#1liner Weds: If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine; it is lethal.

 

“If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine; it is lethal.” Paulo Coelho.

Sometimes one person’s adventure (have you ever wished, secretly or otherwise, to sing opera on stage in front of hundreds of people?) can be the next person’s job (Freddy Mercury and Montserrat Caballe performing ‘Barcelona’). But then I quite sure they are passionate about what they do. There is probably something of the adventure in each performance for them.

Are adventure and routine always mutually exclusive? Are they two entirely separate entities? Don’t you ever have days where a matter of routine can turn into a very unwelcome event, where you find yourself jumping through hoops and running into obstacles just to get a simple task done? Where you find yourself running the gauntlet and having to dig deep in an unwanted adventure of sorts? Simple tasks and matters of routine sometimes have a way of forcing us out of that comfort zone that we are so often told to step out of for the sake of a more interesting life. And these things can work in reverse too: you tell a friend about something that has happened, something unexpected and difficult that you had to deal with, and they respond with a kind of awe: Wow, that must have been difficult, I don’t know if I could have even gotten through that alone, and your response is something like: Well it wasn’t bad really, not too much of a challenge. Somehow I knew what to do and got through it quite ok.

And how often do you find yourself reminded to get out of your comfort zone from time to time? The phrase Comfort Zone typically describes a kind of small world or cushy space that we get locked into when we forget to step out, push the boundaries a bit, venture into the unfamiliar, the unexplored. Perhaps it’s all relative: on some days we just don’t feel up to things- not strong or just not in the mood. Some days, as the Jo’burg winter gets going with early morning temperatures heading towards zero Celsius, getting up and getting my hair washed feels like enough adventure for me for the day. So yes, sometimes these things depend on our inner and outer circumstances and whether we feel up to the task.

I think we are all on our own private journey really- a mix of the excitement and often the fear involved in adventure- planned and unplanned, and the repetitiveness of routine which can lead to so much boredom, frustration, and testing of one’s patience. Life is about both. We just need to remind ourselves to be up to the challenge to accept both adventure and routine in our daily stride. 

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

 

Written for #1 Liner Wednesday at Linda G Hill

#1liner Weds: Carry on Regardless…

 

The author E L Doctorow once said that “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night- you can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” That sounds a lot like Life; like those times in life when what’s needed is to find something to focus on, and to just keep going. You can’t see what’s going on to your left or your right, or what’s lying further down the road, but for now all you can do is keep your attention on the patch of road that you see in the glow of your headlights, and keep driving. Sometimes we travel by day, and sometimes by night. Our destination, the bigger picture, is not always visible, and there are times where we just have to grit our teeth and keep going. At these times we bravely take heart and try to stay the distance- there will be light at the end of the tunnel ♥

Photo by Killian Eon on Pexels.com

 

Written for One Liner Wednesday at Linda G Hill

 

Pausing to prepare for change… again

The last time I went over to the UK to work as a Live-in Carer, blogging came to a standstill for me. That was two years ago, starting in mid-June till early November of 2021, and included 10 days mandatory Covid quarantine, 16 weeks of work, and 10 days paid leave, where I took the opportunity to travel in England, my country of birth, and see some of my family and friends there. I skipped blogging for the entire time I was away, and only picked up again in August this year. Sixteen months is a long time between blog posts!

Quite honestly, I didn’t feel the urge to write while I was away, and this is partly at least due to the intensity of care work by nature, where I couldn’t wait for my bit of time out in the evenings when clients are (hopefully) peacefully asleep, and where I could catch up on reading or watch some Netflix in my room. Even during my allocated two-hour breaks during the day, rather than blogging, I preferred to rest or go for walks in the beautiful semi-rural areas (which is where most of my clients lived) or catch up on some admin. And speak to my husband back in ZA, of course.

And now it seems I will be heading out there again within the next few weeks. There is a lot to prepare for, and I can safely say that writing and blogging are on ‘pause’ for me for now. We’ll see in time when Pause becomes Play, but for now, all I can commit to is checking in with you lovely people on your blogs from time to time while I’m away.

Hope you have all had a bright and promising start to 2023, and may your year continue ever onward and upward!

Photo by SHVETS production on Pexels.com

#SoCS: Life’s Rich Tapestry

So, Madam, on your plate tonight you have a Career Re-think and a dose of Covid about to take hold. And the dog has IBS. And the water meter outside your property has been stolen, so now there’s clean, drinkable water pouring down your street. Pity- I just hate that kind of waste, don’t you?

But that’s not what I ordered at all! I exclaimed. Take this back immediately, please, and bring me what I asked for.

The waiter smiled brightly. Aha! But that’s the thing, you see- at this establishment you don’t always get what you asked for. In fact, you rarely get what you asked for, especially on Pot-luck Night, which is most nights, by the way.

Well, I want what HE’s got, I said pointing to the table ahead of me. He’s got White Sandy Beaches and Tour of the Baltics lined up on his plate- that’s what I ordered.

The waiter was polite and patient. Again, Pot-luck, he said. Anything’s possible in this place. Did you notice our signage when you came in? He pointed to the ceiling with a sweep of his white-sleeved arm. I looked up. “Life’s Rich Tapestry” in bold blue neon letters winked down at me.

Well, I can’t deal with all this. It’s overwhelming. Maybe just leave the dog thing: I can probably handle that. I’ll take her to the vet. But the other stuff? A career re-think when I’m nearing 60? A dose of Covid? And don’t you know that COJ is in disarray- do you know how long it might take for them to replace a stolen water meter? No thanks. Take this plate away please.

Well, I’m afraid that’s not an option here. The waiter was smiling again, perhaps a little condescending this time. You see, you can’t leave until you’ve finished what’s on your plate. That’s the deal, I’m afraid. Just the way it is.

I sensed angry tears coming on, a sense of helplessness and even fear. I wanted to run away, anywhere at all, just out of here.

The waiter sat down just then, in the empty chair opposite me. His smile had softened as he spoke to me in low tones. That man over there, the one with the Beach and the Baltics on his plate- well don’t be too envious. He’s a bit of a nasty piece of work, and he doesn’t know it yet, but we’ll be dishing up some ‘Just Desserts’ for him once he’s finished his main course. He’ll be smiling on the other side of his face when I bring THAT to his table.

So, he continued, as he stood up. Best you get started, you’ve got a lot on your plate there. You’ll be fine, he added. Just remember to go with the flow. Oh, and don’t forget to self-isolate when you get home.

What do you mean? I asked.

Self-isolate, he repeated. For 10 days, for the Covid. Who knows? You might even enjoy the R &R. It’ll help you to prepare for all the other challenges ahead.

But how do I get the dog to the vet if I have to self-isolate? I asked.

He shrugged. You’ll figure it out, he said. You’ve got friends, family, neighbours. These things are sometimes sent to test us. And it’s often all part of something bigger. He was looking up at the ceiling. I followed his gaze. The signed winked at me again, like a gentle reminder. “Life’s Rich Tapestry.”

#SoCS Writing Prompts, Sat 26/11/22: ‘On Your Plate’.

Photo by Igor Starkov on Pexels.com

#1liner Weds: The Nose Knows

Have you ever been drawn to something that your normal logic tells you should repulse you? Scare you even? But you just can’t explain it. And you just can’t help yourself…

The Nose Knows- a flash fiction tale

The smell hit her in a wave of nausea as she slid into the driver’s seat. He’d done it again! Smoked a cigar in the car, ground it down into a stinking ball, and left it there it in the ashtray overnight. Left it there for someone else to clean up. She gritted her teeth, opened the window, and drove off, her hands tight and tense on the steering wheel.

On the highway, exhaust fumes from the car in front of her made her gag, so she closed the window again. With her indicator on, she managed to overtake the car and continue to the offramp where she turned into the mall and into her usual parking bay. She noticed a dark patch of oil on the tarmac next to her as she pulled in- someone else’s oil leak. Its petroleum stink, hot in the late morning sun, rose to meet her as she stepped out of the car. The nausea nearly overwhelmed her as she locked the car behind her and headed for the salon, the doors sliding open as she stepped into the entrance.

The smells of the salon– peroxide and acetone and all the things for nails and hair dyes– was stifling, and the stink of hair being by fried by extreme heat made her feel dizzy. The receptionist was understanding: “It’s no problem, Mrs Arends. Rather just go home if you’re unwell. Just phone us when you feel better, and we’ll be happy to reschedule today’s appointment.”

Stepping into the house, the smells of aerosol polish and oven cleaner reminded her instantly that today was Wednesday, the day the cleaning service people came in. Walking quickly up the stairs to her bedroom, she could tell that there would be no peace up here either– the entire upstairs level smelt of linen washed in too much detergent (she had asked them previously to adjust the amounts), and of the overpowering, artificially floral scents of fabric softener hanging in the air. Opening the door to the ensuite bathroom, she collided with the harsh stink of household bleach stinging her nostrils, her eyes, her throat.

She was walking towards the far end of the homestead grounds now, far from the main house, where the air was cool and soft and smelt of greenery and of the bark of the surrounding trees. She’d walked this way exactly once before: years ago, when they had first moved onto the property. Now she made her way past the simple stone and brick cottages that belonged to the farmhands and other workers on the property. It was peaceful, and very quiet- nobody home during working hours. Ahead of her was a simple stone wall, not very high, and some distance behind the wall was a cottage made of yellow bricks, a bit bigger than the simple cottages that the farmhands occupied. She recognised it as the home of the groundskeeper and his wife. There was a small garden adjoining the cottage, with rows of ripening mielie cobs, a few spinach plants, and five or six red and white hens scratching about. She kept walking.

The smell was like nothing she’d ever experienced: gamey and pungent and almost overpowering. It was the smell of something rotting, but with a strange, almost-freshness to it: organic and nearly edible. As she approached the wall, she saw that it was one section of a square enclosure, its height reaching just above her waist as she leaned over. The pigs continued to grunt contentedly as they chewed and slurped and sucked– the slops and kitchen leftovers being churned and pushed and pummeled by their round, flat, fleshy snouts as they grazed. As she stood and watched, the thought of humus came to her: stuff of the earth, and mushroom compost or maybe manure. She thought about the vegetable garden they had kept briefly when they first moved onto the property. It hadn’t really worked out– he’d wanted pavers– and the project was finally abandoned. She stood and watched the pigs, admiring their snouts, how busy-busy and agile, and imagined them rooting in the roots, hunting for truffles in the dirt (it was pigs that did that, wasn’t it?), their nostrils alive with the sweet smell of decay. Imagined then grinding their snouts into the dark earth, the stuff of life. She imagined them sniffing out and hunting down those hidden treasures, till, finally, success- their noses caked in dirt, and the precious thing, the strangely shaped nub of fungus, now within reach.

When he at last found her, she was lying on her back on one section of the wall with her knees bent, gazing calmly up at the early evening sky. She had one hand on her stomach, gently caressing the small mound there: 16 weeks exactly, give or take a day or two. He vaguely heard her say something about not coming back tonight. About being just where she needed to be.

 

Written for One Liner Wednesday at Linda G Hill

‘(Not always) the sweet smell of success.’

 

 Photo by Leah Kelley on Pexels.com

#1liner Weds: How to find your Writing Feet

“Tain’t no Sin to Take off your Skin, and Dance around in your Bones.”

Ray Bradbury’s book, ‘Zen in the Art of Writing’, mentions this little ditty above, which he describes as his ‘favourite tune’ when he was young. At first glance this ditty is deceptively quaint and whimsical, but I find it quite profound: it talks of the act of baring your writing soul, reveling in the freedom of unrestricted expression as you go about finding your voice, and the joy of being unrestrained and unconcerned about what everyone else might think of you as you do so.

I’m loving reading this book; I find it many things: humorous, informative, irreverent, wise, enthused, energising, reassuring, warm, honest, and all based on Ray Bradbury’s many years of writing experience and ‘living large’ even as a pre-teen. He delves into his childhood loves and fears and pains and talks about how these things carried him and informed him as writer and story- teller.

I’m quoting below from Chapter One- The Joy of Writing:

“… the first thing a writer should be is -excited. He should be a thing of fevers and enthusiasms. Without such vigor, he might as well be out picking peaches or digging ditches; God knows it’d be better for his health. How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or your real hatred somehow got onto the paper? What are the best things and the worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting them?”

I love writing fiction; expressing myself through storytelling- I find it cathartic, and I find it helps me to delve into my thoughts and feelings and reveal these on the page in the way that’s right for me. Frustratingly though, storytime too often ends up on the back burner as the rest of the stuff of life takes over. Not a good excuse, I know. Ray Bradbury would probably tell me to just Find my Feet, Hit the Page Running, and to Spill my Guts in the process!

Written for One Liner Wednesday at Linda G Hill

Photo Challenge #437: The Sentinel

Do you believe in sacred spaces? The power of the unknown? There are things we meet from time to time that are maybe better left alone….

The Sentinel

‘What’s this here?’ He was poking at the ground with his foot, indicating the point where the strange, blackened stump protruded from the sand.  

No one knows exactly, she said. It’s been there ever since I can remember. I’ve heard people talking about it over the years. It seems to be a bit of an icon. Definitely a landmark around here.

Well, it’s going to have to go, unfortunately, he said. We need to clear this area as per the contract agreement, and this… whatever it is… is right in the middle of where the new road will be. I’ll just get my guys to lift it. It’ll be a quick, painless job.

She smiled. He frowned. Does that seem strange to you? he asked. It’s a burnt-out piece of wood, not so? Really not complicated.

Have you had a proper look? she asked. It’s not burnt, and it’s not even wood. Take a look.

He leaned in closer to the strange object, narrowing his eyes and rubbing his palm along the surface. He pulled his hand away. Okay, I see that, he said. There was a tone of surprise in his voice, and an annoyance at being caught off-guard. It’s made of stone or something. What is this thing anyway? Some kind of fossil, or what?

As I said, nobody seems to know. I’ve heard stories, though. About its ‘special powers’ and other things. The locals say that it’s been here since the beginning of time. I’ve also heard them say that people have tried to remove it in the past and that some of those individuals… well… things didn’t go well for them in the end.

He was staring at her now, his mouth twitching as he held back a laugh.

You don’t expect me, surely, to buy into that kind of superstitious nonsense. Are you really asking me to take this seriously?

I don’t know, she said. I’m just letting you know what I know. What I’ve been told. Some of the history and folklore of the area. You asked me about the object and I’m telling you what I know. She smiled, not condescending, but with a suggestion of patience that was starting to wear a bit thin.

Well, as I see it, a commitment is a commitment, and we have a job to do here. He turned his back to her then and started to walk in the direction of the vehicle that was parked a short distance away, calling out as he went: Okay guys, we need some heavy artillery over here, please; something that can cut through stone. Pronto.

She watched him walk off, talking loudly to his three teammates as they got out of the vehicle and started unloading their tools from the container at the back. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a small movement on the ground just to her right. She looked down and saw a small animal, a hedgehog, rooting about amongst the short tufts of grass there. She stood quietly, not wanting to disturb the little creature as it scratched and rummaged around, probably looking for something to eat. She watched it, admiring its pretty face with its dark-button eyes and nose, and the small round ears. The sun emerged from behind the clouds at that moment, and a ray glanced against its small, bright eyes as it lifted its head to look at her. And although it was obviously just a trick of the light, it really seemed for just a moment, that it was winking at her.  

Image credit Denman Prospect Village

Photo Challenge #437

Instructions for today’s prompt: ‘Use the above image as inspiration for a poem or short story.’

Why Walk? Well, it’s good for body and mind

I love walking in my neighbourhood at this time of year. It’s early summer here in South Africa, and the city and surrounds of Johannesburg is a fabulous display of trees, shrubs and vines in flower and fruit, notably the Bougainvillea and Jacaranda trees which light up the horizon as you look to the distance. The best time to be out walking now is early morning- things start heating up from about 8.30, so I go out well before then for a fast walk, usually with my hand-held 1kg dumb-bells. I’m usually out for a half hour maximum, depending on which route I take. I don’t always walk daily; it depends on what else is lined up for the day, but I know that for me to feel ok, I need to move and to feel mobile and to know that blood is circulating freely through my limbs and organs! Luckily, I have plenty of tricks and tools of the “fitness trade” that I’ve collected over the years. I practiced and taught Hatha Yoga and Pilates, one-on-one and group classes, for about fifteen years, and the things I’ve learned through direct experience and much repetition over the years have not left me in a hurry. I know how to pack a lot into just ten minutes of exercise a day, such as with a few simple pilates moves, or a few rounds of Surya Namaskar aka Sun Salutations. And dance! The radio station I listen to on Friday mornings plays a non-stop routine of fifteen minutes of dance music if I feel like a change.

This post was partly prompted by Brian here, where he talks about his efforts and challenges in returning to exercise and a healthy eating plan. Here are three small suggestions I can make for others in his situation, especially the over-50’s:

• If you’re not sure what’s right for you at your age and stage of life and health, talk to your GP or to a professional in the health and fitness field, preferably someone who has worked with individual needs on a one-to-one basis.

• a little every day or second day is far better than trying to burn up the track once a week.

• Weight-bearing exercises benefit the muscles, bones, and joints. Try including some of these in your exercise regime or build them in along with regular walks. Take advice on things like squats and lunges (many benefits to be had here!), especially if you are overweight or have knee troubles.   

Meantime, please enjoy some of the photos I took while walking in my neighbourhood yesterday. On this occasion I left my weights behind and took my phone along so that I could snap up some of the local scenery. The Jacarandas will have dropped all their blossom within the next few weeks, and I didn’t want to risk missing that window of opportunity. Sometimes you have to strike while the oven is (still) hot ;).

Photo of Feet Walking: Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com.

All other pics by me (Amanda) on my modest Samsung J7 phone camera….

#SoCS: Rite of Passage

Have you ever misjudged or misinterpreted a situation so badly that it leaves you reeling? Or maybe you misunderstood someone’s motives- assumed good intentions where none existed, and you now feel that you can’t trust the person, and maybe can’t trust your own judgment in certain situations. Poor judgment and misunderstandings can happen to anyone, but they have a way of knocking our self-confidence and can even leave one in a really difficult position…

He was running at me now, picking up speed as he got closer, his right arm raised and bent at the elbow, the ball in his hand. My eyes were on the ball, my feet firmly planted, bat raised to strike. I saw the ball leave his hand, and as I swung at it, I immediately realised my lack of judgment. My angle was wrong- I had swung into the gap, and there was no contact. Instead of that clean smack of bat to ball, there was the heart-sinking sound of the ball hitting the wicket, and the tumble of bits falling over as they hit the ground on impact. I heard the fielder nearest me to my left shout out in glee as he clapped his hands, “Bowled him!” and from the corner of my eye the long white sleeve of the umpire lifted slowly towards vertical, his index finger pointed, his face deadpan. There was no argument to be had here- as I slowly removed my visor and gloves, the fielders and the bowler were already huddled together, patting each other on the back and exchanging high fives. Amidst the loud cheers of excitement from the spectators and the celebratory music that had now started up in the stadium, I heard a strange sound, a low hum followed by a deep clear voice coming from nowhere that I could see. “You’re out. It’s time to leave the playing field.” “Yes, I can see that,” I muttered to myself, beyond irritated at having the obvious pointed out to me by someone or something that I couldn’t even see. I was now headed towards the players’ change rooms, anxious to escape my humiliation with the comfort of a hot shower. But the entrance to the change room was now blocked off by a locked gate, and I found myself being ushered down a long passageway- a different route to the change rooms, I assumed. I heard the sound again, the same voice as before, this time: “That route cannot be opened for you. Please make your way down the passageway.” I continued to walk down the passage which now seemed to stretch further in front of me with each step, and I realised after some minutes that I could no longer hear any sounds from the stadium above. The passageway was dark and soundless, barring the crunch of my own footsteps. I sensed my irritation growing, and I thought about turning back. I stopped and shouted into the void in front and behind me. “Hey! What’s going on here? I just want to get to the showers, guys! I’ve just had a really crappy game of cricket, and I’d like to get out of here right now, please!” Again, that low hum, closer than before, followed by the voice, so close now that it seemed to vibrate from inside the passage walls: “Well then someone didn’t properly explain the rules to you, unfortunately. That was not just a game of cricket. That was the game of life.”  

#SoCS Writing Prompts, Sat 22/10/22: “Bowl.”

Photo by Yogendra Singh on Pexels.com

The Monday Begin-Again

I don’t normally reblog other people’s posts, but this quote is so perfect for a Monday that I couldn’t resist:

“A new week starts. No need to hesitate. The windows reflect a new day with new adventures. Looking back is just too much work! With all that you know and all that you’ve learned, turn and follow the open road ahead.” From this lovely blog that I came across while doing random searches on WordPress this morning: https://carriesbench.org/2022/08/29/mondays-door-6/

Happy Monday, everyone and here’s wishing you an upbeat start to the new week. Oh, and remember to keep your Beginner’s Mind with you at all times! 🙂

Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com