connect

Whatever happens, whatever, or whomsoever, comes my way, I have learned how to centre myself, to remember who I am wherever I find myself, even in a lost place. This learning thing has taken me decades of honing and remembering and I still can shout abuse to the stars. Why, I bellow, is it all down to me? Can’t the gods sort me out, or God, or the High Heejun from the beyond? Just damn well once would be grand. And, then, I settle my mind, or try to, my face resting into its usual shape, my arms stilling. It is then I hear the voice of Hope. She’s a keeper for sure, always available, but quiet, like that kind person who doesn’t say much but is always there for me, for you. It thinks me, so I had a wee dance with Google. It told me a thing or two beyond the acres of fluff and tripe and cheap counselling promotions. I want origins, me. I want to go back thousands of years, and am bored stiff with quick fixes costing a whole Lexus.

Pandora, we know her, or sort of. Just for your information, she was the wife of Hermes, the messenger of the gods in Greek mythology. I’m not sure she was happily received, even by Hermes, who, by the way, was also the god of trade, wealth, fertility, animal husbandry, sleep, language and travel, which is quite a load. I am amazed he could fly at all. And, as I consider the list of his duties, I can connect with what happened next. He gave her a jar, said Never Open This, and then took off, possibly for months, years. She is stuck and curious, and one day in boredom she opens the jar. In a rise of chaos, every ghastly thing shoots from the jar, greed, evil, and so on, flying out into the world. She manages, eventually to push the lid back on, leaving the very last power. Hope.

What is Hope? I believe she is the one who, no matter the what, nor the whomsoever of anything, is always quietly there. She has our backs. In any situation, if we remember her, we can always find a way. Trouble is that her voice is but a whisper, whilst all the other shits shout like Louders. Failure, greed, control, dominance, power over others, judgement, denial, pretence, dishonesty and more, all can deafen us. But we all have experienced one or more of these Loudies and have listened. Me too. I don’t listen anymore. The Louders never last long. All fur coat and no knickers. No need to engage.

However, I know the fear of lack, of need, of the temptation to be less than I am, in order to gain. It never lasts, as none of the others last, the Loudies. Perhaps it takes decades to get that. Hope whispers, Hope is always there, Hope has a strong back and powerful legs. Good to know and to believe in.

Blimey what a journey! Car to ferry, ferry to the mainland, down to Glasgow airport, which was half empty with no snakeline to checkin and no false bejewelled tans heading for Ibiza or some such destination. Then down to Heathrow which is the size of a small planet and peopled with nobody who says anything to anyone, at least not in the concourse. Delay number one. Apparently the luggage carriage lift thingy had got stuck half way up and half way down and we could hear a load of hammering beneath our feet as we sat and sat and sat. At least there was conversation in the belly of the beast this time and it thinked me, that people all tense and fretting about hand luggage and security and whether or not He has packed his spare set of dentures, not to mention all that ironing of cloth, never ironed as a rule, pre departure plus the baby teething and how on earth did that girl get into that body stocking with sparkles and isn’t she bloody freezing relax once there’s no going back. There still remains, however, the panic over who gets onto the whatever the train thing is called, everyone belly-stuck to the sliding doors just in case the flight goes without them, which it won’t and never does. Eyes on the 2 minute, 1 minute warning and the tension is palpable. We all needed a beer and to calm the heck down, especially as the luggage subsequently got stuck and held us in stasis for over 40 minutes. All that rush for nothing, in the end.

We land in Glasgow and the slow snail of faffing people dawdle off the plane drive us crazy. Our fault for choosing seats at the back of course, although you would think someone in authority might have requested that all those heading for possibly already missed connecting flights should leave the plane first. Well that didn’t happen. Nonetheless we hurtled (I was impressed with our hurtling) passed the tortoises and even a few hares to finally arrive at our gate, about 17 miles away from the one at which we landed. We waited. And waited, noticing on the app (yes I have one) each delay registered. A few minutes here, a few there but as we know so well, minutes can become an hour just like that, we had a third connection to make and there is a whole 11 hours of night to get through, sitting glued to a stranger and bolt upright. Everyone but we (or is it us?) slept. It was no fun, despite walking up and down the aisle, stretching gently because any wide-arced limbal reach might end in an assault and battery charge and we didn’t want that. We had to be polite ballet dancers in a very narrow corridor, a big ask of my African son who is built like Atlas. The last 4 hours were tough and it made me rethink my future journeys to beloved Africa, for I hope there will be many more to come. I did travel once, first class or business class wherein there’s a bed to stretch out on and no chance of being glued to a stranger, no matter how delightful he or she might be. However, it is very expensive in terms of cash. This trip was very expensive in terms of my comfort (not). Which is less important than the other?

It is so ‘normal’ to be cautious about spending money on ‘myself’. Well, it is for me and is for many others. But the core belief needs investigating. Whereas I might happily spend money to help my family members, I might maintain that I am happy wearing ‘this old thing’ for 25 years, when I am absolutely not happy at all. I just cannot get my head around the indulgence of money for me, for a thing that doesn’t feed the brood, nor enable the electric to work but would simply make me feel rather wonderful. There’s a master’s degree subject for you.

So, I may or I mayn’t consider upgrading for the journey home at the end of March. For sure I will dither, self-question, flip like a ping pong ball between yes I can and No I Cannot a gazillion times between now and then. In the meantime, I will watch butterflies the size of birds, Chameleons the size of small dogs and scented flowers that outsmart all designer perfumiers. This is Africa. I am here. And nothing else matters, even that this blog might be a tumbleweed of slipshod tiddleypom.