Thirsty Bees

 African bees have a fearsome reputation but if left alone are fairly peaceful. 

A hive moved into an abandoned termite hole just over our wall last summer and apart from some increased traffic around our flowering plants all has seemed peaceful. I've had the odd war with the pesticide people who when spraying for termites have wanted to spray the hive also. The hive survived the long dry winter and came out in force to sup upon the flowers of our jacaranda tree. Th tree seemed to hum there were so many bees in it.

Imagine my surprise to find them drinking in numbers from the bird bath outside my office and the lip of the fish pond made from a concrete pot. I am told by my beekeeping sister in law (who lives in England) that water is essential for building wax. So I guess the hive is expanding. The long and the short of it is that we are filling the bird bath and fishpond twice a day as evaporation in our October heat drops the water below the level the bees can reach.

It is a gift to tend such wild creatures in a suburban setting.

No need to make a plan!

 Zimbabweans have a favourite saying. "we'll make plan". We are very proud of our ability to make a plan. Indeed I have an American friend (who choses to live here) who calls Zimbabwe Make-A-Plan-Land. Given our turbulent political and economic history it is a trait that has stood us in good stead. And for the many, many Zimbabweans, in what we call the Diaspora, who have fled, legally or illegally, to make a new life in other countries all over the world being able to "make a plan" has enabled them to settle successfully into their new homes.

So I "made a plan" to obtain the books that I want to read that are not available here. Amazon and Barnes and Noble do not deliver to Zimbabwe (they probably cant find us on the map!!) so I buy on iBooks. Usually this works well. It is also difficult to buy books or anything for that matter in a currency that is not tradable in the world markets.

Imagine my frustration when Michelle Francl-Donnay's Advent book was only available in the Spanish language version! But undaunted I wrote to the author enquiring when the English version would be available in iBooks. Graciously she promptly wrote back giving me various option in which the book was available. I was in the process of making a plan with my son who is in the diaspora and living an working in the United Kingdom to give me an early birthday present when Michelle generously sent me a copy. 

I was speechless in the face of such generosity but as I have reflected I am also taken-a-back at not having to make a plan at all. And for the first time I wonder if we Zimbabweans don't take our "making a plan" too far....... and if it doesn't close out Grace. Such Grace and Generosity as has been given me recently.

Anxiety

 Anxiety runs in my family like a toxic river.

I began to discover this in reading Grans diaries some years after her death, (my aunt had them transcribed) and being stunned to discover a potent thread of anxiety in them. Grans frantic efforts to quell the tide of anxiety that at times threatened to engulf her were painful to read in light of my own similar daily battles. A devout woman; she seems to have seen the anxiety as a sin and a lack of trust in God. 

My mothers anxiety is something I have only recently begun to comprehend. I suspect it lies at the root of her drinking and violence. Given my own battles with panic attacks and anxiety about nothing (which drives me nuts!) I am forced to rethink Mums behaviour altogether. 

Anxiety blights my life. I am better at managing it now and know what is likely to trigger an attack. Being able to regard it as a mental illness gives me a healthier perspective on it and does not allow me to add fuel to the fire so to speak. I have learned a degree of caring for myself that ameliorates much of the effect of anxiety and does not provide a breeding ground for it. If you had told me years ago that simply getting enough sleep and exercise, that eating plenty of fresh food, that not overworking and getting enough relaxation would ease the anxiety I would have scoffed. But I don't today. I carefully make sure that I do take care of me with out making a fetish of it.

Sadly my eldest son has been put off work (after a torrid time during Covid lockdown when he was retained and many of his colleagues were sent on  furlough) due to anxiety and exhaustion. I know that he has a lifetime journey with our family devil: Anxiety.

Lost words

 There was a time when I wrote every day, whether in my journal or blog or even briefly in my diary but that is long in the past. Words became more and more erratic until they dried up completely. Looking back, I just got tired of constantly explaining myself to myself. My world became more immediate and lived without explanation to myself. I have lived simply, doing each day what needs to be done. My children are grown and left home and in their place I am caring for my elderly mother who has dementia. Sadly she is physically fit and well but she no longer recognizes her own home and sometimes doesn't recall my name. 

As I sit with her, mostly in companionable silence, I have begun to reflect.

A different reflecting from the sometimes agonized reflecting of the past. I am no longer caught up in her alcoholism, or  violent unpredictable behaviour. These aspects of her life are now things of the past. 

We are in a new relationship.

And I have yet to come to grips with it.

                                                       Mum enjoying her gardenia flowers

A leaf in the concrete

For what seems the longest time I have lived in darkness.

Prayer has echoed uselessly in my heart and mind. Thoughts have swirled round and round until I thought I was half crazy. Words disappeared into a deep hole, swallowed and I have not been able to marshal them into any sense or order. Yet after a while the darkness became familiar, almost comfortable. I ceased to despair of it. I had no hope of a change and I stopped seeking one, choosing instead to live day by day. Reacting to each days events in an isolated fashion, losing sight of any bigger picture that may emerge.

My repeated phrase, given me by my sons "breathe Mom, breathe".

So I have breathed. And breathed, and breathed.

And suddenly yesterday I awoke to a sunny day, spring been and gone in a matter of days as it does here and summer hovering in the wings.

And like a blade of grass breaking though concrete, hope stirs.

And with it a forgotten sense of joy.

And for now that is enough; wonderfully more than enough.

Blind silence

It has been so long since I blogged that I almost could not remember my password. I would have said it was ingrained on my memory but as it took a good bit of thought to remember, obviously not.

I have always been a prolific writer - mostly of journals and diaries and dreams and fancies and prayers, even the occasional blog post for fun. Yet for months words have been dry and empty. Sawdust in my mind stirring and settling in featureless patterns on the workshop floor and I have written nothing. I have prayed nothing. Prayer written or otherwise has been dark and deeply empty. Not in a good way. I have been shut into the echoing limited frame that has become my mind and body and spirit. It has been wearily bleak to find myself without the resource of prayer to carry me through the rough and the smooth. All my life, in the face of terrible wounding prayer has been my way out, my door to hope and joy and love and warmth and insight. Now there is nothing, and I grope about, lost in a blind silence. Deaf and blind and dumb in a world that I know to be so much more than the one my senses presently reveal to me.

Repeatedly I recall my retreat in early August and wonder what happened there that precipitated this blankness, this emptiness. This wavering, wandering spirit with in me that skitters like light reflected off wave ruffled water in the early morning light. The predominant sense was one of exhaustion, as I indeed was when I arrived at the Monastery. Yet in the days and weeks and months that have followed I have found within myself nothing but an unwillingness to pray.

And I today I find the courage to acknowledge that and to ask where did that unwillingness come from?

Perhaps the beginning is to simply surrender to what is and let go of what I think should be.

Sitting on my hands and keeping my mouth firmly shut is a prayer?

I am in the middle of a steep learning curve.

Mum had a stroke last week. I am deeply grateful that it was relatively mild and although she has suffered some damage she is not completely incapacitated.  She is presently out of hospital and staying with me. The occupational therapist warned me that she must be encouraged to do as much as she can for herself in order to return to some sort of independent life. I am surprised how hard it is to step back and let her struggle with ordinary tasks such as making a cup of tea.  The temptation to say "here let me....." is almost overwhelming. Intellectually I understand but the reality of putting it into practice is entirely another thing. It is heartbreaking to watch the effort simple tasks take. 

Imagine my surprise when sitting with a client this morning and finding myself again in the position of not leaping in and doing the task at hand. It would have taken me about fifteen minutes but left to his own devices and with limited guidance it took the young man over an hour. Again I realized he needed to learn, and that the best way for him was to work through it himself. I wasn't doing him any favours by taking over and doing it for him. 

I am learning to breathe gently, sit still silently and wait in such circumstances. 

Such waiting certainly doesn't come naturally to me but this morning it seemed a form of loving contemplative prayer.