Ma Wa Gray

The puppy arrives. We coo. He sleeps, eats, poos... a lot. Sometimes we forget he is there. He's so small. We haven't made space for him in our consciousnesses yet. We know we will love him for who he has been made to be, but for now when we can't see him we forget he is there. That's the way with new things. It takes a while for them to find space within us.  Day by day he will reveal himself in all his colour and empathy and presence.  And one day we will wonder how we ever cooked a meal without falling over him. How we faced heartache and depression without his knowing eyes. How we slept without his protection. How we were a family without him as a part of it. And then he will be gone.  Dogs don't go into perjury. There is little spiritual wrestling in a dog's death because they are born perfect and remain so, eternal reminders of the spirit that inhabits Heaven.  And the presence who came so discreetly and unobtrusively into our lives will be what we miss mo...

 I am not one obsessed with monarchy and feathery fascinators and bunting and protocol.  But today I see an old woman lay down her sceptre of duty, her robe of burden, her crown of leaden privilege and I see her re-emerge a young girl, dressed in light.  Like so many who have gone before her she is now but a spirit as beloved by her Father as any other. All her earthly names have vanished and she is once more her fully restored self.  And she is on her way home.  (The photo was taken in London as the death of the Queen was announced.)

  Yesterday, as I was driving my two children home from various playdates and activities, my car came to a dead stop right in front of our gate. Right in front of our gate. I literally could not get it to go another centimeter.  After a couple of confusing moments trying to work out what could have possibly gone wrong and how I could have broken my car we ascertained that I had run out of petrol.  Right in front of our gate. I have never, in my entire life, run out of petrol.  But this will speak to you about the overwhelming reality that I am living in. And I say this because I know that at least 80% of people reading this are probably in the same boat as me for one reason or another.  There's just too much noise, and worry, and anxiety to sometimes see the little flashing red light that tells us that we're running on empty. And maybe its just every single person who I have recently had any kind of interaction with who feels like this or it is all of us. I susp...

Because I’m quite bossy I dictated my requirements for the celebration of our tenth wedding anniversary. Stephen duly complied.  I wanted to go and explore my (unacknowledged and barely documented) family history at Rorke’s Drift, dip into some Isandlwana lore and then bask in luxury at a private game lodge for two days.  This was a fact finding mission, one where I felt I was single handedly correcting history because it was only in Ian Knight’s 2010 book ‘Zulu Rising’ that the Stockil family get acknowledged as the missing link between the original owner of the farm, Jim Rorke and the Swedish missionary, Otto De Witte who owned Rorkes Drift at the time of the battle. We lived there for some three years before we could smell what the rock was cooking and got the hell out of dodge. We left a few months before the battle to settle in Winterton where we have been ever since. My family traded with King Cetshwayo and he in fact gave us our clan name - uMjangwan which means ‘young ...

  This afternoon I shouted so loudly and aggressively at my warring children that I literally thought I was having a heart attack. The build up to the explosion reads like a normal day in the life of a full time working mother who is trying to get a million things done in her holidays because she doesn’t have any time to do them when she’s working.  The highlights package includes a night of bed swapping for the entire family. A lengthy shopping trip with both children. The excursion’s aim was to buy everything we need for our upcoming camping holiday. And yes, I ended up buying a Hotwheels car and over priced kiwis. I made lunch, which Eva refused. I gave her yoghurt which she spilled all over herself. We had several bouts of hysteria based on puzzles, car tracks, dummy usage and cracker bread. I then tried to rest and Eva knocked on my door on five separate occasions. They then went outside to the trampoline directly outside my bedroom and despite a severe warning continued ...

 We spent the past weekend at one of our favourite places - Umzumbe beach. I write about it quite a lot. My mom grew up on this beach and we have spent many a holiday on its familiar beaches. The weekend was a bit weird though. There was a cyclone warning and so the beach was closed on Saturday. The shark nets had been pulled up and there were squalls of intermittent rain throughout Saturday. Friday and Saturday nights were also unsettling. During the night various rituals took place on the beach. There was drumming and singing and whistle blowing and those taking part in the rituals would wind their way down the path to the beach. The path happens to be right next to our beach cottage.  Between the expectations of tsunamis, shark attacks and haunted sleep disturbed by alarming cries by Sunday I was feeling ill at ease.  Sunday dawned overcast but still. The beach was perfect and silent and my parents were able to take the grandchildren down to the tidal pool to give thei...

  There is a moment in November every year when my diary gives up the ghost. I then have to gently coax it to the completion of the December examination marking session and then the poor exhausted thing bleeds ink rivers into my handbag, drowning in old lists and rehearsal schedules. It almost bursts with the realisation that another year has passed and it's spine barely held it together. Right now I am that diary. This year I have the overwhelming sense that I’m not the only one who would choose a broken, exhausted diary as a metaphor for their lives. If some people were to look at the dates that made up the past year in their diaries the list of unspeakable trauma and loss would just be too much for the pages to hold. In fact almost everyone I know has at least one new date in their diaries that speaks of the day when their lives changed profoundly. It is a day whose anniversary they will dread for the rest of their lives. I also know that many of the people I love are just very ...