Buddy.

Life never ceases to surprise us, does it?

Just when we automatically thought our government would always be run by aged, white men and occasionally enjoyed entertaining the notion of some day having a female commander-in-chief, our friends and neighbors surprise us completely and Bam!
Today there is a serious young black man whom we call "Mr President, Sir."

I feel so honored to have witnessed the swearing in of two monumental presidents, Nelson Mandela and now, Barack Obama. Almost fifteen years ago, many white South Africans looked into the face of Nelson Mandela and saw a reflection of their own greatness on a different colored skin. This week, it seems many white Americans saw their hopes and lives depicted on the strong face of their own black man. He hasn't promised them the world, but merely his very best effort with their help, and that seems to be more than enough for them.

What is it exactly that makes people look beyond race, age, and appearances and reach out to one another in trust when there doesn't seem to be any real common ground?

We were an oddly incongruous pair, Buddy and I.

I was an invigorated, energetic, mini-skirted fluffy blond twenty-four-year-old with a shiny new job and matching shoes. A rotund, kindly-faced, continuously fatigued black man sighed in the office next door to me. Buddy greeted me with polite good morning good humor for the first week or two, whilst I scurried about getting acquainted with a brand new set of politicians, staff and procedures.
Then one day, when I began to feel secure enough to drink my morning coffee without the accompanying frenzy, Buddy popped in and gently placed his crumpled morning paper on my desk.
A morning ritual had begun, along with an interesting friendship.

Forty-year-old Buddy had a traditional African marriage, and a small collection of knobbly-kneed children. We never worked together on any projects, or discussed any technical or work-related issues. Rather, our morning conversations were of our lives, of growing up and out. We chatted easily and openly, and the vast differences in our realities, perceptions and experiences never failed to delight and entertain us.

He relished my horror in his childhood descriptions of trapping and skinning squirrels for food -the very same type of squirrels which tourists fed overpriced peanuts in the parliamentary gardens. He was intrigued by my independence and education as a young white woman, and listened to my reasoning and ideas on social issues and legalities with an open heart. I in turn learned to better understand his passion for the poor, his support for affirmative action, and how his paternalistic culture dominated his reasoning on many levels. We seemed to learn that we did not have to agree with one another to understand one another. Life experiences had made us completely different people and yet we loved the same jokes, loved walking, and a fine whiskey on the rocks.

Mostly, I remember we laughed a lot.
What a fine memory to have of someone so different from me.
Finding a jewel of common ground and purpose with another seemingly so different can change your life.

And as my five-year-old calls it, "Rock Obama is President. Rock Obama."

Plastic Houses and Pretend Money.

This Christmas break, we spent some time up in our house in the Sierras, and we played Monopoly every night.

I think the last time I played I was about twelve, perhaps thirteen. One needs a crowd to play a decent game, and usually our little family of four falls horribly short, with Sarah having the Monopoly attention span of a fruit fly. But not this particular week. We had two grandparents, a boisterous uncle, an even tempered girlfriend, two parents and two kids in the mix.
Throw in some fairyland snow, a tiny house, a wood stove, a generically carpeted living room floor, a sagging Christmas tree and a frazzled cat, and one has all the elements needed for a challenging game o' Monopoly.

Everyone dives for their favorite piece - a shoe, horse, "lucky" wheelbarrow, or ship. Paper money gets laid out in careful rows or wadded up in a sticky hand, hot and clammy from carpet wrestling.

At first everyone feels flush. Many streets are purchased. Then, money gets tighter, rentals received on owned streets seem trivial, and the sighing and discontent begins. Players start compulsively counting their dwindling funds. Baleful glances are exchanged.
Initial complicated negotiations and exchanges begin to be discussed in short bursts. Money gets less, deals get complicated and arguing commences. Within a short period of time, someone is protesting loudly about being bankrupted, or cheated. Soon, discontent reigns, and one person,-- in our case, my brother Francois -- is winning hands down with hotels, houses and everyone else's money. Every time.

No-one can quite understand it. He crows with delight, strokes a non-existent scrooge-like beard, and relishes his successes. Everyone else is just fed-up. Some losers go for broke, take huge risks and lose everything. They end up depressed and homeless and wander off to seek solace in chips and dip. Others try negotiation, pay-back schemes and clever, conservative methods of getting back on their feet and into the game. Sometimes it works, and they hang on a little longer. But eventually they too end up hunched over the browning guacamole. Sometimes the winner falls for the charms of the pleader, especially if beloved eyelashes are being batted at him. His charity keeps her going longer, but eventually she too succumbs and ends up with nothing, having squandered not only her money, but personal charms too.

Winner takes all. The shrewdest, most focussed, most ruthless seems to prevail in Monopoly. The young and stupid are quickly thrown out. The soft-hearted negotiator loses out, and the distracted with half a brain in the game is almost always gone first. The winner owns all their assets in a bewildering flash, and no-one really seems to know how it happened. Yet the all powerful winner seems to know exactly what he did and chortles with satisfaction, refusing to share his secret to success, albeit seemingly complicated. Just keep your head in the game, he tells me knowingly. Think rationally, and don't scare easily.

I guess I'll try that this year. Think rationally, and don't scare easily. Perhaps even season my days with a dash of optimism. There sure is enough to get depressed about. We read and hear about it every day. The dark, papered-over store fronts increase in number every time I drive to the store, and the browning christmas trees toppled into gutters and awaiting the wood-chippers give me that distinct morning-after feeling. Visual reminders of endings prevail. But now I am seeking out some inspiration to fuel motivation. Yesterday out my window, I saw a misguided tree had burst out into its feathery pink blossoms. What an uplifting spectacle of new beginnings in the middle of winter, and compliments of nature, not the media or the economy.

Perhaps I shall try to shift my focus from plastic houses and pretend money to real flowers and sturdy trees. At least, for now.

Merry Christmas and a lucky, blessed 2009 to you.

My first year of blogging has almost drawn to an end. I am grateful for all the support, comments, debate and stories from all of you, my friends and family. Stay tuned....

Grace.

I've been thinking about it lately -- or rather, I have had these moments of the recognition of grace recently. For me, it is a moment of perfection. Undeserved, unplanned and utterly magical in some way.

We recently spent a week off the coast of Mexico on a tiny island close to Cancun, La Isla Holbox. What an experience and adventure it was. We flew to Cancun via Mexico City, traveling through Guadalajara. Eek -- an oversight on my part as Mexicana Airlines reminded me very much of the brightly painted metal wall hanging I have in my kitchen of an African airplane festooned with crates of livestock and assorted oddities perched on the roof. The smiling multi-colored people on my wall sculpture differ however from the disgruntled passengers on the Mexicana planes who missed connections, sprinted between terminals and tried to negotiate seats with disinterested airline staff. But Grace smiled upon us, and granted us stand-by seats on a connecting flight when we sat in a dejected heap in front of the boarding gate of a plane heading to Cancun, along with a collection of other miserable passengers. We got to Cancun, cheered that our transport to the ferry would still be there to meet us. Our luggage, however, never made it that far. We passed through customs, and I offered a full luggage search when and if it ever arrived. The customs guy stopped me. Looking at me seriously, he asked me how many bags we had checked. I replied and he sternly instructed me to push a large blue button. I looked in surprise as a green light blinked above me. "True" it said. I noticed a "False" just below it, comfortingly dark. Some sort of primitive lie detector test? He gave me a satisfied nod, and said, enjoy your stay. Grace, I thought.

We piled into a van and headed into the unknown with a friendly driver who didn't speak a word of English and smiled broadly at my attempts at Spanish. The road seemed as straight as an arrow, running through the lush vegetation, with no street signs and a huge tropical sun setting on the horizon. We weaved across the empty road as our driver texted enthusiastically with his free hand, driving like a bat out of hell with the other, no doubt late for an important date as we had arrived three hours late. Fortunately, there were no other cars on the road for miles. And then, suddenly he would screech to a practical halt and gingerly lumber over an enormous speed bump placed strategically at the beginning of tiny villages and clusters of falling-down buildings. I noticed how dogs, scooters, bicycles, carts and people would scatter to the safety of ditches and verges, horns would be honked, much merry waving would be exchanged and after a farewell speed bump, we would be tearing off into the paved distance once more.
At some point, the driver told me in broken English that we would be taking a"short cut." He stopped in front of a large bush, and promptly turned the van into a ditch. We bumped through some brush, drove over a few lumps of earth and edged our way along in a thicket of beautiful local flora. Suddenly we came face-to-face with an official looking taxi bumping along the same track. Great, traffic issues in the short-cut. There was waving and maneuvering and we were through the bushes and ready to dash out of the thicket and join the road. The driver turned off the a/c and music, and listened intently for traffic. All clear, and we accelerated onto the tarred road. We were on our way once again. Is it still far to go? I asked anxiously, noting we had been driving for almost two hours. Oh, yes! he said cheerfully, and cranked up the music. No traffic, a beautiful Mexican sunset, and an unknown destination. Grace, I thought.
We arrived at Chiquila in the dark, and with a firm handshake and a smile, the driver dropped us at the ferry landing, waving a hand at a homely looking woman who was to get us to the island. She smiled encouragingly, and whipped out her cellphone. A call was made, and in my limited Spanish it sounded as if she was trying to arrange a boat trip to the island for us, as the little Ferry would be leaving later, and she wanted to save us all the wait. We sat on the quay next to a tiny, rusty boat. Some men arrived, hopped into the boat and graciously helped us into the boat, after gesticulating that they were our ride to the island. Henk looked alarmed, and the kids thrilled. We roared off into the dark, four men, a little girl in a puffy jacket who belonged to someone there, and a crooner. Honestly, we just left the quay and a young man picks up his guitar and strums out a song that got more emotional the further we got from the shore. Henk pointed out the sole life preserver hanging from the boat, smiled and shrugged. Here we are in the dark on a tiny boat in a foreign country with our two children, no belongings and it is warm, exciting and pretty exhilarating.
Grace, I thought.

A week of island life with talcum powder beach sand, turquoise water, sunshine, tropical showers, a brightly lit sky ablaze with stars, friendly fishermen, and food that makes you glad to be alive. We got our bags two days later, and had survived with only a bar of soap and toothbrushes bought at the island grocery store, such as it was.

Grace, all round.

And then we got home, and I thought, well, grace is easy in exotic places and times. And then suddenly it was my birthday and I was with a group of lovely friends and one of them sings Happy Birthday like a nightingale. Instantly, I am five years old and thrilled at the experience of seeing Snow White on the big screen as she sings with the birds in the opening scene of the original Disney movie. The delight and wonder of that sound rushes back to me, and I am no longer turning 40 and jaded, but five and utterly delighted at the world.

Grace, in ordinary life.

National Day of Listening.

Did you know that the 28th of November will be the first National Day of Listening in this country?

Amazing what you hear when you are a fan of public radio.... It is one of the pleasures in life for me, as I can listen whilst I do more mundane tasks like cleaning, laundry, driving and picking up the house.
For months now I have been listening to early morning snippets from a non-profit organization called "Story Corps". They have made tens of thousands of oral recordings of Americans of all shapes and sizes, ages and creeds. A conversation is like a person's handwriting. It is as if we have a personal window into the essence of the people when we hear their conversations with each other. This year after Thanksgiving, they are encouraging Americans to interview a loved one, neighbor, relative, regular at a soup kitchen, or anyone they care about.
Sit down, ask someone about their life and record it for posterity. It is amazing what you may hear when you take the time to listen.

Media dips into its bag of tricks every day to grab our attention. The hysterical furor and tone of newscasts, interviews and constant" breaking news" permeates our daily lives. Every single event, no matter how trivial or important is given a dramatic, serious weight in the multi-media information IV we attach ourselves to every day. We no longer hear conversations between people. We are used to being spoken at, not spoken to or listening to. We can pick to only hear the people and views we agree with and support. We ignore the ordinary or familiar, the stories of the elderly, preferring high drama.

Story Corps is attempting to change this a little. It is a simple method whereby two people have a conversation, usually about something small but significant to them, which is recorded and filed in the American Folk Life Center at the Library of Congress for future generations. It is an audio preservation of now.

From Story Corps, I have heard the voices of the elderly, the gentle humor and patient love they have for each other clear and strong in their wavering voices. Memories of times long gone; seemingly archaic in our rapidly changing world where technology completely reinvents itself every ten years.
The audio nature of the interaction lets us hear those inaudible things we all know so well. An undemonstrative middle-aged man speaking to his old grandmother about his childhood. She raised him in hard times, and she remembers these years fondly but pragmatically. He remembers the love and opportunity for a young boy to grow into something big, but he cannot say it in fancy words. He thanks her in an awkward, sincere manner. She responds with restrained gratitude for the acknowledgment. Their love for each other is loud and clear in the air between their sparse words. A real relationship we can all understand.

A gay brother talks to his younger sibling about standing up for himself when attacked as a young man. He is pained by the memory, but seems genuinely surprised when his brother tells him calmly he always admired his convictions. Two very different men appreciating each other, without fanfare. A special moment preserved for all to experience. A graceful glimpse of humanity.
Two sisters chuckling uncontrollably at the memory of dance parties during the Great Depression. Two war veterans, a dad and a son; one with ghosts from Vietnam, the other with demons from Iraq. These are the people we walk past in the grocery store every day.

Take a break from your on-line news feed and consider the mundane. It will certainly lift your spirits.

www.storycorps.net

Howard Herships and Steve Kirsch.

What a cringe-inducing story I read in the newspaper this week. I literally felt ashamed for the two people involved. Two silver-haired gentlemen in my area, a Mssrs Kirsch and Herships are fighting a prolonged, expensive three year battle in the courts over a $650 scratch on Mr Kirsch's Toyota RAV 4.
The one guy is super wealthy, and the other a poor veteran, but also a legal know-it-all. Fifty three court appearances so far. They say it is a matter of principle. No, it's not. It's about each one's individual principle. It's about being right and the other guy being wrong. They are both smugly photographed, looking awfully happy about the publicity. How utterly embarrassing. What a legacy these guys are creating. Expensive wasted public resources, court time and public services aside, these pillars of society are behaving like spiteful children.
Imagine if instead of behaving like some, they actually helped some instead. I'd love to waltz their petty mature faces down to my local elementary school where they could use some of their collective superior skills and copious wealth to provide breakfast for the kids who come to school hungry, a tangible problem visible on the faces of our bobble-headed little children. I see these kids every day, and their numbers are growing. Shameful, I say.

When I was a kid, I distinctly recall the notion of life not always being fair. Remember being punished with your siblings for a wrongdoing when you truly had nothing to do with it? Parents casually grouped kids together and everyone was liable and punished for pranks and transgressions en masse. And they were not interested in your protestations. Dang, the unfairness of it all stung like hell. But, we survived and moved on and never really held any grudges. It was all just part of life. One never knew -- perhaps the innocent party would be someone else next time..... Raucous classrooms were punished together, no explanations allowed. It didn't matter who was right or wrong.
We learned that life was sometimes fair, and sometimes not. That sometimes being right prevailed, and sometimes it just did not. We learned that being right and losing did not mean the end of the world. We learned that life did, in fact, go on or more importantly, move on.
I once drafted a report for a superior at work, who never bothered to read it, changed the name on the bottom to her own, and submitted it to a parliamentary committee for consideration in the National Assembly. Right, no. But yet, knowing that unfair things could happen to me, I never reacted immediately in anger and indignation. Instead, it gave me that breather to think. And then act smartly instead of in retaliation. Think of the times you have given yourself this gift. This is the kind of thing we need to teach our children.

Mr Kirsch has a terminal disease. Any elementary school kid can tell you how hollow his wished-for victory will feel to him on his deathbed when time has run out and he spent so much of his life energy on proving someone else wrong, purely for the sake of it. What a disappointment to himself and his family.

Comfort.

We are up in the mountains this weekend, and autumn is beautiful. The morning air is crispy, but not yet cold enough to turn bare feet achingly numb. A hot mug of coffee is all the comfort one needs to stay toasty in a fluffy robe.
It rained yesterday, gently, all day. The unusual sounds of rain on the roof and clunking down the metal gutters kept poor Larry the cat unsettled and alarmed for most of the day. No wonder -- I read in the paper that the last rainfall to actually wet the roads was on March 15 this year. Our last proper soaking was in February.
Of course, we live in a desert, but we forget this having surrounded ourselves with urban life, gardens and abundant sprinklers. We have judiciously wrapped our lives in comfort.

Comfort. An American way of life, and considered a necessity. When we first moved here, it astonished me to discover the myriad ways in which this society pampers itself. It was in many instances a delightful surprise. Consider the bedding. Wow. Our first visit into a cavernous store to purchase bedding was a revelation. Never before had I seen such a luxurious array of pillows, sheets, comforters, mattress pads and down-filled puffy things.
Things we take for granted in this country do not exist in others. I discovered the notion of seasonal linen. Flannel for winter, brushed soft cotton and thick, sinking down comforters. Crisp, cool cotton or linen for summer, light and airy. Angel fleece and cashmere throws to wrap yourself up in like a cocoon when necessary or to tuck chilled feet in when mildly cool. Socks of the most delicate cashmere and fluffiest of fleece. Pouches of luxury to pull on at will. I stocked up -- my days of scratchy, scant socks were over, and as anyone with poor circulation will attest, there is no greater mood pepper than warm feet. Every year I send my frail grandma a brand new pair of ultra luxurious memory-foam, non-slip pockets-of-heaven slippers that only cost a few bucks. Serious bang for my buck.

The central heating took some getting used to. Suburban homes in South Africa are heated with mobile oil heaters that are dragged from room to room. They are expensive to buy and even more costly to run. And that of course is only the tiny fraction of people who can afford to pay for heating. Most people just bundle up wherever possible.
People eat soup and drink tea at home or at work, the Starbucks concept being practically non-existent. The thermostat controlled forced air in our home wakes me up every time. The sudden blast of warm air clicking on and off just cannot find a spot of every day comfort in my psyche. We have found a way around it, and now merely turn it off at night, firing up the furnace in the early morning so that the kids can dress for school in warm air and comfort.
Every South African adult can relay in excruciating detail those icy winter mornings of pulling on cold, inadequate school uniforms in bedrooms where the only source of heat has been abandoned beneath the blankets of one's childhood bed. No-one forgets that cold - briskly dismissed by parents trying to get you out of the door on time for shrill school bells. My kids will probably never know this cold, and I know many of you are smiling in memory of those dreaded awakenings.

Our cars over here are pods of luxury. They are enormous tanks of hot or cold air, music, leather seats - frequently with built-in warming pads, telephone access, navigation assistance, plenty of cupholders for drive-thru food and drinks, and even TV/DVD screens to keep the kids happy. Mobile comfort with added security and airbags. We move from heated/cooled homes to heated/cooled cars to heated/cooled stores and offices. Preferably in sweats it seems.
Try wearing flattering, stylishly cut clothes after a few weeks of fluffy elasticated sweats and ultra cushioned sneakers. High healed leather shoes feel like walking around in ice-skates, and every single thing feels scratchy and restrictive. Unlike South African women, many American women choose to feel comfort over feeling pretty. The South African gals would rather not feel ugly than feel super comfy. Cultural difference.

Some of my favorite American comforts are reliable free shipping, organic fruit on sale, inexpensive fresh fish and seafood, international foods at the local grocery store, affordable books (my absolute favorite), the unbeatable customer service at Amazon.com, cheap pedicures -- hand painted toe-flowers optional, cheap gas (trust me, this still remains true), gallon jugs of affordable milk, public parks, a designer lipstick for a few dollars, affordable cashmere, wireless in Mountain View, the Fire Department and firemen who hand out pencils and stickers to kids wherever they go, block parties, festive Christmas gatherings, Halloween trick-or-treaters and kind old people who dish out the candy enthusiastically to little goblins and witches. American appreciation for home-made things, well-supported parades and community events. And of course the bedding.

Media is awash with opinion, commentary and analysis of the economic crisis and politics these days. Fascinating. I have learned more of American history, trends and patterns in these few weeks than ever before. Seems like everyone is speaking up, and of course everyone has an opinion. The media seems to be trying its damndest to get all and sundry to panic as much as possible, and politicians are being exposed as self serving, narcissists all round. No surprises there. Yet ordinary people carry on as before, with more worries and less money. The kind remain kind, the selfish remain selfish. Levels of happiness in the street seem about the same to me.
Today I read a report on the absolute latest research on the study of happiness and surprise! they have discovered to their disbelief that the average American's happiness depends almost completely on human affection and is almost completely independent of how much money anyone has. Anyone can tell you that money does not buy happiness, but it is gratifying to be able to relay to another how the kindness and affection of someone has impacted your life. I was laid up in bed recently recovering from a surgery and the outpouring of giving, care and selflessness of my family and lovely friends was bold, lavish and immensely nurturing. My love for them all has deepened, and what can be more comforting than that?

Human affection knows no culture or economic status. We are looking forward to our family visiting from both sides this Christmas, and presents and outings are furtherest from our minds. Conversations, simple walks, card games, horsing around and family meals around the table are what we wish for. Both us, and our eagerly awaited guests. No-one remembers the gadgets or wrapping paper. Everyone remembers the jokes, stories and melding or clashing of opinions, the true down-to-earth comfort of family, the ones you could not choose to be in your life, but are there anyway and remind us of our humanity.