Category: Uncategorized

Day 1: One hour Vipassana complete

It’s 3am. Rain drumming on the glass ceiling jolts me awake. Just a few hours ago, scattered laughter turned into a painful cry. Not even four years old, little one feels pain on her throat, medication wearing off.

The next morning, I find the dad in the kitchen, drinking tea. They survived the night. She is okay.
I grate some ginger, squeeze some lemon and add lots of honey to a pot of boiled water. Straining the seeds and fleshy ginger before serving Jon, then myself, then I make a cup for Biki.

I cannot find a thermos, and I need to get going. I empty a 500ml of sparkling water into a mug. Drink as fast I can, before filling the bottle with lukewarm liquid.
He’s supposed to be here, and I see his badge and bag at his usual spot. I leave it by his badge, take a photo. I saw him yesterday and the day before. He looked grey and sad, the light inside dimmed and weary. I was thinking of him when I made the tea. Therefore, is it a surprise that I made just enough for four adults. The mind is a powerful thing. Our thoughts planting a seed of future actions.

It is now 7:39pm. Biki has given Aya a bath, Jon is away, and she finds me sitting at the kitchen counter. “Can you make me the ginger honey tea?” Sure, since you asked me so nicely.

As she sees me grating and squeezing, she is shocked, “I didn’t know it was going to be this much effort!”

It’s not. I like working.
I make three more cups. Pour her a cup and me one too.
We chichat and laugh about nothing in particular.
“Money allows me to be generous”, I say.
I’ve never heard anyone describe money that way, I like it.
“Cool!”
This love letter goes out to the act of generosity. I am grateful for being able to do things and find ways to nourish friends and colleagues. As I sat here writing, I ask myself. Would I rather be in my words, or speak to my wonderful friend, Biki.

So we speak, and we laugh.
This love letter is to myself for taking interest in people. Doing small things to bring joy. I’m grateful to be surrounded by people and opportunities. Like when Aya threw all the balls out of her pool, I had fun picking them up and throwing them back in.

Dear Ziggy,

I vacuum around you. You refuse to move, laying on the green carpet, the color of Christmas.
I need to shower, and you plop yourself next to the entryway. I step over you and shower with the door open. No one is home. Your mom and dad are at work. This is your house. I am only visiting, so I respect your wishes. We spend few days like this while I visit your mom to attend your parent’s wedding.

A year passes, or is it two? We are meeting in San Diego, near your dad’s brother’s place. As my little sister and I get close to you in the car, you start jumping around. You are so happy to see me. You’re even excited to see my little sister, knowing that she belongs to me. How do you know that? Does she look like me? How can you smell us from inside the car?

Your mom is amazed. You’re anti-social. You only let your family get close to you. You remember me from our special time together. You jump around me, licking my face, happy to see me. You don’t bark at all.

Ziggy, you were a great dog, and your mom loved you very much. Mika was happy to be your sister for the short time she shared with you. Your mom still gets teary with your untimed passing, and I hope you are having a great time in dog heaven plopping and refusing to move!

This love letter goes out to Ziggy the Zigmonster, who loved me as much he loved his family. You were such a great dog!

To the frail and fragile innocent, may you continue to be supple; bending and yielding, singing and swaying through the darkest and harshest of passing storms?

To the soft and sweet underbelly of childhood, may you continue to marvel and wonder at the beauty of life; fearing nothing – not even fear itself, by seeing that light and shadow is one and the same?

To the fretful and fearful child, may you choose adulthood; breaking free of shackles of past oppressions, maintaining curiosity of wonder and delight?

To the reactive and reproachable, may you choose to be present; diagnosing your behavioral patterns and overreactions as self-protection mechanisms arising from past hurts; quickly see things as they are and ask yourself, ‘is this serving my present and highest self, or are you engaging in self-sabotaging behaviors’?

To the tired and tyrant, may you retreat into the darkness; protecting the world from your ego and yourself from the world, don’t forget that being right and alone will only bring more suffering; Ask yourself thrice, “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?”

To the fully grown and giant, may you choose to take flight; trusting the universe to catch and hold you as you fall, enjoying every moment, as they come and go?

“It’s time to go to school, you’re late!”
Rubbing my eyes, I look around. I bolt out the door with the school bag slung hurriedly across one shoulder.
I come home few minutes later. It’s Sunday. She is waiting for my return, with a smile on her face.

I wake up from another nap.
“It rained while you slept.”
‘Really’? I answer in bewilderment. Later seeing grandfather washing down the pavement. She got me again.

I used to chew the same gum for days, not knowing when I can get another piece. I would stick it on the wall next to me, to save it for another day’s chew.
One day, I wake up to find a solid white mass stuck to my hair. I am distraught.
“Get it out! Get it out!” I wail and scream.
Snip snip. A chunk of hair falls away from my face. I scream even louder.

“What did you do your sister? Why is she crying?”

I am curious. I touch all the buttons and knobs on the black stereo. Trying to figure out how things work.
“Why weren’t you keeping a close eye on her?”

I create problems. Hers to solve.

Her small hand is holding mine tightly. She consoles me, telling me it’s going to be okay. We are at the police station, waiting for our mother to collect us. She is 7 years old.

On a long rectangular table, she places a chocolate sando or strawberry sando, setting for a party of 8. School friends come over to celebrate. She hands me cute notebooks and pencils. My birthday presents.

How did she feel when our aunt and cousin left? Truth blurs my vision as I hold back the tears. I see her for the first time. World on her small shoulders. Born 18 months before me. A child herself. Not only did she have to take care of herself (which she didn’t), but also her younger sister and brother.

The loss of her carefreeness. Childlike innocence. The magnitude of her suffering.

I try and I fail to understand, the depth of her love. I cannot try to make sense of what happened. With her shielding me where she could, taking care of me as best as she could. I am her first beloved.

Into few glimpses of the past, I zoom into her, away from me. Having embraced and consoled the child in me. The past helping me to understand the present you. The past that has shaped and molded you into you today. The you that has shaped me and shielded me into the present.

I dedicate this love letter to my older sister.
My living guardian angel.
Without you, I would have been lost.
Without you, I would have lost my way.

I dedicate my love of writing to the one I hold dearest to my heart.

“Let’s pick these flowers”,
She whispers, leaning down to meet my face, as we walk back from the shops, noticing wild roses growing against the pavement.
‘Isn’t that stealing? Someone will see us!’
I am in shock.
“It’ll be dark and no one will see us!”
As she laughs, I hear coins falling onto the pavement. She is so silly, I giggle to myself.

She is back at her childhood home to take care of us. Her newborn daughter, my youngest cousin is just a babe. She smells of breastmilk and baby powder.

How long does she stay? A month? Two months? As a child, I have no sense of time, and I wish for our time to never stop. My only wish is for the days to continue. As is. This moment, locked in eternity.

Her husband impatiently calls her back to the big city.
Tomorrow, I will leave, she says.
Tomorrow, it rains.
With the baby, traveling on buses, it’s too much. So she stays, waiting for the rain to stop.
The next day, when the rain stops, I will be on my way.
It rains again and again and again.
I wish for the rain to continue.
To never stop. Because for as long as it rains, she cannot leave.

I run home everyday, to make sure she is home, and when she’s still there, I feel a sense of relief.

One morning, she says her good-bye. This time, I mean it. I am leaving, she says.
It’s still raining, and so, how can she leave? I don’t believe her. It’s been raining for days. Hadn’t she repeated the same words in the past?
I run home in the drizzle, rain softly falling on my face. My feet splashing the ground, passing the spot where the flowers used to grow.

Pushing the sky blue gate open, I run up to the steps, kicking off my shoes. With my right hand, I turn the metal doorknob. I can smell them, and with a sense of hope and dread, I swing the door wide open.

Tidy and clean, with no trace of their belonging. Filling every crevice of the room, their scent lingers. Silence rings hollow, in this room, where I used to sleep, cradled into my own mother’s embrace, with my sister next to me. I miss the cooing and crying. The sound of life itself.

I am at Father Coffee, unearthing memories of past days.
Rain from that day, mixed with tears, washes over me.

I dedicate this love letter to the rain.

When it rains in the middle of summer’s sunshine, tigers are getting married. And on this day of holy matrimony, three girls walk home after school, rectangular bag on their backs. Without hurry, on their half hour walk home, with no sign of rain abating.

A car pulls up. A man ushers them to the back seat. Soaking wet, they rush in. “Where are your umbrellas”, he asks not waiting for answers.

Few minutes later, he drops them off close to where they live. They leave as quickly as they entered, scurrying off like hamsters with tiny legs. Yelling “thank you” in unison, as they run home.

This letter goes out to the man, for his generous act of random kindness.

The sky is grey.
Two black women walk across the parking lot, stepping out of rain, stopping to rest.
She is wearing grey tracksuit with a hat on her grey head, scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her daughter grabs one end, gentle and slow motion, as if she were building a house for soft petals resting on two sets of delicate stems.

Two strangers caught in the act of loving kindness.

I am back in the city of gold, my home province of South Africa.
My friend comes home, picking up groceries for dinner. Welcome home, honey. Kisses and hugs after you put your bag down. “mwa mwa!”

“Can I turn on music?” Of course, it’s your house. She turns on the radio. “Are you okay with coriander” Of course, I am full of flavor.

It is raining still. I didn’t bring socks or sweatshirt.
She hands me a pair of cherry red socks and black sweatshirt.
Dampness hangs in the air.

It’s raining still, and I have found a story belonging to a book of overcast days. To you two strangers, I dedicate this love letter. My favorite poem.

“Fall Song by Jo Harjo

It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for ‘‘divine’’?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway Next to mine.”