Spring Into Action!

Spring has arrived --with a rainbow of feathery flourishes, oodles of hope and the most gentle of sunshine. Feathers? What have feathers got to do with the price of eggs? Everything. But, this is a little secret I'm hiding for a few more weeks. So, hold both your thumbs and wish upon a zillion stars for me - because... (*deep, excited breath/sparkling eyes*): this may just be IT for me!

My Spring Diary:

Layla + Nate when they were 18 months old! Nothing better than cousin-cuddles!

1st September: At long last, after more than a month of conjuring up wildly happy hats from feathers, faux birds, silk and lace for Home Of Hope's Spring-themed charity fundraiser, it was time to party-with-heart! With Layla being spoiled by her Aunty Mandy (new Hello Kitty leggings and veritably drowning in aunty-kisses) and co-entertained by Nate: her somewhat Tarzan-esque cousin, I headed up the coast to Blouberg's 'On The Rocks' --- a restaurant, um... on the rocks. Of the less crowded end of Blouberg's beach. And with a view that, um... rocks one's world! The event raised R43 000! (And 103 extremely rowdy, untameable ladies who jabbered relentlessly through all the speeches, but who gave copiously from their deep heart-pockets!) The Home of Hope deserves its own blog post --- but if you have money (even R20 a month, on debit order), toys, clothes or time to gift them, please contact me or them directly (via their website.) I'm going to be teaching the little ones 'creative developmental play', basic literacy and art. And --- more critically-than-even-oxygen, loving them. Get loving, guys!

The view from Pakalolo's, on Blouberg's beachfront.

I was WAAAAAY too early for the function --- and my Facebook status that day says it all: 

  I'm grabbing a luxuriously solitary coffee at my old haunt on Blouberg's beachfront to sit and simply soak up 'my' mountain, and revel in my wild passion for this city that never ceases to delight and inspire me!

2nd September: Church. And then a spontaneous ice-cream -------- and then garlic-riddled lunch at Blouberg'd Primi Piatta. Glorious. Deliciousindulgentextravagant ---- well, just plain YUMMY!

3rd/4th/5th September: My mommy-brain can't remember... (A joke/truth I have probably told too many times already: when Layla was delivered via frighteningly dramatic C-section, the surgeon was in such a mad rush that he took out my brain instead of my placenta. Ya, well no fine...)

6th September: Beckoned seducingly outside by the suddenly warm sun, Layla and I made today #1 of our Gardening Adventure (though I knew I had to, tragically, hold a funeral for my two bonsais which died in this epic Cape winter we just had...) BUT: (my time's running out at the keyboard) our time was cut screeeeeechingly short by Layla's discovery of a sudden inundation of termites ---- of Biblical proportions! 7 minutes of Gardening Adventure Day #1 in total. And no tiny-tree funeral.

Time's run out.

Wild, Wild Wailing Wanting!

Eish. No blogging in over 2 months of wordlessness. So - where to begin? Hmmm....
Perhaps a few little jottings about the Mother City? Cape Town, the cradle of all that I am, the archive of all my most precious, magical memories.
After two months back in Cape Town, it seems surreal and preposterous that I ever actually chose to live away from it. England for 4, and then another 2 years (reneging on my vow to never return to the muddiest of isles!) A year and a half in Grahamstown in the Eastern Cape -- dry, a little too rustic and quaint for this Capetonian and distinctly and painfully lacking in friends and family. (Sjoe - it feels soooooo good to be writing again.)
'Bananas in Pyjamas' is on the TV, babysitting Layla in her new granny-made buzzy-bee 'tutu' --- so I'll make hay-words while the TV-sun shines!

A lekkerly special adventure I took Layla on, was to meet up with my sisters and Layla's little cousin, at Mouille Point's lighthouse, and walk across to the Blue Train - where I remember being joggled and boggled around inside it, around and around the simple little play-park, the turquoise sea glittering a little way off. HELL of a noisy - to the point of near-pain and temporary tinnitus - Layla adored every minute of it, especially the pitch darkness of the tunnel. Nate, her little cuz (2 months younger than her) wasn't quite as excited about it all - not surprisingly with all that cacophonic rumbling! He had a similar sort of reticence when Layla called him into that yellow sound-pod at the Iziko Museum (remember from all those school outings? the glass submariney thing under the gargantuan whale skeleton?) Layla fell immediately in love with the symphony of whale-song that fills the pod - but Nate would only venture in once, gingerly, with a Marie biscuit for Madame MarineBiologist! Conversely, he is such a rough-and-tumbler - frighteningly fearless - where Layla is hyper-cautious, whining for my hand to climb down even the lowest little step. Amazing, the little people!

After that, it was the V&A Waterfront for lunch and two exhausting tantrums from an overtired prima donna. (No, not me!!) Tantrum #1: That 'Build A Bear' shop. (*groan*) Layla spotted a pink surfboard. And 'wanted' is the most extreme understatement of the century. And Nate just watched his cousin, worried about her and absolutely angelic in his not-wantingness! Tantrum #2: The ferris-wheel. Damnit!! Layla's current l'il passion is the fun-fair. And her sighting of the ferris-wheel ignited another state of 'want' that caused me to hunt through my wallet in frenzied desperation for R40 for the ticket, instantly slapping a silencing smile on her tear-wet face. And then... that crushing claustrophobia of parental realisation that: there was not enough money in my wallet to pay for the ticket, and not enough con-artistry in my arsenal to talk her out of her VERY bitter disappointment. Yebo. Fun at the fair, eh?
Last week, however, I was able to make good on my promise to take her for a ride on the ferris-wheel. (The ticket was R80, by the way. Under 3's go for free.) And - the views from our little spot of circling tourist-heaven left my heart hammering in 'And I live here!' bliss, awe and gratitude.

No more animated (in every sense of the word) bananas bouncing around on the TV, so time to do the 'adios' thing!
Love,
Lisa

Spruitsdrift Musings...

Howzit, guys! I'm visiting my folks in Cape Town (which feels magnificently exotic and oh-so-glam after 2 months in the Eastern Cape!!) and, because of a divine comment from a family coming HOME after a stint in the States, I just had to quickly link back here to my Homecoming Revolution blog update! (Repatriation is busy work, indeed! *wink* So there has been minimal time to do any proper writing... lol!)
Nevertheless, here is the link to some recent news. There is (as I seem to write every single blog post) just so much I wish I could tell you about moving back home, but time is too tight for words (literally.) At least I now have internet, so updates will DEFINITELY be more frequent and delicious with repatriation details - so post your comments and ANY questions and I'll answer them as soon as I can :)
(The 'Spruitsdrift' in the title is a not-so-oblique reference to my love affair with red wine - of which my parents always have an abundance!)

The Mother City

Homesickness. (Do I really feel like writing about it? I said I would the last time I wrote.) Oh bugger! I better. But just quickly, mind you.
What I've noticed about homesickness is its mutability: how it affects people to differing degrees and in different ways. And, radical generalisation: it affects women more profoundly than men; though perhaps men are more able to compartmentalise their homesickness: i.e. box it, tape it up, and shove it to the back for later contemplation. Whereas in women, it seems to bleed out into every part of daily life and consciousness, steeping everything with its relentless, heavy, dark stain.

When I lived in the UK before (2003 - 2006) my homesickness was caused by two things: my living situation was such that I was told we'd never return to South Africa, as well as the fact that I was so deeply hurting, lonely and unhappy that I became physically ill for years from this desperate hopelessness. (I cured it by booking a plane ticket to Cape Town and never looking back! Ha!)

But now, my homesickness cannot be blamed on an unhappy relationship, because I am treasured, adored and incredibly cherished: and I can't help but be amazed, day after day, by this kind, gentle, strong and patient man who I fall more deeply in love each day. So ya - cross that one out. However, I can definitely blame the acuteness of my homesickness on being pregnant. Since I was a little girl, I always imagined my pregnancy to be a sort of family affair, involving my sisters, my Mommy, endless cups of tea, hours of sentimentally sweet shopping for little white babygrows... The closest we've managed to get that fantasy to match my English reality is getting both parties set up with a webcam. e.g. my mom'll hold up a cute, stripey baby vest to the webcam or I'll fill the screen with my naked, swollen-with-baby belly! THANKFULLY, my darling mom has worked her poor backside off to be able to buy a ticket over here for the birth and to help with the initial stages of settling in with Layla Rose. (What would the world be without mothers?)

And despite the gorgeous house we rent (relatively cheaply) in a sought-after location in a pretty little village nestled among verdant, sheep-dotted farms -- I still long for the life I had in Cape Town where I had seemingly less financially. Walks along whichever stretch of beach I desired (a 5 minute drive from home or work), sundowners on the beach (toes buried deep in the cooling sand) or in a slightly seedy but wonderfully exotic little beachside bar... Craig would often arrive home with St Elmo's pizza, a bottle of wine and roses. AT LEAST once a week! Seeing Table Mountain (one of my favourite things in the world) in the blushing sunrise or at ANY time of the day, from my big bathroom window. Popping over to my parents for a braai whenever the fancy took us. Long, lazy evenings at Lemon Butta drinking too much red wine and succumbing to the earthly delights of the freshest, most artfully prepared sushi, sashimi and nigiri on the planet... Saturday morning rummagings around the seafront liquor depot for excellent bottles of red wine and paying only R16 a bottle... Sitting out on the little stoepie near midnight, sipping Jack-on-the-rocks, being utterly and receptively still to the velvety black night air, the tumbling, glittering stars, ... the South Easter! lol

You see - it is only when you are unable to experience these things that once you left unnamed, that you realise what 'home' means to you. And with the terrible, apocalyptic gloom over here in the UK blamed on The Credit Crunch tainting everyone's attitude, how bad then can what people call 'South Africa's crime and government' be? Truly, each country has its very own uglinesses and 'issues' - but I have come to the point where I would rather put up with my own country's rather than this one's. It's like tolerating a loved but annoying sister. Better the devil you know...

Hence why we are making serious, practical plans to get our African asses back home as soon as we can! Our biggest hurdle is - of course, money. But hey, money is something that putting your nose to the grindstone can readily guarantee -- so it's not an insurmountable hurdle. And until we can return home, we shall indulge in 2 months at home every year - and though we're 'missing the English summer' all I can say to that is: 'So I'm going to miss out on 3 days of windless perfection and 60 rainy, muddy days?' BIG ****ING DEAL (wink)


PS. Click on the pic to make it bigger!