when we were four

At twenty-seven dad married mom aged twenty-three
Two young adults in love with life without God
One year after I arrived, fourteen days late, healthy and hungry
Another year on, Mia, my sis, showed up but died an hour later
Photos smelling like Tabu among mom’s jewelry, nobody smiling except me
Then we were three

Closing down the factory after bearing my brother―fearing genetic defects might increase
Thirty-two months my junior, beautiful, gentle Derek
Faithful companion in the crowded Portuguese cafe buying warm white bread when school got out
Garden-bound-camping adventures, dramatic Christmas productions, and dressing up the pets
The blonde Wessels-clan shared nine caravanned summers down by the sea
Once when we were four

God moved in with us three months following the February I turned thirteen
He sent people, meals, and flowers three years later in June to Derek’s funeral and for many weeks there after
Mom’s sadness made her legs get weak which stopped dad from running so much to work and back
He built our simple beach house instead where we spent another fourteen Decembers beside the still waters
I miss the noise of many voices
without ever decorating another green tree with tiny lights since then
Now that we are only three again

Crossing eight time zones in seven planes, one train, one bus smuggling American chocolate in for mom
Christmas Eve winks at me ten days from now, celebrating the life of a Son subsequently lost to a sick world
Smelling the salt in the air, hugging dad’s broad shoulders sitting next to mom’s wheelchair
We smile at the Southern Cross and pray in hope for filling this home once more
With children’s laughter, getting sand inside the bed, received as the ultimate gift on earth from God
If one day we could be four again

let me out

Help!
Weight unbearable,
lungs unheaveable.

Awful smells suffocate, pinning me down to the third floor carpet.
Asian recipes, old oily fish, used diapers imprison me in this building like the unwashed smell of sweaty shoes.
Academic demands press down on my chest, colorless shadows suck up remaining heat inside―no escape.
Asthmatic panic seeps in beneath my front door, crawling over my motionless lips , chewing into my skin.

Help me Lord!

Close eyes,
pretend to fly,
huge wings rustle nearby,
stirs air across my face,
waving sweet scents into my burning lungs.
Dark shapes move away from eyelids still shut.
Warmth softly strokes exhausted arms and tangled hair, pale ochre rays stream into the room.

Looking up,
relief flows down.
Hope.

for jacob

...just to let you know that my retirement plan makes provision for pets...

I think this brochure said that they allow cats and fresh flowers in the rooms (chiseled-out caves in a mountain range in the south of Spain with heated water and satellite TV...)

..as far as I know we should have clear cell phone reception around noon when they start up the generator for our evening showers and daily dose of The Golden Girls, so you can catch up with me (around 6:00am in Dallas)...for a quick chat...

here and there

Eleven o’ clock again.

Shut up…Let me sleep.

You should get used to this if you plan to hang around.

Leave me alone. Who says I want to stay anyway?

Alone is exactly how you will end up, weighing 250 pounds addicted to Starbucks coffee and peanut butter.

When I finish school I will start living a normal life. My habits will change dramatically…for the better.

Do you mean that you will start drinking sodas with your breakfast, buy CDs with nature sounds on because you can only hear sirens through these double glazed windows and then decorate your house with plastic plants that survive by themselves?

I will find a place with space to plant a real garden, care for a cat or two, and move around a lot outside. Working with the garage door open, I will hear the squirrels fidgeting in the trees and smell my personal piece of cut lawn. Why do I bother justifying your ethnocentric arrogance with an answer anyway? Get out of here. I must sleep.

You wish you could remember the smell of the lawn in your parents' backyard after the rain. I know…I see your mind trying to feel the hot sun against your face. This place has sucked you in, don’t you see? You have accepted the fact that you hear your neighbors flush their toilets, that the anti-burglar lights burn so bright all night that you have never had a single night’s sleep without dreaming since you arrived. No wonder you need to take drugs to get some sleep here.

Oh yes, I should take some Melatonin and remember to put the pillow over my head. I might as well get up and fill my glass with water again. Staying hydrated with the heater on all the time makes for a busy night.

Do you want to spend the rest of your life over-exerting your kidneys in this insane climate? Back home you at least knew what to expect; one season at a time. You could get through a blistering summer day, easily braving a hundred degrees without any air-conditioning.

I do hate how the freezing wind stings my nose and eyes…I think it shrunk my skull last Sunday. I had a headache all day after going out to the store for some milk, coffee and―

You see! I told you…becoming an addict already. Next you will start cooking for guests from boxes and put chocolate chips in everything. Have you read the content of their so-called low fat creamer? Liquid sugar, I tell you.

I use half and half with real sugar in my coffee by the way. Why do I bother to explain myself to you. Lord? Hallo Lord? Please make this stop!

What about all those hungry people living on the streets without any food to eat while you stuff perfectly edible left-overs down the garbage disposal?

Shut up, I want to speak to God now…Yes, Lord. Hallo?…Can you help me get away from here…would you please show me the beach in Stilbaai again…I want to feel the boat going over the swells toward the ocean…rocking me to sleep.

nearness

End of the week.

Exhaustion.

Ten days from now I begin my three day journey to reach our family beach-house facing the Indian Ocean.

After crossing eight time zones I hope to regain enough of my faculties to make a mug of Earl Grey tea, open the glass sliding door, inhale the salty ocean air as I step out toward the tiled stoep and find a seat with my feet crossed on top of the wooden balustrades.

Sitting down with my legs stretched out in front of me, represent complete contentment.

Nothing to hide or fear or worry about.

Knowing that God is in control.

Marise, my pseudo kid-sister who grew up three houses up the street from my childhood home, sent me these pictures of her unborn daughter who is scheduled to arrive on my birthday in February 2006. Inside this womb, beats a tiny heart with God’s fingerprints all over it. Divine intentions for her skills and dreams one day.

Yesterday joined Thanksgiving 2005 as the best day of my life in the US to date. I can not remember a day in which I had laughed so much and felt so aware of God smiling over me. Tasting life in its fullness.

Today I realized again that wisdom and faith is about taking one day at a time. Being healthy enough to get up and do what I planned to get done without being physically dependent on somebody helping me eat, dress or walk. Having enough food and drink for this day and being surrounded by enough friends to feel loved for today. God is sufficient.

Even with finals looming and assignments due...through zombie moments when my brain stalls from sleep-deprivation and I stare out ahead in the middle of having a conversation...

People may ask me: “How are you doing?”

I can still answer: “Well indeed.”

God is near.

lioness

Appearing oblivious, I hear the leaves move under the caress of the wind. Yellow hairs tremble in its breath.
Squinting against the bright light, I keep my head down, yet fully focused on my objective.
Soothing their young, my sisters lull together, affectionately they look out for one another.
I watch the horizon.
Alone.

Thundering declarations of their conquered boundaries grow louder for weeks on end―still no sight of them.
In this lair we draw blood, we nurture, we age.
Scarred muscles and torn skin testify to painful pasts however, perfection comes through practice.
I sense him draw closer.
Soon.

My evaporated gene-pool hinges on extinction―much depends on the Alpha male’s success.
In exchange for his consent, I keep this pride, I raise his clan, I find purpose.
He protects my hunting grounds while I exert all I have for his sake.
Abiding by the rules of engagement, though he must initiate the meal.
I wait.


Together we rule his defended territory while I endure this seasonal separation.
Protecting purring sucklings, I will kill my own kind if I must.
Approaching paws. Instinctively I prepare to pounce. Long awaited reunion delights in his familiar scent.
Fluffy cubs grunt and play, tugging at his fearsome mane always in my view.
Content and surrendered.

Different scenery, foreign sounds, unexpected obstacles try my endurance. I stay strategically ensnared.
Adapted to this landscape now, I lay down my expectations. I welcome help but remain self-reliant, alert.
Repeated patterns settle my status among the females, occasionally still aggressive under threat.
Unretractable clauses rip free from bloodied tissue―wounded by careless words.
Survival of the meekest.

above the clouds

Last night I sat in a dark space with hundreds of candles flickering around the edges of it.

In the middle a wreath enclosed four purple wax sticks―unlit. Symbolizing the arrival of royalty and peace, the entire design focused on a majestic white candle―to be lit on Christmas Eve.

“…our life of hope is not a guarantee of safety, but an invitation to risk. To live in hope is not to have reached our goal, but to be on a risk-laden journey…” Ken Collins

I listened to a story of a revolutionary Christian named Stephen, who threatened the legalistic traditions of a snobbish club of religious intellectuals in the first century. Many of these stiff-necked old men probably started out with sincere ambitions but got caught up in their own desires to control others and lost their vision in the process. In the end they conspired to kill him rather admit that they were wrong.

Looking at a photograph of the sun shining above a solid cloud bank, I thought about how many flights I’ve taken in my life―taking off on a windy or rainy run-way with lightning flashing across the tormented horizon. Clasping on to my seat (definitely in the up-right position) and watching eating trays drop loose from their clips as turbulence compete with the pilots’ resolve to get this huge bird into the sky regardless of the discomfort. Generally passengers respond in two ways under these circumstances, either cussing in violent tantrums or deadly quiet, trying out prayer for the first time as they consider the twenty odd hours ahead.

Usually the air-pockets and thunder storms occur so low that we get out of them quickly. A few months ago when Hurricane Rita caused havoc in and around my neighborhood, my dad’s flight from Chicago got rerouted via Memphis to Dallas―flying directly across Rita’s path. Needless to say, I seriously doubted the local air-traffic controllers’ intelligence and deliberated with God how this could happen.

My dad told me later how they flew right over the hurricane and the sun was shining brightly, no turbulence or drama at all.

Praying in the ochre candle light, I thought about hope and Christmas and the price of my risk-laden journey to America. Two or three particular names and faces of close friends in my life―also scattered across the globe―pounded in my chest. My heart breaking for them who were injured and humiliated by arrogant, unteachable religious leaders in the past.

Wishing I could apologize for their awful experiences on behalf of my blameless and radiant King.

giving thanks the day after

The most precious memories of my life relate to food and lively conversations around a big table. Yesterday’s home-made mashed potatoes, apple pie and a never-emptying glass of unsweetened ice-tea (without ice) will trigger my unforgettable encounter with a loving family in DeSoto, Texas. Unable to clean off my gold-trimmed plate, I thought will never get hungry every again.

I joined two wrinkled lovebirds, having recently celebrated sixty years in marriage as the three privileged guests not genetically connected to the McRae-family. Surviving the Second World War as a sergeant in the air force, he sent word from Italy to his fiancée on a farm in Oklahoma to get their wedding bells ready. But their long awaited union was delayed by a sudden onslaught of Polio which left him paralyzed and unable to write to her for three months. Two years later they were finally married in the hospital and began their life together in Dallas where he had a blackberry bush and a feisty German neighbor.

This was my second Thanksgiving in the States and as most American traditions go, it turned out as a very educational experience for me. Last year I was introduced to the New York parade―finally understanding what Ferris Bueller’ was on about―and the bizarre bargain shopping on the following Friday morning. This year did not disappoint. I learned to play a game called Train and that a full-blooded German oma can lose her dominoes and her marbles over American football. The nugget for the day was that a woman who tells you her age will tell you everything.

Riding in the back of the car toward the night time skyline of downtown my face ached from laughing too much all day. I said goodbye to all the beautiful people I had around me for an entire day...what a priceless gift!

My addiction to tea with milk drove me out to the store this afternoon. I dragged my lazy bum across the empty campus lawn toward the enclosed parking lot next to the men’s dorm. While living in the city with the highest crime rate in the US, I am still more safe walking to my car here alone than most single women living in Africa.

Avoiding the unbelievable hazards en-route to Wal-Mart, I thanked God for this faithful old car with the parallel cracks across her windshield, her clutch slipping now and then, her non-existent air-conditioning―my proud chariot. She was given to me two months ago as a gift by a generous couple who lives by grace themselves.

Inside the store I thanked the lady who rang up my groceries and asked her if she was able to spend yesterday with her family. Stopping at the light between Ross and Washington, I watched an old Mexican man cross the street in front of me. On foot from somewhere to nowhere, carrying two plastic bags, staring straight ahead. His gray moustache surprisingly groomed gave his face a thoughtful look. I felt grateful for a fixed street address and the brief telephone conversation this morning with my parents across the Atlantic.

My hungry stomach mocked my short-term memory now for leaving the two carefully packed containers with my left-overs on the kitchen counter next to the African Violets last night. A great excuse to treat myself with a cheese burger at Jack-in-the-Box―remembering it soon enough this time before I drove past it...like last time.

Mercia takes my order while a rowdy customer demands the key to the restroom.

“There’s somebody in there.” An elderly man explains on her behalf, sitting by himself at a table facing the coveted door. Our eyes meet and he returns my nod with a smile.

The service is quick and I barely have time to greet all the hairnetted Hispanic girls working in the kitchen. Probably single moms wishing they could be at home with their kids―I leave with a warm brown bag and a cold milkshake. Not quite what I had yesterday but a treasure compared to what many mouths have to eat today.

I pull out into the street again thinking―Keep to the right woman...remember to stay on the right side of the road!

after watching the Sea Inside - 2004 best foreign language film - about euthanasia

She reaches up from her mobile prison for a warm hug

Cold fingers, weak arms, aching shoulders, soft scent of Knowing comforting her little girl

Loving words dissolve over the long-distance phoneline from her dragging tongue still trying to speak

Mother of many who listen to her wisdom lying on dad’s king-size handiwork having tea and home-made cake

He curls her carefully cut hair according to his color-coded diagram

Carpenter fingers, gym-trimmed triceps, graying chin still dishing out kisses to his lifelong bride

His humbled words echo when his faith runs low still trusting God for hourly grace to persist

Father of three who buried two, obediently loyal to his Creator King receiving his daily bread

I tell our stories in foreign tongues, singing to aching hearts, smiling at hopeless eyes

Touching the palm of His hand when these memories stick in my throat, my head against His chest feeling our shared breath rise up and down

Pain, suffering, loss―His merciful tools still shaping my sensitivity to the mercies of a full life in His love

Pa, Ma en liefling kind ―available servants to the One who makes gallaxies and babies

yellow roses and in-laws

Friday afternoon

Middle aged women clad in wisdom from years of hardship and joy in marriage

Mentoring under autumn colored leaves and prayers for anonymous husbands on the lawn

Friday evening

Young Indian bride-to-be browses through American sized underwear to find something special

Tears of anticipation as she leaves for the airport to meet her in-laws in Oregon tomorrow

Saturday morning

My singleton’s prerogative to decide how many times I can get back into bed and pull the covers over my head

Dreams of making two mugs of coffee instead of one

Saturday afternoon

Orange punch, chocolate wedding cake, a jazz trio in black celebrate two friends wowed to provide and encourage together as one

Fresh pedals leave a trail to godly sanction of this covenant in love

Saturday evening

Country Western dancing for the first time, watching wordless grey-heads shuffle in perfect understanding

Perfect harmony in the balanced designed of submission and leadership

ancient girl-talk:according to Ruth

Resting her sore neck against the window sill, she closes her eyes, trying not to cry. Warm water brings relief to her hard feet and the scent of olive oil soothes slows her heartbeat as she breathes deeper―calming herself mentally despite the panic inside. The everyday sounds of rural life drifts into the room on the back of a Fall breeze. Heavy branches move in the dusk and animals settle into their pens after a day’s work. She hears the door open and swallows her tears before they run down her face, not blinking.

“How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“I thought I’d treat you a bit before your big night.”

Wrinkled hands stir the soapy water in the clay basin. They gently take out one foot and dry it off with a warm towel. The sensation of rough salt mixed with some more olive oil and crushed lavender rubbed onto her feet and swollen ankles helps her forget about spending all day in the merciless sun, sweating, working, praying for relief.

“I finished the hem on your dress this afternoon. You looked so lovely in it this morning. We still have time to wash your hair and fix it up just a little bit. Nothing fancy...just special. What do you think? All the way up or just the top bit?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“My darling...why not? Did something bad happen between the two of you today?”

“No. it’s not him. It’s just the whole situation.” She looks out the window at the day waning into royal blue. Sighing deeply, she drops her chin onto her chest and quietly lets the water run over her freckled cheeks. Massaging ointment into the other foot, the old woman silently prays for wisdom.

“Don’t cry my love. We must trust that God knows what He’s doing. He’s brought us this far.”

“I don’t fit here. I can’t see how this could ever work.”

“What happened? You were so excited about tonight before you went to work today.”

“The local women kept on mimicking my accent and I’m done pretending that it doesn’t hurt my feelings. I get so frustrated when they assume I should like and know everything about their foods and traditions. I miss my family and my country when it seems like everybody else knows what’s going on and I don’t.” Stuck in the chair, she sits up straight instead.

“It’s tough. I know what you must feel right now. I had to forsake my country at one time too...but there you became part of my life, now you’re all I’ve got. That’s worth everything I gave up back then.”

“I know. I know.” Her voice cracks as she tries to speak and catch her breath at the same time. “I’m older now. Life has worn me out. What if he decides that he doesn’t want me? What if he finds me too strange to relate to? It’s been so many years since I’ve tried to make an impression like this. I don’t think I can do it.”

“He’s a godly man. If he’s the one God has in mind for you, he’ll choose you, no matter what the price. Trust God to provide what you need at that moment...remember: courage and faith.”

nature as observed at zip code 75204

I see the end of the day drawing near through double glazed windows―giant man-made eyes for this exoskeletal shed. Inside this maternally motivated machine, men serve three meals at clockwork precision. Reminiscent of military monotony as green shells move along in the exact same pattern morning, noon and night. Latexed fingers fiddle on disinfected surfaces, condiments stacked individually-sealed for the sake of hygiene and convenience, lightweight polystyrene containers for every conceivable purpose―easy to manufacture, even easier to dispose.

Waste.

I flee from this artificial womb to breathe authentic pollution under the pastel sky. The relentless humming of air-conditioning units pumping heat out into this evening’s humidity compete against the roar of airplanes aiming for Lovefield’s runways. Passing fruitless trees on Apple Street I follow the nervous fluttering of wings across the manicured lawns. Tension rustles through the solitary trees in every concrete courtyard I pass by. My heart resonates with the anticipation of her unabashed display.

Red berries hang like drops of blood from the contrasting green branches forming a natural vault above my head. Dried orange, yellow, brown shapes edged with saw-tooths, others like five-fingered hands crunch beneath my feet as I deviate from my original route. Avoiding the chloride fumes from the fake fountain I turn right into the arched colonnade where I suspect to find raw nature at work despite the perfect octagonal terraces cascading onto concrete.

Stripped tail feathers flash ahead when she swoops unexpectedly in this predatory dance. Taunting her next victim blatantly she flies straight into the center of a gathering of doves―flushing them all out, dispersing radially in a tapping of wing tips and petrified cooks. She whisps over my head, a well-rehearsed ritual before escaping from my line of sight.

I run into the president’s courtyard. Where the bluebird lives―north of the minimalist magnolia trees where the Macadamia tree has a power socket attached to its trunk. She cuts further left and disappears behind the terracotta tiles and leaves me standing alone, wingless―stuck to the orthogonal pedestrian paths back to my cold Cappuccino-coffee-cocktail in the polystyrene cup.

I walk back with itchy hands. Needles pricked at lazer-beam precision. Measured deposits of bio-chemical warfare against me. Strategically preventing my blood from clotting before my assailant could get a could swig of it first. Scratching the tiny bumps where I find evidence of me joining the food-chain at the lower end.

To my surprise, I enjoy this irritation. Like the plucked feathers that lie strewn beneath the green canopy, these marks on my hands testify to inescapable death on this planet. Tragic to some but to me the gateway to discovering nature as it was intended originally.

Je suis belle (I am beautiful ) by Auguste Rodin, 1882

Ready. Set. Go.

Vehicles take off, the navigator gives details from the back seat. We find the street―no parking. We find the garage―no parking. We disappear three levels under ground in our search for the elusive collection of beauties. Following polished signs toward daylight the revolving door spits us out into the granite plaza with music playing from the potted plants and people taking smoke-breaks.

Inside the museum we synchronize our watches and disperse with another map in hand. A hushed response from a serious art lover directs our search to the European art section. Scurrying from the red elevators to the blue elevators and staring at the wrong set of doors delay our discovery as precious minutes roll away along the muted corridors hiding behind the heels of uniformed volunteers who look unhappy.

We find it.

We hesitate for a moment―stuck in the center between three giant photographs.

To the left―dust, desert, desolation. Arizona or New Mexico reminds me of Namibia and fresh air.

In front―a photograph taken inside the Berlin Museum of visitors looking at a classical Greek structure. We transcend into shared recollections of the Seine in Paris over looking the Eiffel Tower. We hear German seep from this moment caught in time continents away, dripping from the frame and run down onto the wooden floor beneath us. We turn clockwise to see red brick buildings soften the mechanical mirrored monuments of a parking lot in Dallas. A sudden burst of children’s voices chase us out the room stumbling down some stairs, to land among bizarre interior exhibitions.

A clattering of golden colors in velvet, middle age candle stands and Japanese vases confuse my art chronology as I stagger ahead in this room, trying to regain my focus. I look down at the plastic brim around the ancient furniture, careful not to touch anything lest I induce a reprimand from the art police and notice a lump of bronze mistaking it for an elaborate door stop. This Frenchman’s handiwork catches me unaware. Hidden behind so much clutter I almost missed it.

Two figures. Male and female. A visual of unexpressionable approval.

Exaltation. His robust back muscles strain as he holds this delicate bundle of woman against his chest.

Did he just receive her from God? Is he offering her back to Him?

In his public display of unashamed adoration his strong arms provide security and protection to all she represents in his life. He carries her livelihood, her fears, her body, her heart. Her head turned to the right with her left cheek almost touching his lips. She feels completely accepted, appreciated, loved in all her vulnerability. Like a little bird nestled beneath wings, still, kept high away from dangers, she lies hunched on his torso in safe warmth.

All chattering cease. The race ends. I understand.

I am beautiful and wonderfully made.

time and expectations

“may he kiss me with the kisses of his mouth…”

says the wisest man in human history through the eyes of his new bride

did she expect him to exchange her for nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine other women?

today my mom began her fifty-sixth year

outliving her two brothers by four years who both died of Muscular Dystrophy

was carrying his bride into the shower part of my dad’s retirement plan?

yesterday I learnt that my god-mother had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson’s

now unable to ride her twenty thorough-bred horses like she used to

how will my god-father adapt his lifestyle to this new season?

last week Friday I met the blind husband of a fellow student of mine

she moves around on campus in her scooter as she suffers of Multiple Sclerosis

did she dream about a husband who needs her help to get to the bus stop each day?

“for her worth is far above jewels, the heart of her husband trusts in her…”

even if I should lose my breast to a mastectomy like my father’s mom did

would he still want to fall asleep with me after decades of late night conversations?

last week Sunday my neighbors' baby girl arrived ten days too soon

today I felt her bunny-soft skin as I touched her cheek two days before her birth day

how many pumpkin breads will she bake in her lifetime here on earth?

back home Jacaranda trees color October in lilac purple – die mooiste mooiste maand

here the streets and houses shine orange, anticipating red and yellow gardens soon

how many cold Novembers remain here for me to share with my American family?

“enjoy life with the woman you love all the days of your fleeting life which He has given…”

says the now wiser man after wasting every good gift he expected to keep forever

would You send me this gift when I stop expecting You to do it?

time change

The US.
October 2005.
Three o’clock on Sunday afternoon.

Inside: the freshly backed apple pie cools off on the stove top while I soak a new Earl Grey tea bag in my mug―courtesy from Starbucks where my room mate works. The dishes clean and the work surfaces wiped with a clever vanilla scented trash bag in place.

Outside: all the pecan trees stir with great difficulty as their branches still carry full loads of green when November is but two days away. No kids playing on the lawn today. The gray skies chase families to television sets, board games, pullovers. Orange pumpkins turn cold and costumes get stored untill next year.

Four weeks of school left to go: what became of this semester? Thanksgiving and a brief break before Christmas and then the year passes too. Forever finished. What will I show for this season? Finding my life’s ambition for the first time perhaps?

Eight time zones east: my parents get ready for bed with the expectation of celebrating mom’s birthday tomorrow. Spring well away, jasmine smells hypnotize the garden thirsting for relieving summer rains soon. Momentum climax as the southern hemisphere races to year-end.

Dallas.
Texas.
Saving daylight.

holidays

Writing on the first crisp page in an unused diary
reminds me of waking up on New Year’s Day.
It signals the birth of dreams to reach and hopes to believe.
Leaving behind a dead history in a growing stack of written prayers on my book shelve.
Forgetting the mistakes and failures contained in tear-smeared paper leaves.
I choose to depart from bad habits and expect endorsements of inching growth inside myself.

Having more authentic conversations in a fledgling friendship
reminds me of birthday parties on Valentine’s Day.
Weeks pass and good intentions postponed due to urgent busy-ness and factual priorities.
Pink hearts and red decorated window fronts portray perfection and unrealistic ideals.
Reminded of sad endings in the past I feel incompetent yet again.
I hide behind what seems acceptable on the outside and feel lonely with him watching my confusion.

Talking to God at breakfast this morning
reminds me of Christmas and the fact that He made the stars.
Years of vulnerability to You and still You choose to sit with me every day and listen to my ramblings.
You see all that has wrecked my broken heart and still You love me despite what You know about me.
Reminding me that You chose to forget my shame, still smiling at me each morning with fresh mercy.
Hold my trembling hand dear Father! Take away this fear of being known by man because I know You know me already.

outside Oudtshoorn in the Karoo

loneliness

when I hurt you and you leave – I feel lonely

when you hurt me and I leave – I feel lonely

when you die and I stay behind – I feel lonely

when I visit childhood friends expecting their third baby – I feel lonely

when I sit in a board room with suit wearing men demanding more results – I feel lonely

when I find a desert sunset and watch the evening star appear – I feel lonely

when the immigration officer questions my intentions – I feel lonely

when I don’t know the name of the store you are explaining me to go to – I feel lonely

when my accent makes you laugh and you ask about my clothes – I feel lonely

when I go to weddings and baby showers – I feel lonely

when I want to hold your hand when we pray and I can’t – I feel lonely

when I walk to my apartment through the throng of toddlers on the lawn – I feel lonely

when I struggle for the right translation for something and you look away – I feel lonely

when I order a milkshake and I miss my country and her people – I feel lonely

when I need this month’s hug but can’t find it anywhere – I feel lonely

when I want to explain myself and you won’t wait – I feel lonely

when you get sick and I can’t do anything about it – I feel lonely

when the whole class misunderstands my comment – I feel lonely

when I walk along the concrete road and think of dust and thorn trees – I feel lonely

when I need to explain why I want to drink a beer right now – I feel lonely

when I have to stir my tea with a straw instead of a teaspoon – I feel lonely

when everything I can order to eat burns my mouth - I feel lonely

when you ask me ‘how are you’ without wanting an answer – I feel lonely

when you walk too fast ahead of me – I feel lonely

when I don’t recognize the birds outside – I feel lonely

when I wish you were here to celebrate your birthday with me – I feel lonely

when I end up alone on the campus square at the end of the week - I feel lonely

when you ridicule my strange preferences – I feel lonely

when I fall asleep hugging myself – I feel lonely

when I feel too demanding and decide not to call or email you – I feel lonely

when I fall asleep praying – I feel like You must have felt

quiet waters

Morris Point - in Still Bay

Fifty-five more days from today before I can sit down beside the faithful breakers at Morris Point.

December means summer when Christmas happens. The annual migration south for South Africans in the highland interior starts late November. Tropical heat drives us toward the cooler Cape coasts where inherited beach cottages stay decorated with family traditions and salvaged sea shells all year round.

My first introduction to this unique enclave between the semi-arid Karoo Complex and the temperate Indian Ocean occurred at the age of fourteen. My brother and I claimed sole ownership of a secluded stretch of rough grained shells mixed with sea debris. We called it “whistle-sand” every time our soles would disrupt solitary dunes tracking the spoor of disguised bushbuck in the dense Fynbos (unique shrubbery found in this African ecozone only).

When exhausted by the South-Easter pushing our sweater-hoods over our eyes, we hid beneath the wind shadow inside the rock pools. Teasing hungry urchins by dropping bits of snail we scraped off the black and orange rocks into their waving tentacles―conducting a purple symphony underwater.

I turn my head east toward the unseen beckon where the lighthouse at Ystervarkfontein (literally it means Porcupine Fountain) warns off seamen fishing for cob and yellowtail this time of year. With my jeans rolled up I find my favorite seat in these ancient boulders where I have spent hundreds of sunsets speaking to God about my life and what I wish he would tell Derek for me with him in heaven. Stirring the shinny grayness with my feet I wonder where this water came from. How many seasons have these saline drops survived?

The tiny hydrogen and oxygen molecules that run down my shin could have existed inside the lungs of Jesus in Bethlehem or condensed inside Neil Armstrong’s helmet on the moon. Did they melt in Antarctica and travel with the mammoths back to India to evaporate off the fore arm of an African slave working in the rubber plantations under the Carolina sun? The ocean sprays her wet secrets across my face and I lick the history of all mankind off my lips. Do I taste the blood of a young German soldier who lay alone on another beach staring up at the empty evening sky as I? Waar kom my hulp vandaan?

The last time I stared at the Southern Cross lying on the warm sand of Skulpiesbaai I listened to my friend and fellow architecture student―Jaco―describe how we could make beautiful glass sculptures out of this beach if we could control a small new clear explosion deeper into the ocean. A proclaimed atheist at the time and also addicted to science-fiction novels, we enjoyed numerous theological discussions over red wine and his home-made eggplant fritters. He died the next summer when his paragliding-gear dropped too short and pulled him into the waves before he could untangle himself.

When I drink dead water anywhere on this planet, it becomes alive in my body. It absorbs me as part of this churning tidal mass, uninterrupted, rocking in royal blue splendor since the first day of creation until the nanosecond the Incarnation decides to quiet its dance.

to write

To write is to breathe.

Words are the drum beats that set my feet a flight to celebrate the tragedies and joys in the dance I call ‘life.’

Thoughts move from the moon to the earth and grow arms and legs on the leaves of my journal.

Written prayers speak to souls in heaven and on earth.

Without my pencil and pages, parts of me would not exist – what I have been and what I will become.

myself

I come from Africa. I have dust in my veins and the smell of rain in my hair. Through my eyes you can see the fierce seasons that have reproved my continent into a well-behaved child returning home from a colonial boarding school.

Kicking off my shoes and ripping my clothes.

Feeling the southern sun on my shoulders and the Kikuyu grass under my toes!

derek - earth 28 october 1976 - heaven 6 june 1990

san fran sailing

blonde with blue eyes

Struggling to see with the salt burning after a day’s sailing on the ocean, laugh-lines twitch around my dad’s light blue eyes. His retired hairline receding since I can remember, proudly crowing in grey a sun-blocked scalp. Resembling Einstein’s curly genius at the end of our annual four week beach holiday over Christmas. We easily de-rig the catamaran without many words. Each one untying the designated sheet or halyard, indicating with the nod of a head or the roll of an eye a warning to the other of a forgotten batten still left in the yip.

Safety lies in his aging blue eyes, love and trustworthy advice―helplessness, too, sometimes.

It is hard to remember the color of Derek’s eyes. I think they shined with a darker, almost grayish hue. Like our mom, he also carried “coffee in his blood” and used to get a rich brown tan showing off his brilliant ash blonde hair as a boy. Two months after a similar summer holiday, on the day I celebrated my fifteenth birthday, we received the results of his first lumbar punch―Leukemia. Bravely he joked about waking up one day with all his hair lying beside him on the pillow.

It took much longer to fall out.

After forty-eight endless tides of biweekly blood tests, three disinfectant-mask-covered visiting hours per day for over a year, five sudden admissions, continuous chemo and one bone-marrow transplant later―the four of us laughed around the dinner table together once more. Stroking over his bald brow in true Koyak-fashion, he proudly informed us, “my head feels like Leani’s legs.”

Six months later I saw those tired blue eyes for the last time.

Five Octobers ago on Derek’s earthly twenty-third birthday, while treading water in an aqua aerobics class, I saw a young blonde boy wander into the swimming area. He carefully sat down beside the stainless steel ladder with his tiny feet dangling in the water. Quietly staying clear of the pool he waited there for the duration of the entire class gently staring at me with his innocent blue eyes.

At the Fall Fest this year, I baby-sat my friends’ six-month old girl Liz all afternoon. Her smooth little head decorated with a bow and no hair bopping around non-stop, inquisitive blue eyes flashing at every movement―following her starfish fingers tugging with all their might at an elusive lock of my own yellow hair or groping toward the cold Canadian ham on my piece of pizza.

As the autumn sun began to set, it caught the indigo of another pair of eyes to my left reflecting his almost-empty Diet Pepsi can. They turned away to see where I pointed out Liz’s older brother running away from their mom. Looking down at the thick cool grass still prickling at my legs beneath my skirt, I panicked when Liz stared back at me chewing her disassembled pacifier chain.

“Can you see the other half,” I ask the guy next to me. “Quick! before her mom gets back.”

I found it while he still sat there smiling at the boy running circles in the distance.

“I love little blonde kids,” he said, “they remind me of me and my brother.”

mental photographs

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two ancient bodies, side by side

Four wrinkled hands load linen laundry

Shakingly

Mothballs testify to a lifetime of loyalty

For a moment frozen together

Watching the sheets tumble clockwise

Around around around

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two new lovers, face to face

Four lips cascading praises, beauty, dreams

Endlessly

Adorations stream across empty Asian dinner plates

Day to night, night to day

Eyes piercing through private pretences, searching for signs of fidelity

Faithful future fun

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two terrified creatures, hand in hand

Ten fingers fidget confused, carefully touching softly

Fearfully

First-time father cradles his newborn daughter, Johnson’s baby powder brings welcome relief

Milk in, milk out, the top, the bottom

Zooming beyond the tiny mess for operating instructions, clasping levitating limbs to fasten the giant diaper

Helpless happiness hope

may-be-baby

maiming my mind

motherhood

milk, midnight-drill, madness

maybe

make-up mocking me

mirroring middle-aged memories

mistakes marches mercilessly

must move misconceptions―more

marrying missing male

MIRACLE

millennium minus million minutes―more

mountain

must meet main moratorium―more

might murmurings make molecules match?

musty Mitchum

multiple mitoses

mindfully mark many monthly moons

mocca, mango, merlot

magnify magnificent moments―more

masculinity means maintenance

mustangs, mowing, mechanics

must mature my misgivings

mercy―more

merciful Master,

mindfully moor Mr.Mast matching Miss.Mizzen

maybe mould myself―more

must metamorphosize my methods, my moods

macho manhood mustering meekness

mesmerizes me―more

makes motherhood mine

redwoods in California

Redwoods?!
Maybe my darling colorblind dad had a point when he got his crayons mixed up as a kid.

We took a guick weekend-trip: flew from Dallas to San Francisco on Saturday morning, rented a car and took the road north. On Saturday night we slept in Gualala looking out over the Pacific with a local disturbance involving a naughty man, an alleged prostitute and a policeman happening right in front of our motel window - who needs tv?

Sunday night in Calistoga turnied out equally exciting with some kids giving us the fright of our life knocking on our door in the middle of the night.

Had breakfast in a beautiful place that mayors as a bar at night I suspect - (impressing cocktail menu for a coffee-shop) with amazing Spanish quitar music playing in the background...I am still waiting for the waitress - Aida - to email me the name of the cd...perhaps I should just give up on that...

Drove back to SF, had lunch at the Warf - got some info on harbor maps to sail in to this port area, had a close encounter with a giant seal sun-taning in close proximity - dropped off the car during peak-traffic and flew back to Texas on Monday evening.

What an adventure traveling up Highway 1 from the city, cut accross toward Napa and coming back south again - my first official driving experience on the 'other' side of the road here in the States.

Whenever the psycho drivers here in Dallas freak me out, I think back of getting to the airport in one piece on a highway with twelve lanes going in both directions, and all impulses of intimidation dissappear.

Crowning this whole experience was having a South African dentist, now married to a Canadian filling the right seat next to me. What a lovely conversation we had while tracking the inflight-movie via the Vietnamese lady to my left who watched the 'Fantastic Four' at top volume.

Felicity also grew up in my home town and we both graduated at the same university there. What are the odds? My dad had a seat further back and was unaware of our connection. She was a few years younger than him and about ten older than me, so we decided that our trick might work. She walked back to greet him in our home language, introducing herself as one of his ex-girlfriends in his student days....by the time she reached his seat though, she was laughing so much that she couldn't pull it off...

(I still can not figure out how the spell check deal is supposed to work on this thing!)

playing with mud

Obsession about color in my family began when my father’s second grade teacher informed his (painter) mom that little Louis had the wrong end of the stick because his trees had purple trunks and red leaves and everybody knows that trees have brown trunks and green leaves.

“Everything goes well with brown,” Oupa (grandpa) Louis always insisted, “all the flowers in the world look great with the soil they grow from.”

Brown

Add more yellow and I dream about the beautiful desert architecture of Islam.

Carved out in the soft belly of the Sahara, private courtyards merge with public streets through a wooden door. For the sake of surviving the harsh heat, cold and winds, this ancient design type formed by clusters of communal buildings and open shared circulation space still prevails today. I see the rhythm of harden creamlike mud columns casting shadows on her outfit as a hidden woman hovers past in rough raffia folds made from spun camelhair.

Add more pink and I remember the western facades of Tuscan terraces.

They beckon the dying golden rays to warm their earthy walls plastered centuries ago, still resisting gradual coups by ivy fingers crawling heavenward. Here proud Cabernets breathe with relief as corks in sandy shades lift out at sunset releasing the smell of copper brown soil handed down through generations.

Add more green and I return in my mind to the thorn tree bushveld of Africa.

Camouflaged conservationists observe carefully as enlarged shapes in a distance suspect their intrusion. Drenched in khaki, a rhinoceros emerges from the cool dripping ground. The look of thousands of touristy travelers who studied Meryl Streep’s costumes in Out of Africa but thought little about how hot that color gets in the Southern sun. In addition to this, dangerous tsetse flies get attracted to dark shades resembling mud bathed beasts.

Add more black and my mind gets stuck in clay soils.

Generated by weathered dolomite this persistent dark chocolate mud causes more than a migraine in any construction worker’s mind. As an active soil type this clay reacts dramatically to shifting water levels, snapping concrete footings to large buildings if not designed properly. When it gets wet it sticks to your boots, adding height with every step as you try to inspect the workmanship and drainage system. I sit sideways in my car, scraping off giant chunks of Dove’s dark promises onto the curb in Joseph Street.

Take away the life from brown and I am back in Dallas.

I think of the packaged Create your own grow kit sold for less than a dollar each. Fake soil dehydrated to consume less space on Target shelves―neatly cleanly cheap―for indoor use on my Swiss Towers window sill if my air-conditioning system allows these seeds to live.

focus

Saturday, October 14:
I watched Gladiator this morning as I finally got around to attacking the endless battle of conquering dirty laundry in my life.

“What we do in our life echoes in eternity.”

Around noon I found a quiet spot to have hazelnut flavored coffee with God next to the first tiny pink bud on my African Violets.

I feel so distracted, tired, sad.

At least the plants respond to my sporadic watering and careful weeding of their plastic beds on the sill. I sit down and stare through the mosquito gauze to where a few two-year-olds play in the garden below. A heavily pregnant mom moves some toys out of the way for the boys to push each other around on the paved path.

Yesterday afternoon we celebrated Fall Fest on campus and it appeared to me that the offspring of this student body had doubled in the past year. I loved on my friend’s six-month-old baby girl―Liz―all afternoon and could not get enough of her tiny body squiggling in my lap, warming me all over by her constant oogge-ling and chewing on my fingers whenever she could get her toothless gums around one.

Back in Rome, Maximus lost everything he loved to save the Empire from evil. His innocent son and wife killed by his enemies. The honor and respect he earned through a lifetime of service to Marcus Aurelius stripped on a frosted morning, exchanged for an existence of slavery to entertainment-hungry idiots who cheered as life ebbed out of slain corpses into the burning sand.

As I speak to God about this, I read the story of a king who became a slave, a slave who grew up as a carpenter, a carpenter who matured into a teacher, this Teacher who defied Hell itself.

God whispers in my memory another mentor’s words to a his young protégé: you need to focus on your mission like a soldier has to spend all of his life on disciplined execution of his orders, like a farmer that spends all he has on daily efforts through all seasons for a harvest to grow, like an athlete training day in and day out to win the Olympics…

What do You want me to do with my life? You sent me here with a specific purpose sixteen months ago, but today I stare out at the families multiplying everywhere and I wonder…who did you make me to be? A mother? A warrior? A lover? For the sake of whom?

I must focus. Drink up the coffee. Get the wet laundry out. Buy new trash bags. Catch up on my reading. Sacrifice my hopes. Give up my mortal desires.

Obey what I do know and just get the job done…

“How will this story end?”

is this bear-country?...hope not

afraid

I am less afraid when I can see all the way to the horizon. Like a lioness seeks out a high vantage point over the plains to plan her kill – I flee from this foreign forest of concrete and noise to higher laying hide-outs to brace myself.

I fight my anger caused by strange foods, misunderstood words and unexplained behavior that hurt my heart. There are few things I fear though. Death is not one of them – I have seen it too often. Loneliness doesn’t threaten me anymore either – I have adapted to it’s demands of solitude. Its peaceful silence has become a cave where I can contemplate whatever is scaring me. When isolation is not available I get onto my hind legs, claws revealed and attack until I am left alone. Fear is defeated by an instinctive knowledge of the threat.

I have studied the American way of life closely for a year now. I have learned much about surviving this country. Don’t expect her to understand me and don’t try to understand her culture in terms of mine. Stay at a safe distance, observe the busy valleys carefully, but visit the high grounds often. Most importantly, always remember the big picture – He said; “Fear not.”

Mozambique:a decade after the war ended

perfect love drives out all fear

itsy bitsy spider...

Inside my heart I carried a timeline―not from the past to the present but a knot where the future got tied up in it somewhere too. It throbbed with golden volts. Liquid knots lighting up at the slightest disturbance. Wet drops jammed on a freshly spun web. Microscopic images of neurons and synapses show how our brilliant brains transmit millions of thoughts through biochemical conductors, but I think the memories that flow through my heart run at a much higher current.

Triggered by eighties music or the smell of cheap carnations, the nodes on this silky grid light up like downtown Paris after a power failure.

Countless connections―places, people, pain.

Resurrecting recollections―delight, delusion, dread.

Were those relationships real? Did I dream up the intensities of those associations or did the idea of their existence just feed my adolescent addiction to recognition?

“Emotions―can I trust them?” Doctor Dobson asked.

“No! A thousand times no!” my cheated heart still responds.

A wicked spider wove this web; it trapped my soul and tricked my mind, bitter ancient poison drugged my innocence, alluring adventures tempted my fate as filthy fingernails began their tearing caress. But before I could fall, my true nakedness was gracefully rescued. In a strong single sweep came divine destruction of those sticky threads that clinged to my mistakes.

Destroyed in that moment―now cleansing tears drip down from the shattered webbing. Christening new hope of an old dream recaptured. Fresh rose petals shower down on a soft white dress and shining smiles. As two hearts believe in just One mind…beating together until the end of time.