Genius in one Olympian breath

My Dad would joke that we lived in a weekend rainfall area. Monday to Friday the sun would shine and the weather would be perfect for outside pursuits but come Friday, the heavens would open and it would rain for two days. We spent most of our weekends at the beach or sailing in a dinghy or watching wildlife in game reserves in Africa. Sailing was almost bearable when it rained, but sitting huddled under a tarpaulin at the beach while the men fished, not so much fun at all. And watching wildlife in the rain was a waste of time. It was best to go on animal drives during the dry months when the animals would congregate around waterholes. Rainy months meant that the bush was too thick to see much more than a glimpse or two of rhino hide or zebras blending into the undergrowth. My sister is planning a trip to the Masai Mara to watch the antelope, zebras and gnus take their chances in croc-infested rivers on their annual pilgrimage. Last night I was driving my grandkids from a netball game and telling them about the plans of their great aunt. Firstly they thought that some weird person was deliberately placing the zebras in a cage with hungry crocodiles and when I explained it was nature at its rawest, they said that they would not be up for a viewing of the spectacle. (Yes the grandkids did win their game, 15 to 14, thank you very much) How to explain to little children that life is not always fair. Sometimes the pretty little zebra ends up as fast food. And the scarred and ugly predator has babies to feed. The food chain needs to eat the weak and allow the strong to procreate. Even if we would all love it to be like a Bambi movie, that is not the reality. Why was I telling them this story? Well, it was 5 pm and traffic was really bad, so to fill in the complaints about idiot drivers ... okay that is usually me complaining ... I thought it would be more instructional to regale them with tales of Africa instead of me going on about gas-guzzling oversized vehicles that never see the outside of a cityscape. I sometimes forget that others did not grow up with elephants and lions, porcupines and the tiny dikdik, Eland and giraffes, okay, snakes and scary stuff too. So, I fill my grandchildren's ears with memories of my past life. Even my husband would say to me that we grew up in different countries, but still under the same name of South Africa. His great adventures were riding his bike around the Cape of Good Hope and fighting off the baboons that tried to steal his peanut butter sandwiches. Even that is exotic to my grandchildren. How life changes. Perhaps we would like to live in a Camelot world. Where rain only falls softly at night and as the day breaks the clouds part and the sun comes out. But would that be exciting or teach us to survive? Nope. We need the rain to fall on us at times even if we do shiver slightly and feel uncomfortable. It's good for the soul.

I was listening to Gay Hendricks about lifestyle breathing and he said when we experience trauma, our breathing changes. Babies in the womb breathe in as their heads rise and out as they nod downwards. But if their mother takes a puff of a cigarette, or has a sip of alcohol or takes drugs, while the baby is still in utero, the child will halt its breathing rhythm. His idea is that we should all learn to breathe to calm ourselves down and revert to our womb-like habits. He also says that we are all one breath away from our true creative genius. He tells the story of himself sitting quietly one day and having an idea that turned into a multi-million dollar business. Wow, only one breath? How many breaths have I had and never reached my true creative genius? Greta Gerwig said 'We're always walking with our younger selves. I feel like I'm always answering to 'her', about whether I am being as brave as I could be, or as big as I could be, or as ambitious as I could be.' I recently admitted that I seldom wear my wedding ring because I feel guilty for not being at Barry's bedside when he died. Surely a 'good wife' would have been there through thick and thin like all the romance novels in history say we should be, (if we really love our husbands). Oh, and scrub our front doorsteps till they shine. Okay, I don't do that either. Scrubbing doorsteps seems like a once-a-month thing and not a daily chore. Although a very grouchy plumber has recently told me that I should sweep my driveway clean every day. Mmmm not going to happen. Anyhow, there I was feeling like I was not worthy to wear my wedding ring when my daughter reminded me of something my long-suffering husband did ...he did not stay by my side during my cervical cancer surgery. He didn't give me any excuse ... just a plain NO. And he took himself off back home only to return once I was released a few days later. No flowers or caring cards, no phone calls and no special treatment. Oh well, we did not reach our individual creative or caring genius at times. We are human. Why do we listen to that mental voice telling us that our ideal person is attainable when it isn't even a possibility. Should I wear my wedding ring now that I feel we were both flawed individuals doing the best we could do? Not really. The ring feels heavy on my soul still.

I recently took my grandkids on outings during the school holidays ...no, sports games do not count as outings. I took the girls to a live show with singing and dancing and the boys to the Lego show. No, I am not sexist, that is what they requested. If the girls had wanted to come to the Lego show, they could have come along. Anyhow, there we were with weird and wonderful creations made with little plastic blocks and there was a significant scattering of grandparents doing the same thing as me. And not a single chair. Now don't get me wrong, I am not that weak that I would fall down without a chair at the ready, but seriously? There were others struggling with walkers and sticks and nowhere to sit except on top of the table with a Lego crocodile that had taken three weeks of work to make. If any of us elderly people had fallen over and grabbed the edge of one of those display stands ... there would have been brick mayhem. They had three meter (yards) high penguins and a rocket ship that rose at least three stories high. There was an alarm button near that one ... did they think that one of us geriatric folks might bring it all down on top of little children's heads? The two grandsons each made an addition to the longest snake display. Troy made an alien and Omani made one that spelled out Reeves. Why Reeves? And then he walked over to the board and placed it carefully where some other child had put their own name up in bricks ... the child's name was obviously Keanu. So, it now spells Keanu Reeves. And Omani was happy with his little joke. I am really glad that he is not 'normal'. He did not follow what the crowd was doing, he made his own decision. What is a normal person? Normal is what people are before you get to know them properly. (stolen from Reader Digest and Mary-Anne Reed) No one should want to be normal and none of us are. We are all unique.

I don't watch much sport and the Olympics are no different. I will sometimes switch on for a moment or two, but no more than that. But I am in awe of all those people who have worked hard to get to the pinnacle of their sport. I saw a young girl crying when she didn't win her tennis match. Did she dream about this moment and that dream had not lived up to the ideal? She couldn't stop sobbing. Poor little girl, there was no one there to offer her a shoulder to cry on either. She hunkered down all alone and cried and cried. There are different ways to cry. The tear slides quietly out of eyes without any discernible change in appearance. The sneaky tears. Then there is the ugly cry where the nose runs and the eyes puff up often accompanied by snorting and grunts. Well, not me of course, I am too ladylike to snort. Haa. And then the sobbing one where the pain reaches out from your insides and manifests itself in aching sounds. The happy tears, the proud tears and then there is me, who cries at movies and adverts and sad stories and books. I love reading and often have two books going at one time. One book in the bedroom for night time reading and another one in the lounge to be read when the urge takes me. But recently I read an author that in years gone by I had really enjoyed. Mmm, no not anymore. I found her characters one-dimensional, the plot was simplistic and I was not engaged with the storyline. I want to be so involved with the people in the book that at the end I do not want to shut the book and bid them all goodbye. They have become part of my family. My emotions are tied up in their choices and their struggles. My Olympics is usually a readathon, no running required. Recently grandson Omani raised $550 with a readathon. His teacher asked him how he managed that impressive amount and his reply, 'Facebook'. Why not? He was quite shocked at how many people were prepared to support him in reading books. The whole school excelled at the challenge and the Principal had to rethink the prize structure. He dashed out and tried to find sponsorship for the three top students. Omani was number two and his whole class got pizza for lunch. Needless to say, Omani was very popular.

But yes, we did do something vaguely Olympic-related. We did archery and ring toss in our backyard. The day was glorious and the fun was ... well fun. Someone shot an arrow at the target and then it hit a rock that had been lurking in the Autumn leaves. With a zing and a swish, that arrow took on a life of its own. It ricocheted off the rock and into the air to the surprise of us all. Our thrill for the day. Raisa was the queen of ring toss. Where the rest of us managed a measly one or two wins, Raisa has such a good eye that she got all 6 rings on the pole in a single game. We had people on the road wondering what we were up to as we yelled and whooped with joy. It is no good telling the grandchildren that it is all just a game. Nope, they are way too competitive and kept score.

Have you heard about the miracle of the loaves and the fishes? Yes, the one where Jesus feeds the 5,000 with a small basket of bits and pieces. But this is more current. Recently my hometown was overrun by violence and rioting (as was much of the area I grew up in). Shops were destroyed and looted. For a while there seemed like no hope of a meal or peace and safety in sight. When some enterprising bakers in a neighbouring area brought in 40,000 loaves of bread to feed the hungry and traumatised.Thank you kind souls you helped soothe my yearning to be of assistance to family and friends. Each year, when the Agulhas current off the coast is just right, the mullet (a small fish) arrive followed by the hoards of hunters. Sharks, Barracuda, dolphins and sea birds feast on these little snacks. When the predators push them too close to shore they beach and humans get into the action. Usually the shoals beach south of the city of Durban, but this year, when roads were almost impassable, the miracles of the fishes occurred and those nutritious fish, swam further north than they had ever done before. Allowing people to catch them using shirts and skirts, blankets and even underwear. No fancy equipment is required, just fleet of foot and a love of seafood. The mullet will turn back once they reach the warm Mozambique current and return to their chilly home in the South. Their job is done and they can get back to the important business of outswimming the other denizens of the deep. A miracle for those in need, and a ray of hope for those looking for signs of heavenly intervention.

So folks, I am sitting here waiting for my genius to manifest itself as I breathe in and out like a baby and am contemplating what I should read next.