…every body that ever was here that’s a woman or appreciates women as they are, sweet kings as they are in spirit and in truth, the finger prints of God in all His glory, I say
Happy day to ye, makers of beauty, photographers, writers, messengers of hope, warriors in grace, gardens of peace you yes you, I know you by name, and not- I pray you know how blessed the earth is that you walked here, you browsed here maybe, or pinged, even fed back, commented, read, or just said naught, but you are here in this University of Blogs and you inspire the earth to spin again. God bless you with the knowledge of how fabulous you are! Amen😇
I always look forward to this Prompt from Friday Five minuters, look forward to it with a relish I knew growing up with tonsillitis and was allowed ice cream only on sacred times of wellbeing! Ah well. Thankyou FMF writers, for keeping me in touch with words,mine & yours. Life gets hectic- beautiful yes, hazardous often in these days of virus and co., but creation never stopped. Sam my musician friend’s beard has gotten longer. Binda seems to heal from cancer, our friendly neighborhood pigeon gets bolder by the day, the children are taller, the sky feels more velvet, yesterday I caught a few drops of rain- it was cool and quenching in my skin, this morning I could not wake up the 5 am I usually do for my morning Quiet, but I kneeled within, in my heart, in bed, cushioning my spirit in Him, as He re- created me for a brand new day. Still in bed I open mail from FMF, and blog. Something I’ve done only twice. Blogging before brushing my teeth. Its a different odd feeling. Like breaking a rule, like smiling with your mouth closed? Maybe. Blogging is a whole cave of possibilities in a beach full of pirates, hehe. I see the world differently horizontally : the Word Observant hauls up sensitivities to look at life with new perspective: as a Server, a Waiter of creativity. A servant of It. Not obstruct its way. Not mess with its Maker, not shut eyes to the possibilities of the day. Here I want to haul self up and stare at the things waiting today:Wait. Ask. Pray. Serve as I watch, observe our Creator’s pathways in my day.
We had an anniversary, a triple cake treat by the kids, renewed vows solemnized again by our 3 who said they missed being there….
There was food like I’ve never cooked, (courtesy Kitsys Culinaries!) rings bought with their little earnings, gifts of card and music, prayers, photographs were taken;
I’m here thinking again on Blog advice (title) given by some Bloggers, and how the times have re-arranged us. Uncertainty hinges everything, one feels the need to celebrate heart on your sleeve, unabashed. Celebrate in the simplest ways, the complex matrix of Love and Life as is; thank the ones who deserve gratitude, bless those who may not, pray for all; ignore ignorance, hate hatred, use fear well, stay safe, honour all. Esp God.
Our wedding was an unforgettable event with white bougainvillea falling off trees, poinsettia in the hedges all the way to the chapel with a bell and a young priest who stammered for nervousness; it was surreal. We were 6000 ft above sea level, Mercara before tourism took its routes. That morning, families of clouds breezed through as the bridal march played. We’d never seen anything like that. The elements had come in to play among the pews.
I cannot help but think Life is a Marriage of Soul and Existence. We’re here like Clouds going through Chapters that turn with Winds of Change. We are way more than victims of ease or disease. We are citizens of kingdoms within and without. The questions we ask are between these kingdoms. The things we feel and write about or do not share are between these kingdoms.
What can I say; there’s rain and hail out side as I wrap this. Lockdown eases, fruit vendor wails for attention at 7 am. You dont want to yell him down, you’re thinking he has no money for rent, or his kids need lunch. It hurts, and it’s going wild in an insane way. It hurts to have cake, it hurts to not be at peace:
we are headed for answers to questions we asked long ago; only who knew these answers would question us. Answers about the meaning of life, and about things more valuable than ‘luxuries’.
Newspaper accounts are chilling. We are getting more introspective than ever. How long will C19 take, 10 years? By which time the Fashion industry, Entertainment and Industry would’ve morphed into Poetry of a greater kind, I’m telling you.
Also Bloggers. We will write about newer things? We mayn’t just skim surfaces of teacups & heart: we may be less shy, less afraid of Fear,Love,Joy,Peace. Words may turn out to be journals. Essential words, documenting Life as is. So yes, no!We may want to Blog-Journal, for the Times that will follow. For Posterity to know what 2020 felt like. For our own selves.
Old words will give birth to new ones: distance for instance. Who knows what will be when it comes to be?
But people of words, will find skills in their head and finger bones like they never thought possible. That and emotion. E’en Faith. And Fear, or the opposite of it. And Love. And the Face of the Invisible.
Little Anish, a tiny 9 year old autistic boy I met in the art room of his school…. well he’d walk backwards to go forward.
What the idea was I’ll never know but Anish did well to keep his eyes on us, and back into the sun. What lessons are in this one I can only try imagine; I remembered him today with this Story Prompt from FMF Writers. There was another thing Anish did: he never cried. When it hurt he sang, that was his crying- a high wordless tune that was rich and sweet.
I never got over him, his cherubic face and wide dark eyes that did not look worried. His world seemed locked in somewhere deep within, he was independent and did not talk much except in monosyllables to his mother.
My thoughts go to Anish now, wondering what he is doing these days: does he still back into the next step,
still sing in that unusual voice that makes me think of angels?
The sun came out first for an hour: its thin light chilled by windy surf. We were cold cold cold in our nails and collar bones, even knuckles. It felt hard to eat anything or touch water; sands stuck 3 inches hard in roof and floor. 2 windows and front door had been pulled out by gales wailing in the trees outside our house by the sea. You didn’t know why you survived and half a fishing colony did not. The sea lay sulking, guilty, no longer a
trusted friend till the sun came out longer the next day. It lit the edges of things, and warmed the water. Ma’s stove crackled once more, there were sounds of laughter, snatches of it in the street outside leading to a market. People were talking, it would take time. The next day…
…and the next, we walked by the sea. A few days later there were no more dead bird and dog. Someone played a stringed instrument in the distance, or did you imagine that? A few weeks later the sun was strong like it used to be before the storm. Windows were fixed, painted. Flowers grew back, smoke lifted from chimney, clouds hung like tamed pets. The sea smiled again at us, at our toes tickled by tiny wavelets. We forgave the storm; the sky was blue, a clear sapphire you could not ignore. It went in your other colors, in your grays and black storm torrent. You changed as you did after every storm, no matter the duration or damage. That is the greatest strength of mankind: the ability to live again, after a storm.
We had to go out, we got our permit complete with ID card. This was going to be alright I said. Jeff isnt the worrying kind so he says nothing. I hate this mask, it feels like I’m dying in it. Never mind. Once inside car, who’s going to be harmed just in case we are Carriers? And who is going to infect us anyway? Raise glass, seat belt on. Jeff grins hard. He knows how terrified I am of this… not Covid but the fact that we’re driving across the city, and will meet Blockades and Security Officers. In any case we weren’t ‘willing carriers of Illness‘; we had no recent record of foreign travel, we hadn’t harvested forest animals, there wasn’t even a hint of sniffle between us, not a purr in lung…. nothing. We would not willingly trip into Containment Red Zones. What’s to worry. Though, there’s been incidents of incurring Security ill will…
We take a turn we shouldn’t have taken, we see the back of a Cop, oh no.
We take a detour, another, and get in a lane where we’re now driving straight at the Cop whose back we fled from. He’s waiting for us with ATTITUDE, with Traffic Offender- Catcher- Sass… Aha. There you are the two of you!
I sit straight, fix mask, reach for ID and Papers. Jeff casually drives closer, the Cop is not moving, his gaze steady. Closer. Please God, not in a mood for this? My heart whams in my ears. Closer still. The Cop isnt wearing mask? His glassy stare looks through us. Jeff lets out a contained roar of laughter. You don’t say! It’s not a real Cop, it’s a Dummy.
We laughed so hard that evening, when we were finally stopped two hours later on our way back, and another Cop asked me to please go in the back seat ma’am we need a certain distance between two….. that was so funny too. I gave him my best smile, mask and all. He glared at my cheer: what’s with her? We’re in a Pandemic. Silly woman wants to be happy.
When Haishu sang it went in you like a shaft of Light. He didnt have a big voice, he didnt do big prayers, just little pauses as if God and He negotiated things as they did chords.
The whole experience was stilling. Not anything to do with any gift of Haish’s. It was his ordinariness, the pauses between, those stunned silences that still draws me to the Act of Letting Be & being Still and knowing the Presence of things other than my own take on life.
In Your Presence Lord, that’s where I belong…
Have a nice day.
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A beautiful thing it can be to see my foot prints in unread sands, in places angels might dread and eagles fear…. ah that, where the Love of God leads… you got to hold on though, to that invisible Hand that made the sands….
(From conversations with my friend Eva who can teach a camel a lesson or two about the desert).
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Momma, you kneeling in prayer – I remember you ~ mornings night, noon days of heart and song
you in the fabric of our earth & heaven & us three lil girls, you – now a Piece of Thel & Li & me & all the children…
THANKYOU is such two little words but it’s all I have: like the young ones’ sweet stammer wishes, hush- baked cake late last night for Mothers day, I grin out loud; there’s you in me/ us ‘telling songs & wishes in the fabric of an earth you birthed…
you in our hands and feet, in the way we see things;
they’re going to stumble out their rooms now, there’ll be hugs and kisses, I gaze at this like you used to go speechless unsure how to say Thankyou when we said love you – it’s such two little words.
You surprised that even I had three, me saying when I was 18, saying I’d never have kids Haha…
I know I know… there could be no mothers without our fathers and they are there strong in the brick of us, our dads and Sam and Jeff… and their mothers and fathers…and new sisters and brothers…your siblings with your face still here Uncles Sunny & Godfrey, precious aunt Bess miles away who just sent me a message, oh all their children …Ma…family roots spreading wings like angels
speechless now with our new selves ~ mothers all, even Joh our son tucking me into bed? Fixing my hair, his fingers a new tender last night; Vi whispering midnight hug, Kit with secret cuisine shopping list, hearts on their sleeve; and Anu and Sam and Akash across an earth not far at all from the heaven you birth every day anew thru’ all of us
…thankyou is such two little words as I stare at them looking like you ….
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We drive off Commercial street (Bangalore, Peninsula India), 3 pm, mid a month’s Lockdown- the streets are clutter free, we are armed with ID and saying ‘Nice!’ through the pain of losing our precious brother Sam.
Yes, he would’ve approved. “No big church service, just like he’d want it. No suit…” quiet words from his sister Dr.Prema Dhanraj, her eyes misty with love. No sad song & masses of tears. No hyper-parade of bouquets. Just a clutch of family members, though masked, distanced….
He was a Minimalist with blazing intellect & humor. He lived to love but his love was quiet, no frills. If you looked for a compliment he’d say, “Nice!” Or “Good” complete with dimpled chuckle that I cannot get out of my system and shouldn’t.
My eldest sis Thel (Sam’s wife) had a Bible that we all wrote in; she snuck this in his casket: its lid standing on Stone nearby had “I am with Jesus” on it, it stilled me. Still does.
With him, I was my unselfconscious self: was it only a few years ago, he and I mimicked a local street drunks’ brawl lasting not a few minutes? Recently his health got fragile, his shoulders had that tiny tremor, you wanted to hug him just a little longer but didn’t dare make him think you were worrying. He could read your head, know your ‘unnecessary‘ thoughts!
Sam wasn’t big on ceremonious religion but had this Respect for God, a thing you didn’t mess with. It was the way he lived, careful, caring, sensitive to detail. You didn’t hide things from God, if you needed an occasional peg you had it in His presence. I remember asking him for a taste of his cigarette, I was 21. He choked laughing then gave me one: “Try exhaling that, k?” That was fun. I’m rambling. Running from memories I want to chase away, but they’re larger than life now.
The last time we spoke (10 days ago?) was an accidental Group-Call my second sis Li made via our sisters’ WhatsApp ‘Mermaid’ Group, yes mermaids 😅, don’t forget we girls grew up on beaches, (once on a sand dune we’d daydreamed of being mermaids, hehe! The name stuck).
So Li called and Sam picks up phone instead of Thel. Li : “Now who’s this low voiced man on Mermaids saying, ‘Hellooooh!?’”
He chatted generally and about how good he’d been eating the past week; Thel walks in,” Uh ohhhh? Sam’s on Group call with …who?”
T ‘s her bubbly self, “This is a first group call of this, Haha!”;
she & he had become one Entity with shared polarities; how good they were together with their 2 fabulous sons Anudh & Akash: a treat to watch the four of them – each maddeningly independent, ferociously loyal to the other…… oh brilliant even to detail of when to add chillie to sizzling roast, steak!
The last thing he said in individual byes to Li and me….. “Bye Rayla!” His voice strong and cheerful. “Bye Merman, Sam.” I replied.
Offstage while we waited for the next Event at a local Fund raiser…how can I forget his guitar doing the Beatle’s Crybabycry:
with no Lyrics, I worked my own non-word- stylized-gibberish. He called it Russian. We did this very seriously, Thel streaming tears down her cheeks hurting from laughter…
Thel & Sam’s gorgeous sisters: I could write reams about his three illustrious sibling, each serving Humanity like only they can: Bravehearts – bravenow, as the Pastor wraps our small service in a Silence that somehow feels right. I cannot find a word good enough for it. Silence can be reverent gold. The sky rumbles for a second, gentle winds settle in the family tree under which the few of us huddle, forgetting Covid.
Death is where your sting, oh grave where your victory? Here we are immortal for the Love that binds us together across continents via Videocalls coming in and familial Love thicker than blood or the sadness of Now.
Next to him, in engraved marble- lies the Stone of his first son, the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen. He lived 5 days. 36 years have gone by.
Now as they lower his daddy’s mortality into the same earth, there is this silence of a family held by things best described as Peace that surpasses human understanding.
Marriage turns strangers into family. Sisters in law become a beautiful kind of sister: we admire their eyelashe and feature not just exterior but deep within. It turns our lives around to learn from each other through the years. I write this realizing how much we’ve been blessed by Sam’s presence, nah entire families, cousins, nephews, nieces….wish this post could cover also friends that became family because of Sam.
What can one say but go back and forth.
I could never count well enough even at our Scrabble board fights. He a Chartered Accountant / Sultan of Sudoku non par would cheerfully shudder. “If you try to, y’know? Maths is basic. Idiots.” His grin included all non-mathy people with me + tolerant brotherly kindness lending a generous taste of what it was to ever have a brother.
“He’s not here, no Thel?” I whisper. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“No Ray.” Her voice is level.
I draw strength from her, admiring her straight firm back and calm doe eyes. Sitting down somewhere among family Stones, I am unable to tear my eyes from the candles and flower petals all around, the air softening with dusk and with the Presence of Comfort; with the presence of each other softening from sorrow. Tomorrow we’d be able to take this. Maybe not. Tomorrow would have its share of challenges. New ones? I don’t know.
As we walk back past more names and dates and symbols of Love and Departure, we walk close. Life was/ is short. I want to love without barriers and protocol.
We move past high ornate stone gates; the Caretaker and wife watch their children play with a plastic bat and ball, all safe- distanced from each other.
Somewhere a koyal calls.
It will rain tonight. You loved it cool Sam, but you’re not here.
You’re with Jesus.
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Last night sometime around 2 am sleep got me in little bits: but my daughter’s words tossed me on pillow. “Hope can be a painful thing,” she said, her face melting with the things I was telling her….
…how I want my brother in law back from the valley of death (not Covid) : how bad my sis Thel needs a miracle, how impossible it seems. Sometime now they will know whether he can really make it back. And how. Should I say all this in a Post at all; here it’s become an altar, an altar of healing, prayer for us all in steeping places: the best of us may face the worst. Dearest God please bring my brother back even for a bit, there were many wishes he had, many we all had, have.…
Yes I know the pain of hope, how it can wrench heart. And we’ve seen the fulfillment of many things these past years.
Don’t you too wonder where the spirit of us goes when we rest in particular state in hospital bed? That tunnel of life, the Light at the end of breath….
Yesterday and now this reading: “..the word of God is alive and full of power( active, operative,energizing,effective), it is sharper than any two edged sword, penetrating to the dividing line of the breath of life(soul) and the immortal spirit, and of joints and marrow….” (Heb 4: 12, Amp.Bible)
What d’you say in a day like this…
we wait, pray; grief and hope hold each other. It’s raining outside. Is that a sign? My brother you are with God right now I know, just wish you’d come back for a bit and tell us all of it all. Love you forever.
There was no ‘magic’ in Penja’s bowl, nothing but her basic steamed rice in turmeric & garlic fried curries.
If we were fortunate we were treated to stir fried onion rings, tomato pickles and home made breads.
When Penja served you her glass of water it was in copper tumbler scoured clean with tamarind. She didnot own one store bought masala tin or even toothpaste. When you had her rice cooked in earthen ware, you smelt the rice field it had grown in; you were made to think of the farmer’s ride to the grain bazaars …of hands that bore that rice sack to the city all the way to Penjas store room next to her mango tree and coconut stack.
All this made you feel well. It cured Dantri’s asthma, and Shom’s colic. We didn’t talk of it but we knew. If anyone saw Penja whispering in her pot as she cooked, no one said anything about that. We just knew it worked.
She had no visible gods and goddesses in her rooms or in her compound where she lived alone with her mint garden and pomegranate. Oh she served pomegranate in juices, in salads, in curd, with dessert, or by itself. Oneday she told us how we had everything to live well, and how to thank God for the workers who brought them to us. It was confusing at that time. Like we were responsible for causing that much work to farmers. Or God. But Penja, our neighborhood friendly aunt lived grateful. So everything she touched spilled with that emotion. I’m thinking it’s a cure all by itself: gratitude to mankind, the planet and God for all favours received, and for necessary or unnecessary hardships. It all clung together somehow, all of us going round and round the sun in a merry go round of events that made sense or none, but it was like algebra. It worked itself out if you were patient and waited for itself to settle. Somethings didn’t settle fast. Like trigonometry for me, or tonsillitis. Not till after the surgery, and after my throat stopped feeling like a thousand cuts, after which there were food restrictions and no icecreams till later. Penja felt kind especially during those times. She made illness and pain feel important and celebrated. I got a eucalyptus throat wrap and inhaled sweet camphor under our guava tree, the one with tiny anthill and crumbly sand. It all was gold washed in sunset or early noon. You let the sun fall on you, it made you feel altogether and not odd. You picked that up from Penja if you lived nearby or stopped over on the way back from school.
Penja had a ritual of sitting a few moments every now and then to be still. We were too young to know the depth of that. But it felt good to watch when we could. It was like the sky and earth met up somewhere between her ears and gave her joy. This was more than Peace. She had been a young widow, now she was silver white like her cotton saris and ragged hymn book. Oh a golding white, like ripe corn in a setting sun….her hymn book, her prayer sheets and hands – as if they were rinsed in Light. That’s all I could think even back then. Even her low voice singing words hard to decipher, my guess is they each were thankyou words, she loved God like that. Like a personal Person. She was too much a home body to go out to a chapel but it was all in her heart someplace shining out her eyes.
She died recently and left me a legacy I’m trying to pursue in these days of Essential Existence ~ in the art of tomato chutney seasoned with curry leaf or roasted red chillie/ cumin seed. Yeah, all those chillie farms and onion braids in bazaars ripe with God’s own aromas of life.
Oh and her pomegranate juices, they made you think differently of ordinary events like after -school messy socks and trails of homework, ugh. Sigh yes! Like an Elixir.
Penja, wherever you are out there in His Courtyards, I love you for making me think of all that now.
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In my dream just now, giant lemon rinds chased us down with mint sprig, down ginger spiced soda, home-made like they used to make them,
& in the dream This could cure disease, even Covid- could it, could it be, the cure of deadly disease that feeds our machine, could it be,
that the cure of Larger distress…is in the Little un-noticed things: not just lemon drops in ginger-sprigged minty ices,
could it be: the Elixir of Life is in often ignored Instruments of Peace?
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Infamous Marie Antoinette quote that fired social rage, ‘Eat cake’ when people had no bread left: yesterday it brought home the fact of how rich these times of physical poverty can be;
I watched our little girl who’s outgrown/ still outgrowing little and large social – growing up- bruises in a time that’s maybe the best/ not the best for anyone this much@ home: she bakes a yum cake besides entire dinner/ lunch to warm our hearts, but it’s a day that hungers for all kinds of Breads.
It is the 40 days after the resurrection of Christ, I’m curious about everything He did during that time. Wasn’t there also an early morning He fixed a seafood breakfast at the beach, at dawn?
Also curious about ’40 days’. His fast was 40 too. What is the significance of those 4 tens? Here a Newborn must wait 40 days before a Christening. People fast 40 days at Lent. Curious. There’s time enough to look close at many things we chatted on about/ took maybe easily. Now it’s all looking in at our windows.
My Gran Tara was Ace-Ludo player, oh was she queen at it, she’d kill, stalk us with the craft of a Chess champion. I wonder now, how the older Gen. would’ve handled Lockdown woes if they were here? They’d have taken music out, skimped on food mercilessly, there’d have been more fastings and prayer than we dare, or care to have, scripture readings….
Gran Tara was an avid Radio listener to everything from Vicks’ Vapourub commercials, to Beatle’s music and Billy Graham. Is how I got to hear him, and Beatles in the first place. Oh gran wasn’t into lyrics but she loved to dance, her sari pallu tied in knot at waist as she sometimes cooked a surprise meal for us, after insisting we all go out for a walk at the beach.
I try hard to be like the ones gone ahead. My Ma never never yelled if someone left a coffee cup somewhere. I break into hives, not that I’m a clean bee at all. Been praying earnestly for a ‘Clean spirit’ to de-possess my laid back self. Been praying for the easy wit of my dad, and Jeff’s dad, they were gentle-warriors too. Jeff has that patient love that will not take offense at all. I go up the wall. But no, not him. Yesterday all our streets were cordoned off and I know it’s all for good. I’m no extrovert, hate having to dress up to go somewhere, unless occasionally. Now I’m reeling at being physically fenced in like that.
Then. I read a blog post this morning from a young girl who lost her Mom this week, having given away their nice house to a poor family, to run from a political situation. My head blanks. How d’you cope with that?
Today is my quiet day, the family gives me abs space to go away into quiet with a list of things to ask Daddad in heaven. So my thoughts travel around all of us in an earth, in a time like Now:
will all miraculously change in 40 days? Should I take 40 to breathe soft in the air, pray, think, live, love deep: look at the dear ones around me, look for signs of things they need, watch them smile, eat their love offerings of little cake and hugs, take nothing for granted, not one little new green leaf in our tiny garden balconies and spaces around…
I’m thinking some more thoughts. They walk all over my floor, and ears and mind. Wondering how little we know of an earth we share, and how massive our blockades are, in terms of culture and development, or language and pace. It’s all crashing. Our needs are getting more basic today, our prayers the same, almost….? I’m trading a particular memory of an old chapel on a hill we used to go to, it’s well worn pew…. trading that for a new Christ Jesus I’m seeing recently : nothing about Him changed. He still walks through Locked doors and wall….
What if only now we’re eating at the same table, communing with the real thing… what if This is all going to break into a new Era, the likes of which we have never even begun to comprehend ….
What if the Love and Life of God hasn’t even begun in Us, what if we’re all about to be startled like never before, in our prayer closets, in our Upper Rooms, and Hiding places in gardens of a self-centredness, nothing like the original One; we have just been weeping for our own daily bread and physical safety, been judgemental legalistic and narrow/ suspicious of each other, with zero preparation for Eternity.
I get that about this apparently new Christ Jesus treading the Waters of Social mindsets, treading our well fenced privacies; a Christ @ that Gethsemane praying futuristically for us in 2020 that we’d get off our rocky status in rocky boat & take those steps to Him no matter the waves of uncertainty; a Christ in blood tears hoping we’d trade old anchor for a walk with Him yeah via this valley of the Shadow …
eat Manna, feast at Tables of Grace, rest in His Touch:
Grace: let its Oils bore deep in our minefields of habit…
I must stop for now, but this is real: this Covid Age – Christ walking on the Waters to you & me.
Thankyou Janetsm(Historic Writer/ I love her Blog! Do visit) for writing in about ‘Ads on my posts,’ and often really irksome ones too.
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One of what appears here as I publish a post; no, there’s no control over these things for me, as I have not “UPGRADED TO A PAID PLAN TO HIDE ADS…” & the other screenshot is of Janetsm’s useful query, I hope that’s ok. Janetsm, thankyou so much for writing in.
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Phew! Sigh. WHAT DO?
Holy Saturday here feels quiet and a little more tense than yesterday as blockades around our city Covid hotspots appear in local news. People are panic buying again; ach! We are running out of a few supplies. Trusting this blows over soon. Praying for a whole lot of things this morning, for people all over the world and in our smaller circles to have all the resources they/ we need to survive, stay healthy and productive.
Blessed Saturday everyone, everywhere and thankyou again Janet. Wish we had the power to buy up privacy, buy safety and resources, and too, basic decency at a time when we’re going to need to most.
Pic below of our daughter Kitsy’s Japanese cuisine last night complete with sake, sauteed mushroom, and marinated eggs. Before that it was her exotic eggplant + gravy. I’ve zero clue how she unearths these mouthwatering recipes.
Added that bit to cheer up a saddish post. Feeling in-fringed on. Not a nice feeling. WordPress, sos!
..the darling sweetheart angel warrior-dare devil- soul saver- doctor teachers of my life,
to my fabulous sisters at war and love and peace, my sisters – in- love & law, my irreplaceable gorgeous daughters/ precious nieces & friends of my kids who are my babies too;
my awesome aunts, neighbours, friends, fantastic fellow Artists, Writers, Inspirers, WhatsAppers/ Groupers/ Cousins, ohhhh my unforgettable classmates, & beautiful Blog mates ….
God gifted you to this life, I’ll never take that for granted. When I grow up, I want to be like you!
Happy Womens’ Day, may you never be bored or stop loving the life we are given, may you forever stay blest, because
And a very special one to my Ma, my first teacher of the Word and song and dance. Where you are now is Fields of Joy and I miss you, but you beat with every rhythm of my heart. Thankyou for being born for me. Do you read this ? LOVE YOU, Thankyou Ma.
His eyes were closed- ofcourse, what’d I expect, Joh was born blind, though Doc Parin (name changed) was looking at him, as if with a search light right to the brain. Then he scrutinised us carefully in that quiet room with nice vase and air conditioning. Warm August, palm tree in his window, fine scent of pine floor wash.
Our son Johann was at his worst: post seizure drug side-effects weren’t pretty. I’ve written about this, but not in detail. Details that will forever remind me of that Other Presence in the room besides the girls, my husband, son Joh, doc and me.
“So, Johann. You’re a …musician I see. Play the violin?” His voice was flat smooth butter on crisp toast.
Neuro had referred us here to Psychiatry, really?!
What a rollercoaster of a year it’d been: series of Docs at Neuro centre, trial medications;
over this past year our gentle sweet tempered 18 year old had turned into a harsh, aggressive stranger. There were scratches and bites, rage and chaos.
“What’s your favourite musical piece then?” Doc was friendly, but I cringed. What was expected here...Bach?
We’d been out since 6 am to beat rush hour traffic to St.J’s. Joh hated hospitals, we told him we were going to a new Restaurant. (The Cafe there did have some nice rolls though😃). Now knowing we were here had infuriated him further, not to mention all that medication he was on.
Joh sank his forehead on the table.
I felt a dark thick wave hover over my temples, as weariness began to overwhelm me-
weary sick of medications that hurt our kid, of people who tried to assess our personalities as a family, of being judged and stared at. Joh was our golden boy, the girls couldn’t function without him. He had a way with words and humor; knew how to keep guests entertained, sang like an angel, played at least 3 instruments. After the seizures suddenly began last year, his voice had begun to give, along with tremors and sweats. Repetitive words, noises, sudden fury, dearest Lord… help?
Doc P. was gazing at some spot over our heads, his face a melting pot of pity and professional sorrow;
that big black wave of depression over head now began to crackle crash, I felt the earth below me shift and heave. Joh had been featured in gigs- with a band, solo, he was a force to reckon with. Was pitch perfect, could call out names of chords, tuned instruments, jammed with some of the city’s best… now a mass of nerves, he yawned hard and flung at a stack of files. Doc sighed….
my husband Jeff put an arm around Joh, the girls made the soft sounds they make when they are cheerleading him. I tried to think of something but all I could do was cry tearless inside, diving into a depth away from the black negativity, I couldn’t breathe ….
Joh straightens and says in clear tones, “Reckless Love. That’s my favourite one.”
“What violin piece is that? Never heard of it.”
“It’s my favourite…”
“You play it on the violin…?!”
Before I could exhale, the Lyrics lifted me over and above the thing trying to destroy peace…
“Before I spoke a word, You were singing over me You have been so, so good to me Before I took a breath, You breathed Your life in me You have been so, so kind to me, Oh, the 1, never-ending, reckless love of God Oh, it chases me down, fights ’til I’m found, leaves the ninety-nine I couldn’t earn it, and I don’t deserve it, still, You give Yourself away Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God, yeah…” (Kory Asbury)
I could write on and on.
Joh is 90% better. Doc’s been steadily knocking off 3… no 4 drugs that weren’t supposed to be given to him, while now introducing a new one. Theres deadly withdrawal too we deal with. It’s a tough 24 hrs/ day, often every minute we take a new risk. Triggers must be watched. Tempers, language flies, we all host series of bruises in various tones of healing.
Tonight at prayers, Joh sang Reckless Love again, and before I say another word, I must say how this has changed me, to know He breathes over us, over and over, realtime recklessly, in love pursuing us, till we overwhelm the thing that tries overwhelm us.
Life’s getting steadily more beautiful. We thoroughly relish silent pauses, hands are held, faces hugged. Sweet Jesu what a wonder You are, how precious this life is, in its healing stages too. What heights and depths here we’d never have sampled if not for these days. Before we forget, I need to put it all down: the fabulous reckless love of God that holds us all close, no matter how unchartered the course. More than physical, it’s the spirit of man that yearns the presence of God.
I’ve exceeded my 5 mins Kate Motaung of FMF writers, but am grateful to you all for Prompts that wring out these precious details, for the widening circle of friends who make life a blessed experience to share. God bless you all, and precious ones who take the time here to read/ comment. Stay blest.