Love is in the air

We're looking at Monicca Nicca's wedding dress to be. It was taken down with in moments of this pic, fitted and Monicca looked beautiful in it. She's also so practical - "can I wear it after the big day" guided her choice. Here's to the wise Monicca Nicca and her big day. 


Thank you Manu for taking this pic!!!!

Mike Boon's Vulindlela and Vuka Programme

Monicca was involved in a taxi accident on Tuesday. Her back went into spasm. Can't get hold of her to see if she is OK. This is becoming more about "Things of my place" than learning Sotho at the moment - but we'll get there. Allen - I aim to have a huge, complex conversation with you August next year - when the year is up.

Through my work with FNB, I attended a course called Vuka. It was one of the most significant experiences that I have had... in my life. A real frisson experience. After it, we were filmed to capture our thoughts. I was dumb founded - silenced - the words would not come. Unable to sleep, I tried to capture the importance of the experience in written word. The thing with most "out of this world" experiences is they are actually extremely difficult to explain - it is the experience, the feel that is everything. So Mike - there actually are no words but here is my attempt written hours after my return from Vuka all those years ago: 

Vuka becomes your story. It is about meaningful exchanges. It becomes so intricately interwoven into who you are and the things that you toil with, that it is impossible to describe without revealing parts of yourself. I tell a part of my own story here because I think the impact of Vuka is important for people to understand.

At one point of my Vuka journey I found myself sitting next to a young pregnant woman on a taxi. At first she didn’t want to engage. I pressed on. Partly because I had been asked to make a deep connection with someone and partly because I felt compelled for some inexplicable reason to engage with her. I was telling her about a friend of mine who had just had a home birth. I eventually asked if the position of her baby would allow a natural birth. Her face contorted with worry and all of a sudden I was beginning to understand why she had not been very talkative up until that point. She had just visited Baragwanath Hospital for a check-up. She was very worried about her pregnancy. One of the doctors she had seen on a previous visit had said something that told her that her pregnancy and her baby were not 100%. She was not able to put these worries to rest with the consultation she had just had. She had tried to ask the doctor about what she had been previously told, but instead of comfort her, the doctor had launched into a long and complicated explanation that had clearly left her more concerned than relieved.

We talked about doctors being cold and clinical and unapproachable. We talked about experiences that told us that doctors don’t always know everything. We talked about the fact that women have given birth for thousands of years unaided. We spoke about doctors being problem focused and about how that focus can make them want to control something that feels like a miracle. We talked about the importance of her needing to ask the doctor specific questions during her appointment the following week. We talked about what those questions would be, that they might be intimidating to ask but that they were important.

Her face showed that she still had tremendous worries despite the conversation we were having. I was compelled to say, “you will be fine . . . your baby girl will be fine”. I didn’t know that this was true, but I knew that she needed to hear those words. Her body heaved up in a sigh, she looked at me for what seemed like a long moment and eventually smiled.

She became more relaxed and we spoke about a number of things. At one point she was telling me about her initial disappointment and concern at being pregnant, because at 21 she felt she still had so much to do. At this point I felt obligated to tell her some of my own story because I felt it would give her a new perspective. I told her that I had done all the things that I was meant to in my twenties, that I had studied, worked and enjoyed my freedom. I told her how my husband and I decided to have children when I was 29 almost 30. I told her about how we had been struggling, that it was just not happening. I told her that even though things were not happening in the order in that she intended, given my experience, she might be thankful later for having children at a young age.

It was at this point that she turned to me and said, “You will have a child.” She did not know this as true, but she somehow knew that I needed to hear these words. I caught my breath, looked at her for a long moment and eventually smiled.

I write this early in the morning after returning from Vuka. I have been planning in my mind for hours what it is that I would like to tell other people about this journey. I had great descriptions in my head that I should have written down because now I have forgotten them. But as I was thinking these thoughts I came to the above story. While reliving it in my head, I began to cry when I got to the words “you will have a child”. It was in the quiet of the night so I felt completely alone and fully able to let go of all the emotions that these words stir up.

Those tears were a gift that a twenty-one year old pregnant woman gave to me. I will never forget her. If I should be blessed with a child, I will remember her like some kind of a prophet. If I don’t have a child, I will remember her like some kind of saint who showed great kindness by giving me words that I didn’t realise I needed to hear in order to cry.

And so you see, a young pregnant woman has become an important part of my story. She is intricately interwoven into it. That she is a different colour to me and of different economic circumstances feels insignificant, she is not a black poor woman; she is hopefully a prophet but she is definitely a saint.  

PS - Mike if you ever get to read this - please send me the pics taken during the immersion experience and hope you and Anne and your kids are well!!!!!

Its complicated

K – here’s a new addition to “Things of my place”. The first new addition in 12 years - who would have thought...

My grandfather was a beautiful, honest man. I have his shy and honest genes – the former can be frustrating, the latter dangerous.

In South Africa, we speak about the lost generation – black people who forfeited themselves, their things for the good of all. For me, their adjective… lost, marks an unselfish sacrifice that wasn’t rewarded.

I think there is also a lost generation in the white population – for completely different reasons… but with dire consequences. And for me, here, this adjective… lost, marks a sacrifice of mind, that can have serious and heartbreaking effects.

See, my grandfather was a beautiful person, but he was a racist. He paid for the shaping of the contents of his skull, very hectically.

He loved food. Loved it. A piece of mielie cob lodged in his intestines. Doctors had to operate to clear the blockage. He was 85 at the time. We were told to say our goodbyes because despite him being completely and absolutely in his skull before the operation, such operations are difficult for older people to pull through.

He clung to life for two weeks in an ICU ward of a private hospital. Who he was... his thoughts and fears, shaped his experiences there.

I wrote this poem six days after his death:

He was angry

Pulling things out

Threatening

Saying he was leaving

He looked at me

Said, “I am disappointed in you”

Called it a mockery

A show

…Now my creed

My remembrance of him

The next day he was subservient

A broken horse

A broken spirit

Subservient, not peaceful

He said he was very observant

I believed him

On my last visit

My aunt leant over him

Said “Now you be nice to Ker”

He reaches out to me

Says hello

His words become a cry

Swollen

Weeping

Sadness

Calling for mercy

Pleading

His heart in sound

Gesture

Reaching

A wave

Drawing me close

We become a choir

Singing sadness

No show

No mockery

The nurse interrupts with some pipe

Some thing

The moment gone

Stolen

Institutionalized

Lost to efficiency

Later, I tell him I have seven eggs in me

He says “that is wonderful”

His face matching his words

He is lucid

There

My Jacky Boy

He says “You were dressed in pink last night

You looked beautiful

Everyone was dressed in pink

You were all doing things in front of me that you really shouldn’t have”

We laugh

I kiss him with all of me

Tell him that he is my angel

No mockery

No show

My goodbye

…At his funeral, I wear pink

I cry when it comes

No mockery

No show

                                                                                                            31 May 2007

You see, in those two weeks, his vital signs had our hands tied – we could not take him out, despite his begging and pleading. In my Jacky boy's mind, he was stuck in his worst nightmare, afraid and needy and close to death amongst people he did not trust, amongst people he had been taught to fear. He cursed, used horrible, derogatory terms – and patience was lost. His nightmare snowball got bigger and bigger - he felt ever more tortured and terrified and lashed out leading to more to fuel his fears. A tragedy of cause and effect. Seeds planted an age before our time that we must stomach and suffer by…personally. Where were the rule writers, the idea makers at his hour of need? 

So yes, my grandfather was a racist… it was the only thing we fought about… but he was so much more than that … I promise… I’m qualified to say after a lifetime of knowing him. His heart was beautiful, shadowed in some places, but beautiful.

I can say similar things about my place - Germiston. Many there are racists and many there are beautiful people and many beautiful people there are racists. It is an innocent place – a naïve place. I married my next-door neighbor who I met when I was 3. My best friend technically lived in the same road as us, and so did his. It is a funny, funny place that Germiston – it has frustrated me and served me well.

You see, life is complicated and it is simple. I want to get through the complication in a simple and respectful and compassionate way!!!!


Read the above to my mom yesterday afternoon. She got quite tearful. Her dad was the apple of her eye. She hates that he suffered for those two weeks. She wanted him to go peacefully as his mother had... in his sleep. She also told me about how he used to cook a breakfast for Patrick, who helped in the garden, and the nurse that cared for my gran when she was close to her death. They all would sit around the table silent eating his always delicious meals (he was a talented cook). She also reminded me that he cooked soup every week for a soup kitchen. The people who visited this kitchen got to know his pots and would wait for them before they collected their food - his soups were legendary and apparently a bit of a problem stirrer at the soup kitchen. 


We are all such conundrums. We have so many versions of ourselves - especially in this country - the one Anke Krog describes as the "country of my skull".


OK - Jacky Boy - I am not sure that you were a racist - sometimes what you said made you seem one, but what you did says the opposite. Personally, at the moment, I agree with mama - you might be the Loerie I always see very curios about me and Kes - always trying to get real close to us. X

To earn is not to receive, to earn is to become

I am so, so frustrated. The birds are now singing and I've been awake since 12:33. Urrrrggghhhh. Monicca's work on this week's lesson has mysteriously disappeared. So here is the English - the Sotho will follow shortly!!!

To earn is not to receive to earn is to become (Boo)

Go gola ga se go amogela, go gola ke go ba filwe

(To) <Go> (earn) <gola> (is) <ga> (not) <se> (to) <go> (receive) <amogela>, (to) <go> (earn) <gola> (is) <ke> (to) <go> become <ba filwe>

These words have haunted me. They are one piece of a puzzle that had me retracting from my working world because it just didn’t feel like I was becoming.

In the last 13 years, I’ve sometimes felt like I was just receiving, and then had moments where it felt like I was becoming. I have worked with people who were clearly just receiving. I have also worked with people who were definitely becoming. It seems that both these paths are painful for different reasons. Obama, Mandela, Steve Biko are examples of beautiful “becomers”.

Many artists “becoming” has us all dumb founded and paralyzed wondering how they got there, how they did this… but I think its because they have their ears close to the chest of God (what Osho calls “it”) and that they are still writing holy scripts that people thought were complete.

Ingrid Jonker, who I also discovered through Chris Chameleon, has a poem in which she describes her life and her work as a mere grain of sand, and yet, Nelson Mandela quoted her during his inauguration speech. I also once watched a documentary on a black man deeply touched by her words. He had translated one of her poems for the woman whose tragic life it was about. He uncontrollably sobbed as he watched her read it. The memory of this man crying is a work of art, unfolding long after Ingrid’s death and a direct result of her self-proclaimed grain of sand “becoming”.

Thank you to the artists who have influenced my life and my struggle to become, which has been slow and solitary but there very strongly now. And thank you mostly to my little Kesiah – my catalyst. 

This is where the lesson ends, but I want to add...

I'm having a hard time - my shifting causes earthquakes around me in those that I love. Part of me just wants to retract back into my shell and live a solitary, quiet life that makes those I love feel peaceful. 

These poems were written after a therapy session at a time when I was struggling with anxiety. My two fellow Cancerian friends and followers (there's something cultish about that word - it should change) - know most of my full story - so this should not come as a surprise to you... they are poems that feel incredibly significant at 4:08am this morning...

I struggle to tread

Will it leave the same footprints on your soul?

I want you to be free

Of me

And my things

I want you to be free

To love and feel and run without looking back

I want you to dance and dream and play

For you

You sweet angel

No, sorry, little girl

You wonderful wonderfulness

That makes me cry and smile

Just sitting here writing this

You

Why do I burn with this?

Why do my hands shake?

And my insides fall

Why now

The becoming painful without a full become

Why do those that I love create this?

Me

I need silence

I need space

I need health

I need connection

I need freedom

I

Need

I don’t feel like writing this

My head hurts

Is my brain swollen?

Depleting itself with all the drama

Karma

Drama

What an ironic rhyming

Is this yuppie wondering?

Do the peeps in the kitchen in front of me have the same stuff?

Buff

Off the fucken cuff

Irritating stuff

Blah de blah de blah

Enough

Seriously was a poet

And didn’t know it

Early memory

We have the English content for our next lesson - we just need to work on the Sotho. Busy cause Monicca is planning her wedding ; )

What follows is a very vivid, early memory. I bathed in a horrible truth very early in my life - it was the basis for much of my ideas...

I hate loving this country. I hate what it is and I love what it is. I have seen horrible things in this country.

My eyes saw a man dying on the road, dying as he waited for help. Help arrives. It is the wrong kind of help. It is a whites only ambulance and it only takes white people. The dying man is not white, he is black. His blood is red.

I was looking out the car window just as we were passing the accident. My dad warned us not to look. It was too late. I was dreaming, eyes focused exactly where they would see a dying man. He looked as if he was half asleep. His legs and arms were outstretched in comfort. A still pool of blood lay next to him. It had fallen from his mouth and grown slowly in size. A mouth fountain of life lost.

I did not want to see him. I was little and it upset my world. I would have chosen to look away. I would have chosen not to know that he could not travel in the ambulance that first arrived. I would have chosen not to know his ambulance arrived much later, an ambulance that looked like an old aunty of the one that had been there before. He died. My mom told me that he was OK, but I knew he was dead. Why had that first ambulance not taken him? Why? Where did we find the hatred to leave a man that was so close to death?

Exert from "Things of my place"

For the great and inspiring Ballet Theatre Afrikaan and Thoriso Magongwa who I wish still danced

WWHD - code name for a cool friend, who at her sister's 30th birthday, said in her strong and beautiful Afrikaans accent she doesn't train away (halle flippin lujah for that) something along the lines of... "It is wonderful to bare witness to the lives of those around you". Sigh - it was one of those moments. 

WWHD is one of the most honest people I know. She's refreshing. She has retained her child like honesty - rare in this world. Another person who is one of the most honest I know, plagues me when I read through my writing because I imagine  his reactions. Once, he said to me, "Why do you always wear clothes that are too small for you?". He also once said to a reborn christian who worked with his wife, "I hate Christians". And, he hated my baby shower because of all the "emotional ooooooo stuff". 

So MW - if you ever, ever get to read this - and I know the chances are flippin slim... I know, I know - all emotional stuff - but it flippin is what it is. 

And with that said, here's another exert from the emotionally driven, "Things of my place".

Ballet Theatre Afrikaan (For Thoriso Magongwa - written in 2001)

You danced. Your spirit, expressing itself through your art, shaping your face. Your art, your passion has made you beautiful. So beautiful that you transend gender and stand as beauty in its own place. So beautiful that I cannot take my eyes off of you. Your limbs, your extension, your presence.

And then I feel sadness, sadness at all of this - that I only see now. I have past faces that are worn, weary, wrinkled, wry. And it starts me thinking about how experience can shape a face.

Work is love made visible

Allen - because you check out for our work all the time - we dedicate this to you and hope that you have found, or find, work that feels like and shows your love. We have the brackets muddled here and there and have not fully tested the content - but it is finally here - woo hoo (: o). Initially, I was recording the translations and I did the sotho words first and the english after. Monicca has reversed this order and I think this works better. Enjoy!

Manuela's love is made visible through her pictures. Manu - I need you to capture Monicca please. X

Work is love made visible (As seen on the back of a Primi Piatti waiter’s orange overall)

Mmereko ke lerato la go dira ponagalo (Bjalo ka ge lebona ka morago ga thetho ya Primi Piatti ye sorolwana)

<Mmereko> (work) <ke> (is) <lerato> (love) <la go dira> (made) <ponagalo> (visible) (<Bjalo ka ge lebona> (as seen) <ka> (on) <morago> (back) <ga> (of) <thetho> (overall) <ya> (of) Primi Piatti <ye> (the plural of waiter) <sorolwana> (orange))

I met Monicca many years ago

Ke hlakane le Monicca mengwaga ye malwa ya go feta

<Ke> (I) <hlakane> (met) <le> (with) Monicca <mengwaga> (years) <ye> (plural for years) <malwa> (many) <ya go feta> (ago)

Her mother worked with me and she herself was looking for work

Mmagwe o berekile le nna le yena o be a nyaka mmereko

<Mmagwe> (her mom) <o berekile> (worked) <le> (with) <nna> (me) <le> (and) <yena> (she) o be a nyaka (looking) mmereko (work)

What interested me about Monicca was she knew exactly what it was she wanted to do

Ke eng se se nthabesetseng nna ka Monicca obe a tseba ga botse ke eng seo abego nyakago go sedira

<Ke eng> (what) (se se nthabesetseng)<interested>( me)< nna> ( ka Monicca)(with Monicca) <obe> (was) <a tseba> (knew) <ga botse> (exactly) <ke eng> (what) <seo abego> (nyakago) <wanted> (go) <to> (sedira) <do>

She loved cooking and baking – something she says she discovered at the age of six

O rata go apea le go paka nako ye nngwe o rile o lemogile ka megwaga ye tshela

(She) <O> (loved) <rata> (cooking) <go apea> (and) <le> (baking) <go paka> - (something) <nako ye nngwe> (she) <o> ( says) <rile> (she) <o> (discovered) <lemogile> (at) <ka> (the age) <megwaga)> (of) <ye> (six) <tshela>

She singled her self out from the hordes of people looking for work in this country because she had a passion she wished to pursue 

(She)<O>( singled) <dumetse> (her self ) <yena> (out) <go tswa> (from) <ka gare> (the) <ga> (hordes) <lesaba> (of ) <la> (people) <batho> (looking ) <nyaka> for (work) <mmereko> (in) <ka> (this) <ye> ( country) <naga> (because) <ka lebaka> (she) <o> (had) <na> a (passion) <kgotlelelo> (she) <o> (wished) <okare> (to) <a> (pursue) <phomelela>

Good luck in finding the work that awakens you and makes your love visible

Mahlatse a mabotse ka go hwetsa mmereko yo tsosetsegowena le go dira la gago lerato go ba gona

(Good luck) <mahlatse a mabotse> (in ) <ka> (finding) <go hwetsa> (the work) <mmereko> (that) <yo> (awakens) <tsosetsego> ( you) <wena> (and) <le> (makes) <go dira> (your) <la gago> (love) <lerato> (visible) <go ba gona> 

Monicca, brilliant cook, entrepreneur and educator

Monicca, kgona go apea, entrepreneur le go rutega

(Monicca), (brilliant ) <kgona> (cook) <go apea>, ( entrepreneur) (and) <le> (educator) <go rutega>

Kerryn, educator and writer who would one day love to write the words painter, a gardener that cared a lot who grew her own vegetables and fruit, and nature lover and conservationist behind her name too

Kerryn, morutegi le mongwadi wa lestsatsi le le ngwe lerato la ngwala mantsu penta, ka tshemo ye hlokomela ga ga malwa yo go bjala a gagwe merogo le hlago go rata le conservationist gare leina la gagwe kudu

Kerryn, (educator) <morutegi> (and) <le> (writer) <mongwadi> (who) <wa> (would) <letsatsi> (one day) <le le ngwe> (love) <lerato> (to) <la> (write ) <ngwala> (the words) <mantsu> (painter) <penta>, (a) <ka> (gardener) <tshemo> (that) <ye> (cared) <hlokomela> (a) <ga> (lot) <ga malwa> (who) <yo> (grew) <go bjala> (her own) <a gagwe> (vegetables) <merogo>, (and) <le> (nature) <hlago> (lover) <go rata> (and) <le> conservationist (behind) <gare> (her name) <leina la gagwe> (too) <kudu>