 

I do my best to make sense of this story, but I can’t. It is a hard one to read. So instead I choose to pray and to open my own eyes and ears and begin by listening to the stories of others. Can we grow a stronger South African story? Do we know what this often overused yet misunderstood hashtag really means: #StrongerTogether? 

I’m not sure; but for now I will choose to remain hopeful.

Solitude - Lessons of Lockdown

I don’t have an alarm clock here at the river, instead it’s the weaver birds who normally wake me at the crack of dawn, announcing the new day with a loud symphony, which I love and hate all at the same time! It’s been impossible to sleep well these past few weeks with all the worries and frustrations that have been mingling in my mind. Today I’m up even before the river birds’ early-hour orchestra has a chance to play parallel to a million jumbled thoughts racing around my head. 

I feel a strange anxiety in my stomach, I ask myself why? I think I know. Tomorrow we head back to the city. It sounds crazy but I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Will leaving the river prick a hole in my simple little bubble of family, stillness and solitude? How will I keep the noise, the traffic, the television and the people from bursting this bizarrely beautiful, yet surreal bubble?

Over the past few weeks social media platforms have been trending with #isolation #stayhome #selfisolate. Lockdown has forced us all into some form of solitude. 

We’ve had to face it, flounder in it, fight it or just simply feel it. 

These days, we seem so frightened of being alone that we seldom let it happen. Even if family, friends and movies should fail, there is still the radio, the television or our ever-constant companion, the cell phone, to fill the void. Without even realising it, we tend to choke the space of our own solitude with people, posts and playlists. We allow them into every inch of our private space - social media even accompanies us to the toilet! 

And when the noise stops, there is often no inner music left to take its place. Could lockdown have taught me to re-learn a lesson I inwardly know but may have forgotten: to be alone? 

“Solitude,” says Louis Bouyer, “serves to crack open and burst apart the shell of our superficial securities.” In the stillness we are sifted and as we loosen our grip on all those things that seem so significant, we gently become more focused and our lives more simplified.

This self-isolating has been hard. For some much harder than for others. I know I've had it easy here at the river, but I’ve still hated not being able reach out, pat a back, shake a hand and most of all give a big hug. (That silly knocking of elbows just doesn’t cut it for me!) But as I lie here quietly, I realise that self-isolation is not all bad, in fact I’ve really enjoyed it. Instead of catching up with friends I’ve caught up with myself and whilst I’ve lost the conversational threads of my many WhatsApp groups (with our hopeless WIFI), I’ve found my own breath instead. I’ve caught and held and breathed in Solitude with long deep breaths. Now I feel scared to leave this new friend. Will I find her back in the city, in those overcrowded online spaces? Will I hear her above the news and the noise in my own household of habit? 

When we first arrived here it was Summer and the light would creep through the cracks of the curtain guiding me towards my slippers and out of the room. But today it’s Autumn and it’s pitch dark. I don’t want to wake my husband, I know he has much on his mind, so I fumble to find my watch and I use the little digital light. 5:30am. It’s morning, yet it’s still night, today even the birds are still quiet. 

With no fluffy gown (oh how I’ve missed it from home!) I grab a jersey and head for the kitchen. I make a cup of coffee and pick up my bible. Yes, this is why I think my body woke itself early: to be alone, to be still, to be with God.

The sun is now rising. I refill my coffee and, trying not to spill it, walk down to the rivers edge. This is where a fullness emerges in me. Like a cup poured up to the lip – I don’t want to spill that either. I know now that it is precious. The Psalmist expressed it well when he said, “My cup runneth over”. 

In this moment of 'fullness' I am suddenly terrified that someone might come, and I might begin again to spill myself away. This is what happens to us, especially as women. We perpetually spill ourselves away in driblets to the thirsty. It is our instinct – to nurture, to nourish and to give. Our children, our husbands, our friends, our society all demand it of us and so we spill over our energy, our time and our creativeness, seldom allowing ourselves the quiet and the solitude to let our pitcher fill to the brim. 

Like the bubbles that emerge from beneath the river water, so too, certain springs are only tapped in me when I am alone. Like an artist needs to be alone to create, an author to write or a musician to compose, so we women need to be alone in order to again find that still axis within a revolving wheel of relationships, obligations and activities. Solitude is not the answer to this, it is only a step towards it. Perhaps if I can somehow keep this still axis, I can grab the hand of my friend, Solitude, and take her back to the city with me. I will have to hold on tightly though, as she'll easily get lost, but I'll try anyway. 

It's time to start breakfast so I turn and head back towards the house. I feel the wind ruffle my hair, joyfully I am able to receive the nourishment of heavenly manna and realize that never am I less alone than when alone. 

Gratitude - Lessons of Lockdown

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There is something so primal about kneading dough. The ritual of deep pushing into the palms and then the pulling back with fingers. Turning, lifting and throwing more flour has become my morning therapy. Surely I should be strong enough, like women throughout the ages, to perform this ancient, daily exercise? But as I knead this big lump of dough my arms grow tired and my hands begin to ache. I wonder how this morning activity could nourish me yet exhaust me all at the same time?  

This round ball of dough is my very my own ‘squishy’. Remember squishies? Those ridiculously over-priced stress-ball things that became a craze throughout the schools? Unlike luminous slime, I think the teachers quite liked squishies.  Perhaps this harmless kneading in children’s palms relaxed them, quietened them and helped them focus? 

It certainly helps me do all three. 

My morning kneading regime resumes and I think about the millions of women in this country desperately trying to feed their children. Ready-made bread is expensive but a little yeast and some flour goes a long way. I imagine these women - their much stronger forearms kneading hard and then baking over fires, in old heavy-based pots or in small, make-shift ovens. For many of them this single loaf will nourish a whole family for a day - not just a hungry teenager who unthinkingly devours three slices in a sitting…

 Bread. 

What an amazing, basic beautiful staple! It seems like it’s been part of life forever. For a moment I am taken right back to that historic story…

”And He took bread, and after giving thanks, He broke it, and gave it to them…” (Luke 22:19)

I whisper to myself, “After giving thanks…”

The greatest Teacher reminds me that breaking the bread and giving it to my husband and children must only take place after giving thanks. 

Gratitude must precede everything. For it is gratitude that gives reverence to everyday things: bread, a child’s laughter, a pencil and paper, clean water to wash hands, a husbands embrace, or a warm home.

Locked down in this small and simple river home I think I am learning that life is made up of the small and simple. If I miss these small parts I will miss the whole. Mundane tasks of sweeping, washing and kneading can become epiphanies if I just learn this hard lesson of gratitude. 

Why is saying ‘thank you’ so hard? Why do I so quickly forget? 

Yesterday I woke up irritated. Another night of restless sleep. The mornings are now colder and I didn’t pack my fluffy gown. I walk to the kitchen and see a pile of washing. For a moment I resent our river hideaway because clothes are stained with mud and shorts are smeared with fishy hands. The sink is full of pans and it seems like they’re always left for me to clean. Overnight the ants have descended. 

My teenage son walks in, “I’m hungry Mom!” Why am I not surprised?

“You don’t even know what hunger is!” I snap back at him. I find yesterday’s bread but there’s not much left and the crusts have become hard and unenticing. I will need to make more, but today I don’t feel like my morning therapy, I only feel like coffee and some quiet. 

 But the great Teacher knows me better. He must know that I need this lesson daily - this ritual reminder of flour and water and being grateful. The dough gets sticky on my fingers, I need more flour, I wipe my face.

“Mom, have you seen how funny you look”, my son laughs. 

I look in the mirror. I laugh too. 

At times this Gratitude lesson can be a messy business. The last few months have been properly messy. Our hands are sticky with this virus and we’re struggling to wash it off. So many are hungry and the yeast is finished and the flour tin is empty. 

Yet despite a full pantry, at times I slip into empty self-pity:  How will I work? When will I see my parents? I miss my friends. I hate dirty dishes.

But then I’m brought back - back to my bread-making. The oven is hot and the kitchen is warming.

“The bread smells good Mom”, he says, as he gently wipes the flour from my face. I kiss his slightly stubbly cheek and search my mind for the right thing to say: 

“Thank you”.

Humour - Lessons of Lockdown

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Lockdown is no laughing matter.

 As the initial shock of this pandemic and the strange novelty of lockdown is now wearing off, I find myself slipping out of my white bed sheets in the morning with a rather colourless lack of any sense of humour. My anticipation for the day is reduced to a glimmer. Instead of tackling a noteworthy venture with enthusiasm, I resolve myself and go downstairs to our teal-blue kitchen to face a mountain of dishes, a mountain of laundry and a mountain of wishy-washy, half-baked aspirations.

 Yes, I’ll be the first to admit that I have nothing to complain about. I am not a single mom working two jobs, with tiny toddlers, under tremendous pressure to pay the bills, bravely rising above emotional exhaustion to just keep things together. No, I can’t lay claim to being that kind of heroine. Maybe, in some weird way , therein precisely lies the mystery of why I teeter on the edge of frustration. Here I am - still in my pj’s, sweating over the kitchen sink, looking anything other than a heroine. Frustrated; because sparkling, spotless dishes and crisp, clean clothes are not going to change the world. 

 My husband walks in from the patio, smiling and drenched in perspiration after his morning training on the stationary bike. He is not whinging that he couldn’t be out riding on the mountain, nor is he bemoaning the mountain of pressure that faces him as he fights to help contain covid19 from an online frontline. Instead, he cheerfully pours me a cup of coffee from the red coffee machine he bought to add a splash of colour to our monotone blue kitchen. 

 I am so very grateful, I really am, but to my surprise the words that spill out of my mouth don’t show it. I respond with a stream of complaints: “Look at all these dishes!” “Could no one have bothered to pack the dishwasher last night?” “How can there be so many clothes in the wash basket?” and “Look at these filthy floors!” He calmly packs the clean plates on the shelf and his wise words knock around in my head …“humour diffuses tension”. I push the phrase out of my mind and stoically continue scrubbing the pots - as if I am making a very important point. Blissfully unaware of my annoyance, our three kids burst through the kitchen with a friendly, “Morning Mom!” enroute to their home-made volleyball court.

 As I listen to my husband singing in the shower and the kids giggling in the garden, I think endearingly of our beloved President Ramaphosa. He clumsily fumbled with his face mask during his televised speech last week, which sent memes flying and hashtags trending, lighting up social media and lightening the country’s mood, as we enter our fifth week of strict nationwide lockdown. I am so impressed at how he has taken the ‘mask mishap’ in his stride and pokes fun at his own faux pas; choosing to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

 And so, with an inspired determination, I put down the soapy sponge. I fold the drying cloth, kick off my teal slipslops and move outside toward the laughter and the positivity. I join the kids playing their game. I’m not a comedienne by any means, but as a truly useless volleyball player, my digs and sets go everywhere except over the net. I have us all in stitches! I can see how Humour can become a very good friend to me. In a moment, she puts a bright smile on my face, helps me choose to let go of my frustrations, stop taking myself so seriously, connect with the kids and just simply laugh.

After the game, the kids settle into their online schooling and yes, I still have to finish the dishes. I fold the laundry and mop the floors, but now, the tension is diffused. Afterall, a cheerful heart is strong medicine and a good sense of humour is an escape valve for the pressures of life. Laughter is an incredible gift from God! It has lifted me to a higher place where I can now view the world from a more sprightly perspective - even if that place is from behind the kitchen sink.

Patience - Lessons of Lockdown

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Locked down alongside a river is a lovely place to be. Even though we’re required to remain still, we get to watch the constant movement of the river. It never stops moving. The tide rises up covering the reeds that frame it and the small sandy slipways. As the tide comes in, the river bulges from its ocean belly filling with life. Fish swim in with the salty seawater, seeking food and safer place to multiply. Then just as quickly the tide goes out. It retracts from the banks, emptying out what the river no longer needs. 

 Everyday my husband and sons wait patiently for this ‘turning of the tide’. It’s the perfect time to cast their lines into the water. The old fisherman a few houses down knows this river well. I think he’s learnt what it takes to catch more than just the incoming tide. We see him standing there, sun-tanned and big bellied. He patiently waits. He spends much longer on the waters edge than we do and he always seems to reap the rewards of the rising tide. We’re hopelessly jealous. Our efforts are not quite as fruitful. I think he feels bad that he catches so much more than we do, so the other night he dropped off a huge fresh cob for us. We had to fillet it as it was too big to fit whole on the braai. We feasted on the big chunks of white meat licking lips at the taste of lemon and sea salt. Around the braai the boys passionately debated how the old man could possibly pull in a fish of this size? What was his secret? 

 Just at the time the tide was turning yesterday, my husband had a Zoom call. He asked if I would sit and watch his rod (oh these crazy days! In one breath we’re Zooming across the world and in another we’re casting a line in the water!) I gladly obliged. My patience with the kids was wearing thin and I’d had about enough of ‘home-schooling’ for the day. And, if truth be told, I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a fisherwoman!

 As I sat, patiently manning the fishing rod, I thought about how nature seems to move in this perfect inward and outward motion. It’s as if she knows that for every moment of fullness and of overflowing, there needs also to be a time of emptying out, of pulling back and of flushing away the dead reeds that can otherwise clog the riverbanks.  

 This brought me back to those beautiful, familiar words, “For everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven … a time to plant and a time to reap … a time to break down and a time to build up … a time to gain and a time to lose … a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing…” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

 As this lockdown forces us to ‘refrain from embracing’ (I hate this as I love a good hug!), it’s also teaching us extreme patience. This week as our President addressed the nation, his tired eyes pleading with us, “We need to be patient...” 

In so many ways I’m having to learn to be patient – home schooling three kids perhaps being one of the greatest teachers! 

 I’ve spent many hours sitting on this wooden jetty watching the constant movement of the river. It somehow calms this anxious rumbling inside me. It also helps me see how, with her perfect rhythms now less disturbed, Nature is able to take a few long, deep inward and outward breaths. She continues to beckon her tides into their daily rhythm of filling up and emptying out. 

 In so many ways we’ve entered a season of extreme emptiness. My heart aches for the stomachs that are empty, the bank accounts, shops and businesses that are empty. For all of us during this season; emptiness means something different – but either way, it feels scary.

 As I sit, dangling my toes in the water, tickled by it’s continual motion; I am reminded that the tide will indeed turn. 

 If we are patient, the waters will rise, the tide will come in and fullness and hugging will again return. I think I know the secret of that old fisherman. Yes, it’s patience.  If we can learn just a little of it, who knows, we may just catch a fish of our own. 

Simplicity - Lessons of Lockdown

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We chose to lockdown at our small cottage nestled on the banks of the Breede River. It’s a simple, little thatch house with no frills or fancy finishes. A colourful lounge flows into a big, happy kitchen with terracotta tiles, a wood burner and a huge wooden table. It’s around this table that lockdown meals have lasted longer and days have moved slower.

With big stacking doors that remain open most of the day, nature has quietly welcomed itself into our living space. The curious weavers come and peck at crumbs on the kitchen floor, and on most days a tame, brown mongoose ventures close, in the hope of a bread crust or apple core. This morning however, a less lovely guest slithered under the bathroom door (while I was on the toilet!) I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. I guess I’m not quite as ‘at-one’ with nature as I thought I was! 

Apart from a very small supply store, which we call The Top Shop (not for any reason other than that it sits at the top of the hill), the nearest shops are nearly an hour away, so lockdown has really forced us to eat simply and creatively. Lunch can consist of a simple piece of home-baked bread, a ration of cheese and a tomato. Evening meals range from freshly caught fish (if it’s been a lucky day!) to something as simple as sausage on the braai with salad and mielie pap.

Our little cottage has no TV, no uncapped Wi-Fi and a very bad phone signal. We’ve had to simplify the way we live, the way we interact with the world and the way we work. We’re managing, but with only three devices amongst five of us (excluding cellphones), online school and work has forced us to simply share and patiently wait our turn.

Learning to live simply is a beautiful, terrible thing. 

It’s hard to wake up and gaze at my shoe selection consisting of takkies, slippers and flops (never did I imagine that we would be here for six weeks!) or learn to prepare a meal without my favourite frills. 

It’s also hard to teach my daughter to paint with so few colours to choose from. But as we learn to limit our palette, so we learn to mix new colours. Locking down is teaching us how to work with the most basic and purest of colours. It’s showing us how Simplicity can paint her smooth brushstrokes way beyond just our palette.

Our days have been simplified to the primary tones of cooking, cleaning, working, exercising and eating; and all the time we are breathing - the most essential of all the life processes. Who would have thought that lockdown would have taught me the simple art of breathing … blissful, beautiful breathing. 

Before lockdown I moved between holding my breath, taking great big gasps and pausing only to pant. I’m the first to admit that I don’t do simple well. One of my biggest weaknesses is that I’m a supreme clutterer. I clutter my days, my home, my draws – in fact my entire life - with too much of everything! 

 The other night we all lay on the lawn and looked up at the stars, the moon was round and full. 

“Imagine there were six moons!” exclaimed my son.

”Then the sky would be too crowded” my daughter quickly replied. 

 Lockdown is teaching me that only when framed by space, can beauty be seen and appreciated. So I’m learning to simplify, and in so doing make space - space between each activity, space in my wardrobe, space on my dinner plate and space between each breath. 

My palette is simple, but oh what colours I’m learning to create!

A Wave of Change

There is usually very little warning when a tsunami approaches. It is triggered by an earthquake miles away; concealed beneath the ocean floor. When the ocean is deep, a tsunami can travel unnoticed on the surface at speeds up to 800 kilometres an hour. It can cross an entire ocean in less than a day. By the time it is close to the shore, you may hear a loud roar - a bit like the sound of a jet engine. Sometimes the sea retracts back exposing part of the ocean floor. At other times the tide just quietly rises higher and higher, often without anyone even noticing.

Covid-19 has been much the same. 

It came silently, unexpected and unnoticed. Like a tsunami triggered from a distant earthquake, the first tremors were felt thousands of miles away from us. We gave them little attention. But the faraway roar grew slowly louder and before we knew it, it was moving at high speed across the ocean closer towards us. 

In many ways, as we enter the second half of our 21 day Covid-19 lockdown, South Africans are still waiting for the real wave to hit. We’re running to high ground, towards the solitude and safety of our homes and away from the rising waters. We’re praying that our high ground hideouts and physical distancing will lessen the size of the tidal wave, perhaps even flatten it and prevent it from sweeping ruthlessly through our cities, townships and villages. 

At this stage it feels much like an uneasy waiting game. It’s as if the world and nature has silently pressed the ‘reset’ button and everything is uncertain. 

What will the next game look like, how will we learn to play it and what will the rules be? 

The world as we once knew it is changing before our eyes and right now nothing is certain except for change. Most of us find change scary. Change demands us to think differently and find new ways of doing and being. Change sits outside our comfort zones and pushes us to take risks, to be creative, to let go of comfortable habits and to move in unexplored directions. But, as Viktor Frankl once said: “When we are no longer able to change a situation we are challenged to change ourselves.”

I find myself both challenged, excited and even terrified by these words. But if there is one thing I’ve learnt in the study of story, it’s that no good story was ever born or told without hardship and resistance. Authors and screenwriters will tell you that it’s the essence of all great stories. It’s the very thing that grows and transforms the character. 

“If the point of life is the same as the point of a story, the point of life is character transformation. If I got any comfort as I set out on my first story, it was that in nearly every story, the protagonist is transformed. He's a jerk at the beginning and nice at the end, or a coward at the beginning and brave at the end. If the character doesn't change, the story hasn't happened yet. And if story is derived from real life, if story is just condensed version of life then life itself may be designed to change us so that we evolve from one kind of person to another.” – Donald Miller

 Could it be that the best part of our story hasn’t yet happened? 

 As we sit tight, locked down in our high ground homes and hideouts waiting for this tidal wave of change, let’s try our best to move past our fears and instead use the time to gather ideas, to gather strength and to gather confidence. 

I believe that when we rally together, to resurrect, restore and reinvent both ourselves and our communities, we may just begin to write the most unforgettable chapters our stories have ever seen…

The Tales Teens Tell

Have you ever wondered why you feel so excited after watching an incredible movie where the leading character beats the odds? All the goose-bumps, tears and laughter make you happy for the heroine and maybe even wish that you were the heroine. Your imagination nudges you with hope saying, “you too could be the one to go there, do that or become that. You could be that heroine.”

This is why we love a good story! A good story moves us, pulls at us and changes us. It makes us more ready to love and less likely to hate, it pushes us towards believing that the impossible is possible and it even teaches us what things are worth living for and dying for. 

A good story will always turn us inwards and quietly ask us, “What’s your Story?”

But in the half dark as I exit the cinema -  my heart full and my mind overflowing, somehow and somewhere, between scraping the popcorn from under my shoe and wiping the make-up smudged beneath my eyes, the bright neon lights  scream out at me: “Oh, but your story is boring, no one would want to watch or listen to your story, let alone be inspired by it. You could never be that heroine…you’re not strong enough, beautiful enough or brave enough!”

And of course I believe it, because deep inside I doubt myself. I feel I’m deeply flawed and that there are parts of me that are  broken. As I walk to the bathroom, with each step I try hard to convince myself that I could have what it takes to be that heroine. But staring in the mirror and trying to fix my messy hair, a voice inside me grows persistently louder… “You’ll never quite measure up. You’ll never be enough.”

Isn’t it easer then to just sit on the sidelines of other peoples great stories? 

I return home, lie on my bed and flick through Instagram. Post after post, I swipe past snapshots of the stories of others - friends, celebrities and strangers. Mostly, a swipe is all the time I’ll give, because, let’s face it, there’s a whole heap of uninspiring stories out there, and I couldn’t really be bothered to watch them or even gently tap my thumb and give them a ‘Like’.

But every now and then I stumble across a story that makes me stop. For a moment I am quiet, my heart beats a little quicker and that old familiar lump in my throat begins to rise as something deep inside me is stirred.

Why? 

It’s because I’ve witnessed a good story. Something lovely, something has moved me, inspired me and caused me to stop. To think. To ask, “What’s my Story?”

Will anyone stop at my story? Will it move others to pause, to think and to walk away from it with gratitude that they’ve witnessed something beautiful? 

As I ask myself these questions I’m painfully aware that to have a good story I will need to begin by finding the courage to step into my story and to boldly and intentionally write into my story the following words: “I am enough. I do measure up and I can become the heroine of a really good story. I will live my strongest story and others will stop, be stirred and be changed my by story.”

Then you will be able to say of me – this teen has a great tale to tell!

What my Mother gave me ...

Our stories are made up of many chapters. 

It’s true that some of those chapters sing with cheerfulness and others paint portraits of pain. What is absolutely true for every single one of our stories is that they all started with our mothers. 

A mother is always the beginning. 

Always.

 And although there is no way to be a perfect mother – there are a thousand ways of being a great one.

In this feature we have collected some of these ways.

These moments of gratitude are from daughters who recall what their mothers gave them. Gifts that have served as a model and metaphor in their own stories. Thank you for these honest contributions.

My mother gave me a mirror. She always reminded me to look in that mirror when I felt sorry for myself and see how unattractive self-pity is. This has been a gift that has served me well throughout my own life as a strong and others-focused mother. Jacqui

My mother gave me strength. She taught me what being a strong woman really means and how to just put on those ‘big girl panties’ and dig deep. For me she epitomizes what real, raw strength means! Deborah

My mother taught me independence and to always earn some money of my own. She also taught me how to fold plastic shopping bags into neat little triangles. Louise

 Mom gave me her leg warmers. She always told me, “Don’t forget to dance!” Michele 

 My mom taught me that you can’t buy happiness and you can’t buy class. Never go to bed bad friends.  And always put your husband first before your children. Be a solid united front as parents and never let your kids play one parent against the other. Bridget

 My mom gave me her banana bread & pancake recipes. I couldn’t live with out them!  Leighanne

 My mother gave me an old dress that belonged to her.  When she died I made cushion covers out of it. These decorate my little home and add so much colour! They're a wonderful reminder of the joy she added to my life and to the lives of so many others.  She loved to make things beautiful and these cushions remind me to do the same! Michele

 My mother gave me all her recipes - as well as my granny's recipes. These wholesome meals live on in endless moments of meals shared around our table with loved ones. This gift continues to nourish us all in so many ways! Deborah

 My mother gave me the ability to persevere. I watched her struggle with illness for years and she never lost faith and hope. She always remained positive and taught me what real endurance means. I miss her so much!  Michele

 My wonderful Mum has given me the gift of unconditional love and grace. Thank you Mum for teaching me about listening, loving no matter what and being gracious in how you treat ALL people! Julia

 My mother gave me the ability to love people I hate. Anon

What my mom gave me is 100% honesty!! I love that and I do the same with my kids! She was also never ever late when fetching me from school or parties or anywhere, she was completely 100% reliable and I try to do same with my kids too. Maryanne

 My mother sewed a quilt for me that was such a comfort when my husband died.  Joyce

My mother gave me a very expensive necklace. With this she showed me generosity. Years later I was able to give that necklace away to someone who needed it more than I did and I know my Mum would be proud of the legacy she instilled in me.  Maria

 My mother always gave me bottles of colourful nail polish and taught me to embrace the fun in life by keeping my nails bright and interesting. Rita

 My mother gave me unfailing support. She always believed - and still believes - that I can do or be anything that I want to. She is my biggest supporter and is convinced that there is nothing that I cannot do. She once said to me, "One day you will be on the cover of Forbes magazine.." I remember laughing at her words, but now I think that perhaps I might make it onto that cover one day. Lisa

My mother gave me unconditional love, she never withheld her love in anyway and I am so grateful for this. Julia

 My mother gave me a feeling. By this I mean that without words my mother would convey so much to me. A small tickle of my toes, a gentle rub at the base of my back or a soft touch to my face would speak volumes. It made me feel safe, gave me a sense of home and most of all silently spoke love to me. Helen

My Secret Garden

“It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years…She put the key in and turned it…she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly…She was standing inside The Secret Garden”  - The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

We all simply love a good story! Whether told by a grandmother, nestled between the pages of an old book or perhaps sweeping over the big screen at a movie theatre. Whichever way it’s told, there is nothing quite as magical as witnessing a great story. 

One of my favourite childhood stories is The Secret Garden. I clearly remember my dad reading it to me and how he would lower his voice into a whisper at certain parts - like when Mary pushes aside the ivy and enters into the enchanting beauty of this hidden garden. The story goes on to tell of how Mary begins to restore the neglected garden, untangling the matted climbing roses and painstakingly digging out the weeds that choke the daffodils and tiny dewdrops.

As she starts to work, so the magic of the garden and the story begin to unfold.  We get caught up in the poignant process of new creepers blossoming and old ones being cut back, leaving us silently contemplative. And so, the narrative does what every really good narrative should do - it moves us to think and reflect on our own story…

 This past weekend I’ve spent some time tending my own garden. I love gardening, but much like The Secret Garden upon its discovery, my garden is sadly neglected. In some parts the overgrowth runs wild and in others (where the Cape Town drought has taken its toll), it is sparse and left longing for sustenance. Tugging at strangling weeds, I can’t help but think that my inner garden must often look much the same as my garden outside. It’s neglected in some parts and overgrown in others.

Caught up in the myriad of obligations around me, my life quickly becomes overcrowded and messy. I think as women particularly, we all find ourselves pulled and entangled in so many different directions, tending and nurturing everything and everyone else around us that we seldom find the time and the discipline to nurture ourselves. 

Clearing the small patch where last season’s vegetables had grown, my nails now caked in dirt, I begin to carefully place new seedlings into the soil and think how the chaos of my outer story often determines my inner one. Yet I know full well that it should be the other way around. Our inner worlds should be ordered, uncluttered and well-tended and this, in turn, must dictate our outer activity. 

As I line up my little veggie seedlings into neat rows, I am certain that my inner, secret garden will require more attention if it is to become the well-ordered center of my story- that still axis around which all my other obligations and activities can revolve. From this still place of inner harmony outward harmony will follow. I sprinkle water on my neat rows of seedlings knowing that with this nourishment they will grow and in turn nourish others.

“How still it is!” she whispered. “How still!” … She was inside the wonderful garden, and she could come through the door under the ivy any time, and she felt as if she had found a world all her own”. -  The Secret Garden