to be fully alive

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest…

Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that’s all that’s happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction. On the other hand, wretchedness–life’s painful aspect–softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody’s eyes because you feel you haven’t got anything to lose–you’re just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We’d be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn’t have enough energy to eat an apple. Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together.”

~Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living by Pema Chödrön

Four weddings and a reminder

I woke up yesterday with all kinds of wonderful intentions for tidying the house and doing some marking of papers, washing. changing the bedding, writing to you, and so on. I attended a long and wonderful Omani wedding on Thursday night, so was in no mood for getting up early. I will definitely write more on that later as it was really something special.

I inspired myself into consciousness slowly and without pressure, having a delicious peanut butter and honey toast with coffee to kickstart the day. I had just started getting the washing together and stripping the bed, when a text came through from Matthew in London. I think a third of the planet was watching the Royal wedding yesterday, and so was he. Well, that was that. I thought I would take a little peak and was completely and totally sucked into the whole thing in just a few minutes. I do love a ceremony, especially one with wonderful music, horses, carriages, hunky men in uniforms. There was a slight feeling of dejavu there, and I was transported back to high school when all the girls in our school uniforms in neat rows watched Charles and Diana tie the knot.

I liked the beginning of the ceremony, with the pastor starting the ceremony by saying that every wedding is a royal wedding in its own way, as the couple are king and queen for that day. I had just experienced the Omani version of that the evening before, and it was also natural for my mind to go back to my own wedding. It was a beautiful day, and I really did feel like a queen.

During my first three years in Oman at  the Centre for British Teachers, or as it is now known in my circles 'The place we shall not mention', we always used to sponsor a few orphans to study with us in the summer months. I became close to one boy who I have stayed in touch with through the years. I organised for him to continue at the institute outside the summer for the normal courses, and I recall one year when he told me that he had never celebrated his birthday. I baked him a chocolate cake and we had a little class party and although it was his 16th birthay, he had the joy of a 6-year old on his face. 

 He is now 20 and working, but life is still not easy. We are in quite regular contact and I refer to him as my Omani brother. He is a thinker, curious about life and how it works, and has not allowed all the hard knocks he has taken to make him cynical. He is also reading Khalil Gibran and we discuss many different issues. We often send each other positive and encouraging messages, and sometimes he has a way of saying in a simple way just what I need to hear. 

I went out and had a delicious dinner and catch-up with my friend Tricia, who will hopefully be moving in next door soon. We talked about many things, my potential business opportunity, her moving, the upcoming summer holidays. I came home around 9 and thought I would settle into some marking, but started watching  a film I have been wanting to see for a long time, "Milliondollar Baby". Very emotionally moving as well as a good powerful story.

 I  felt somehow really moved and fulfilled by my weekend, and the different meaningful experiences that had come my way. I was resisting going to sleep, lying in my majilis doing a review of the day, counting my blessing, thinking how much my mother Hester would have loved that royal wedding experience, and how I missed her.

 In that moment my phone beeped, and it was a message from Suhail,
'Always remember, the secret of life is the power of love'.

apricot and haiku

So it is after midnight and I am facing a double dose of teenagers in the morning, but just want to say Hallo. I haven't felt this light-hearted for ages, and want to share a little sprinkling of my fairydust before I hit dreamland. Midnight is my absolute favourite time of day. I intensely hate having to go to bed early, as I miss this time when something deep inside relaxes and the world looks so intrinsically good. It is the time of the day that I know at every level that the Universe is my greatest 'tjommie' (friend). Sometimes I think I suffer from some kind of bi-polar disorder, like a kind of SAD, but linked to times of day. Morning, no no no! When sun sets, peace pervades. As another legendary Garfield card I once gave my mother read, "Every dog might have his day, but the nights belong to us cats!"

Hester loved the night too, and I remember so many nights as I was growing up sitting on her bed talking about books, unicorns and other magical things till the morning hours. We used to laugh a lot together, and cry. I think she was the first person who taught me that it was OK to be vulnerable.

 Before I could read, she used to read to me. One specific book which is close to my heart is a book by Paul Gallico called Jennie. Do you know it? I am sure that is also part of where my love for cats originates. She used to read and we sob together, and when I could read, I would read passages to her, and we would sob together. I choose my words carefully, as this was no ladylike blinking the tears away. After that there were many things like Mr God this is Anna, The little Prince, passages from Khalil Gibran, T.S Elliot, Hemingway... she taught me from a young age how to be moved by the emotion behind words. And that a master of his craft can evoke complex and undescribable emotion by using the simplest of combinations of syllables.

And that is why I am really excited about a book I received today through amazon! We are very fortunate here in Muscat to be able to order through amazon.uk to a UK address, and the goodies are then shipped from there by a local bookshop for next ot nothing. I have been waiting on a book about teaching poetry writing to children. It is a wonderful book and I am determined to sneak some poetry writing into my academic writing course... yes, the group of students that is so enjoying The Alchemist. I want to start with haiku, and I will let you know how it goes!

You will be happy to hear there is another wonderful addition to my gratitude list, and that is The Chedi. I decided that after all the pain,stress and emotional turmoil of the past months, I definitely deserved a membership. I think I mentioned before, full usage of pools, private beach and gym till end of June. For those of you who know it, I know that you will fully understand. And are turning neongreen with envy as you read.This is a sublime place with an infinity pool like you only see in glossy magazines, advertising places you could never ever afford to go in your life time. As you arrive, a hunky Omani dressed in white, bearing 2 crisp white towels and a glass of iced water with a sprig of fresh mint, helps you to adjust your lounger. I have found the perfect quiet spot under a perfectly manicured palm tree facing the light at dusk. I then proceed to the pool where I expertly doggy paddle up and down at a very leisurely pace. After that I do some extreme 'palacialating' ( verb of 'palace'), to quote my ex-director Norman.

The weather in Muscat has been cloudy and a bit windy, and the atmosphere at the Chedi in this late afternoon was sublime. The whole thing was a bit silver, the sky, the air, the trees, the water were a shimmery glimmery muted silver. Approacing sunset, a very pale pink wash spread across the sky, and the sun was like a perfect flushed apricot behind the palms. I lay there sipping my lightly minted water, reading haiku, wondering if life actually got any better than this.

At that moment, the language school where I sometimes moonlight on a Thursday, called me to ask me if they could give me a double dose of teens tomorrow, as a teacher was sick. Mmmmm, and we move swiftly back to reality! I was really glad that they asked though, as the last time it happened, I arrived in class to see 25 13-18 year olds sitting there (instead of 15) and threw a spontaneous hissy fit. It was not pretty, I had to be escorted out of the class to calm down outside over a cup of tea and a few lavender drops! I do think it is a good learning experience to surprise oneself ocassionally.

From the Chedi onto the dentist in a calm state of mind, and the tooth with curly roots behaved itself very well. I then went to see my Irish friend Ruth (who introduced me to Dr Matt in the first place). She is a haven and a sanity check. We used to teach together, and often when everyone threw their hands in the air and faffed around about some seemingly complcated isssue, Ruth was the one who would cut through the crap, cut to the chase, and sum it all up in 17 syllables. She also makes a damn good tuna salad.

Infinite possibilities

I am supposed to be marking exam papers and preparing for tomorrow, but have been looking around the internet for the story of the song that popped up from my early childhood to comfort me last night. I do want to say that I feel much better today, as if that infected root really needed to be removed from my physical body.

For the last 10 years or so, the picture that comes to mind when meditating on Easter is not the violent excrutiating passion of the sermons and the films, but the image of Mary Magdalene looking into the tomb of Jesus, finding it empty. This has been the picture in my mind for the last few days.

I remember once in Germany doing a retreat over Easter time and this scene becoming very real to me. The simple idea that was discussed, was that all of us are like Mary, looking into the dark tomb and being to focussed on what is dark and missing in our lives. However, as she shifts her perspective to the light, she is able to focus on the gardener, Jesus. For us all, it is the basic idea that there is always a different perspective, another angle to perceive things from. For Mary the journey that day was just in turning around. For some of us this journey into seeing and believing the infinite possibilities is ongoing, long and arduous.

I can't remember if I shared this before, but my academic director who is an extremely efficient and organised Swiss lady, really surprised me recently when discussing my passport issues. I was so bogged down, only seeing the dark hole and the frustration and the lack, and after seriously looking at all the options together, she said,
' Who knows Stefani, maybe you need to travel to England to meet the love of your life at the Home Office'.
We both burst out laughing and this comment totally diffused the complexity of the situation.
The idea was so far fetched, but yet such a lesson for me. I am the eternal optimist, viewing the world through rose-colored sunglasses, but  still I let the passport problem cloud everything.

So, on to the point of my story; it so happens that the writer of the song, Charles Austin Miles, was sitting in his darkened room where he kept his photographic equipment and his organ, meditating on this very image of Mary at the empty tomb. It was Easter of 1912. He had a kind of a vision, as he saw the scene playing out in front of him, perceiving himself to be part of it. He wrote the simple words and the music as a result of that.

The song became a cliche, and often played at funerals in America in the 1920s. I wonder how my super Afrikaner small town great-grandmother knew it.

But I do love the fact that this year Easter, and roses and my deep roots have all come together in this lovely non-coincidence to give me strength and  to encourage me to look at life from all angles. Amen.

Pomegranate and butterfly wings

It turns out that the rootcanal treatment was the right choice, as the tooth was infected inside. I felt much better when I left Dr Matt's office a while ago. Thank you very much for your notes of support and encouragement. Love your comment on yesterday's post Jez, it made me feel a whole lot better.

Earlier on today at a point where I was feeling particularly sorry for myself and heard myself being short and snappy with the students, I walked out of the class for a short breather. One of the girls followed and asked to talk in private for a minute. This lovely bubbly young girl told be that she had had a lump in her breast last year which was removed, and that she needed to go for another check up tomorrow as another small lump had appeared. She said that she was in  pain at night and worried, and could I please excuse her from class tomorrow.

Needless to say, this was a huge wake-up call for me. Who the hell am I to crap on about my shitty day, when this girl manages to be brave through every day of her studies, take the pressure and keep a smile on her face? There are many silent heroes around us, ladies and gentlemen, unsaluted, unsung, who bear their burdens silently and with valour. I see myself as someone who the studetns trust and convide in, and I am sure I only know the teeniest tip of the ice berg. I immediately got rid of the self pity and promised myself to speak more patiently and kindly to each soul on the road.

I  lay down in the dentist chair tonight and and old old song came to my mind, a song of comfort that my greatgrandmother Nini used to sing when I was a small girl. 'I walk through the garden alone, and the dew is still on the roses..'

I was priviledged to have her as a physical part of my life till I was 13, when she died at 93. She was the matriach of the family and the family always used to gather around her in her big creeky house. She was short in stature, roundish,walked with a stick, and her voice was stern and kind at the same time. She was proud that up to 90 she could put down her stick and touch the floor with her hands. She always wore pretty brooches, a few of which I still own, and had her own powdery granny smell. I used to love sitting with her at her dressing table, watching her comb her long silver hair and twirling it in a soft bun. She taught me many things, patiently, and I have wonderful memories of sitting with her, her telling stories of the Boer war, reciting the few bushmen words she remembered from her girlhood, her cutting waverthin slices of biltong or apple with her pocketknife, doing the finest crochet work, baking the best buttermilk rusks, the skin of her hands thin as butterfly wings.

There is a great family story about Ouma. Although she was independent, my great grandfather never wanted her to drive. He died when she was in her mid 70s and she then proceeded to get her licence. She bought herself a sturdy car and enjoyed taking herself around the small town where she lived and where I spent most of my holidays. This is the town where both my parents are buried today in the shade of one of my favourite mountains in the world. But that's another story.
She used to like sitting in the car and reading the newspaper. It was a warm place to be on some of those cold Karoo mornings.

I am grateful for her comfort tonight. As I drove home, I stopped by the juiceshop close to my home to get a fresh watermelon and pomegranate juice to soothe the toothe. It is my new favourite combination. I do love living in Oman.

The fable of the Chinese water bearer

I felt all cracked up and broken and weird today, and I remembered this story sent to me many moons ago by one of my angel friends Annalize. it made a deep impression on me the first time I read it. I am not sure what beauty I brought to the world today, but it certainly brought much beauty to me. Forgive me, I didn't write the story in my own words, but copy pasted it directly off the internet.

A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole, which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

This went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house".