time change

The US.
October 2005.
Three o’clock on Sunday afternoon.

Inside: the freshly backed apple pie cools off on the stove top while I soak a new Earl Grey tea bag in my mug―courtesy from Starbucks where my room mate works. The dishes clean and the work surfaces wiped with a clever vanilla scented trash bag in place.

Outside: all the pecan trees stir with great difficulty as their branches still carry full loads of green when November is but two days away. No kids playing on the lawn today. The gray skies chase families to television sets, board games, pullovers. Orange pumpkins turn cold and costumes get stored untill next year.

Four weeks of school left to go: what became of this semester? Thanksgiving and a brief break before Christmas and then the year passes too. Forever finished. What will I show for this season? Finding my life’s ambition for the first time perhaps?

Eight time zones east: my parents get ready for bed with the expectation of celebrating mom’s birthday tomorrow. Spring well away, jasmine smells hypnotize the garden thirsting for relieving summer rains soon. Momentum climax as the southern hemisphere races to year-end.

Dallas.
Texas.
Saving daylight.

holidays

Writing on the first crisp page in an unused diary
reminds me of waking up on New Year’s Day.
It signals the birth of dreams to reach and hopes to believe.
Leaving behind a dead history in a growing stack of written prayers on my book shelve.
Forgetting the mistakes and failures contained in tear-smeared paper leaves.
I choose to depart from bad habits and expect endorsements of inching growth inside myself.

Having more authentic conversations in a fledgling friendship
reminds me of birthday parties on Valentine’s Day.
Weeks pass and good intentions postponed due to urgent busy-ness and factual priorities.
Pink hearts and red decorated window fronts portray perfection and unrealistic ideals.
Reminded of sad endings in the past I feel incompetent yet again.
I hide behind what seems acceptable on the outside and feel lonely with him watching my confusion.

Talking to God at breakfast this morning
reminds me of Christmas and the fact that He made the stars.
Years of vulnerability to You and still You choose to sit with me every day and listen to my ramblings.
You see all that has wrecked my broken heart and still You love me despite what You know about me.
Reminding me that You chose to forget my shame, still smiling at me each morning with fresh mercy.
Hold my trembling hand dear Father! Take away this fear of being known by man because I know You know me already.

outside Oudtshoorn in the Karoo

loneliness

when I hurt you and you leave – I feel lonely

when you hurt me and I leave – I feel lonely

when you die and I stay behind – I feel lonely

when I visit childhood friends expecting their third baby – I feel lonely

when I sit in a board room with suit wearing men demanding more results – I feel lonely

when I find a desert sunset and watch the evening star appear – I feel lonely

when the immigration officer questions my intentions – I feel lonely

when I don’t know the name of the store you are explaining me to go to – I feel lonely

when my accent makes you laugh and you ask about my clothes – I feel lonely

when I go to weddings and baby showers – I feel lonely

when I want to hold your hand when we pray and I can’t – I feel lonely

when I walk to my apartment through the throng of toddlers on the lawn – I feel lonely

when I struggle for the right translation for something and you look away – I feel lonely

when I order a milkshake and I miss my country and her people – I feel lonely

when I need this month’s hug but can’t find it anywhere – I feel lonely

when I want to explain myself and you won’t wait – I feel lonely

when you get sick and I can’t do anything about it – I feel lonely

when the whole class misunderstands my comment – I feel lonely

when I walk along the concrete road and think of dust and thorn trees – I feel lonely

when I need to explain why I want to drink a beer right now – I feel lonely

when I have to stir my tea with a straw instead of a teaspoon – I feel lonely

when everything I can order to eat burns my mouth - I feel lonely

when you ask me ‘how are you’ without wanting an answer – I feel lonely

when you walk too fast ahead of me – I feel lonely

when I don’t recognize the birds outside – I feel lonely

when I wish you were here to celebrate your birthday with me – I feel lonely

when I end up alone on the campus square at the end of the week - I feel lonely

when you ridicule my strange preferences – I feel lonely

when I fall asleep hugging myself – I feel lonely

when I feel too demanding and decide not to call or email you – I feel lonely

when I fall asleep praying – I feel like You must have felt

quiet waters

Morris Point - in Still Bay

Fifty-five more days from today before I can sit down beside the faithful breakers at Morris Point.

December means summer when Christmas happens. The annual migration south for South Africans in the highland interior starts late November. Tropical heat drives us toward the cooler Cape coasts where inherited beach cottages stay decorated with family traditions and salvaged sea shells all year round.

My first introduction to this unique enclave between the semi-arid Karoo Complex and the temperate Indian Ocean occurred at the age of fourteen. My brother and I claimed sole ownership of a secluded stretch of rough grained shells mixed with sea debris. We called it “whistle-sand” every time our soles would disrupt solitary dunes tracking the spoor of disguised bushbuck in the dense Fynbos (unique shrubbery found in this African ecozone only).

When exhausted by the South-Easter pushing our sweater-hoods over our eyes, we hid beneath the wind shadow inside the rock pools. Teasing hungry urchins by dropping bits of snail we scraped off the black and orange rocks into their waving tentacles―conducting a purple symphony underwater.

I turn my head east toward the unseen beckon where the lighthouse at Ystervarkfontein (literally it means Porcupine Fountain) warns off seamen fishing for cob and yellowtail this time of year. With my jeans rolled up I find my favorite seat in these ancient boulders where I have spent hundreds of sunsets speaking to God about my life and what I wish he would tell Derek for me with him in heaven. Stirring the shinny grayness with my feet I wonder where this water came from. How many seasons have these saline drops survived?

The tiny hydrogen and oxygen molecules that run down my shin could have existed inside the lungs of Jesus in Bethlehem or condensed inside Neil Armstrong’s helmet on the moon. Did they melt in Antarctica and travel with the mammoths back to India to evaporate off the fore arm of an African slave working in the rubber plantations under the Carolina sun? The ocean sprays her wet secrets across my face and I lick the history of all mankind off my lips. Do I taste the blood of a young German soldier who lay alone on another beach staring up at the empty evening sky as I? Waar kom my hulp vandaan?

The last time I stared at the Southern Cross lying on the warm sand of Skulpiesbaai I listened to my friend and fellow architecture student―Jaco―describe how we could make beautiful glass sculptures out of this beach if we could control a small new clear explosion deeper into the ocean. A proclaimed atheist at the time and also addicted to science-fiction novels, we enjoyed numerous theological discussions over red wine and his home-made eggplant fritters. He died the next summer when his paragliding-gear dropped too short and pulled him into the waves before he could untangle himself.

When I drink dead water anywhere on this planet, it becomes alive in my body. It absorbs me as part of this churning tidal mass, uninterrupted, rocking in royal blue splendor since the first day of creation until the nanosecond the Incarnation decides to quiet its dance.

to write

To write is to breathe.

Words are the drum beats that set my feet a flight to celebrate the tragedies and joys in the dance I call ‘life.’

Thoughts move from the moon to the earth and grow arms and legs on the leaves of my journal.

Written prayers speak to souls in heaven and on earth.

Without my pencil and pages, parts of me would not exist – what I have been and what I will become.

myself

I come from Africa. I have dust in my veins and the smell of rain in my hair. Through my eyes you can see the fierce seasons that have reproved my continent into a well-behaved child returning home from a colonial boarding school.

Kicking off my shoes and ripping my clothes.

Feeling the southern sun on my shoulders and the Kikuyu grass under my toes!

derek - earth 28 october 1976 - heaven 6 june 1990

san fran sailing

blonde with blue eyes

Struggling to see with the salt burning after a day’s sailing on the ocean, laugh-lines twitch around my dad’s light blue eyes. His retired hairline receding since I can remember, proudly crowing in grey a sun-blocked scalp. Resembling Einstein’s curly genius at the end of our annual four week beach holiday over Christmas. We easily de-rig the catamaran without many words. Each one untying the designated sheet or halyard, indicating with the nod of a head or the roll of an eye a warning to the other of a forgotten batten still left in the yip.

Safety lies in his aging blue eyes, love and trustworthy advice―helplessness, too, sometimes.

It is hard to remember the color of Derek’s eyes. I think they shined with a darker, almost grayish hue. Like our mom, he also carried “coffee in his blood” and used to get a rich brown tan showing off his brilliant ash blonde hair as a boy. Two months after a similar summer holiday, on the day I celebrated my fifteenth birthday, we received the results of his first lumbar punch―Leukemia. Bravely he joked about waking up one day with all his hair lying beside him on the pillow.

It took much longer to fall out.

After forty-eight endless tides of biweekly blood tests, three disinfectant-mask-covered visiting hours per day for over a year, five sudden admissions, continuous chemo and one bone-marrow transplant later―the four of us laughed around the dinner table together once more. Stroking over his bald brow in true Koyak-fashion, he proudly informed us, “my head feels like Leani’s legs.”

Six months later I saw those tired blue eyes for the last time.

Five Octobers ago on Derek’s earthly twenty-third birthday, while treading water in an aqua aerobics class, I saw a young blonde boy wander into the swimming area. He carefully sat down beside the stainless steel ladder with his tiny feet dangling in the water. Quietly staying clear of the pool he waited there for the duration of the entire class gently staring at me with his innocent blue eyes.

At the Fall Fest this year, I baby-sat my friends’ six-month old girl Liz all afternoon. Her smooth little head decorated with a bow and no hair bopping around non-stop, inquisitive blue eyes flashing at every movement―following her starfish fingers tugging with all their might at an elusive lock of my own yellow hair or groping toward the cold Canadian ham on my piece of pizza.

As the autumn sun began to set, it caught the indigo of another pair of eyes to my left reflecting his almost-empty Diet Pepsi can. They turned away to see where I pointed out Liz’s older brother running away from their mom. Looking down at the thick cool grass still prickling at my legs beneath my skirt, I panicked when Liz stared back at me chewing her disassembled pacifier chain.

“Can you see the other half,” I ask the guy next to me. “Quick! before her mom gets back.”

I found it while he still sat there smiling at the boy running circles in the distance.

“I love little blonde kids,” he said, “they remind me of me and my brother.”

mental photographs

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two ancient bodies, side by side

Four wrinkled hands load linen laundry

Shakingly

Mothballs testify to a lifetime of loyalty

For a moment frozen together

Watching the sheets tumble clockwise

Around around around

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two new lovers, face to face

Four lips cascading praises, beauty, dreams

Endlessly

Adorations stream across empty Asian dinner plates

Day to night, night to day

Eyes piercing through private pretences, searching for signs of fidelity

Faithful future fun

Train me even more to watch, think, drink with my eyes

Two terrified creatures, hand in hand

Ten fingers fidget confused, carefully touching softly

Fearfully

First-time father cradles his newborn daughter, Johnson’s baby powder brings welcome relief

Milk in, milk out, the top, the bottom

Zooming beyond the tiny mess for operating instructions, clasping levitating limbs to fasten the giant diaper

Helpless happiness hope

may-be-baby

maiming my mind

motherhood

milk, midnight-drill, madness

maybe

make-up mocking me

mirroring middle-aged memories

mistakes marches mercilessly

must move misconceptions―more

marrying missing male

MIRACLE

millennium minus million minutes―more

mountain

must meet main moratorium―more

might murmurings make molecules match?

musty Mitchum

multiple mitoses

mindfully mark many monthly moons

mocca, mango, merlot

magnify magnificent moments―more

masculinity means maintenance

mustangs, mowing, mechanics

must mature my misgivings

mercy―more

merciful Master,

mindfully moor Mr.Mast matching Miss.Mizzen

maybe mould myself―more

must metamorphosize my methods, my moods

macho manhood mustering meekness

mesmerizes me―more

makes motherhood mine

redwoods in California

Redwoods?!
Maybe my darling colorblind dad had a point when he got his crayons mixed up as a kid.

We took a guick weekend-trip: flew from Dallas to San Francisco on Saturday morning, rented a car and took the road north. On Saturday night we slept in Gualala looking out over the Pacific with a local disturbance involving a naughty man, an alleged prostitute and a policeman happening right in front of our motel window - who needs tv?

Sunday night in Calistoga turnied out equally exciting with some kids giving us the fright of our life knocking on our door in the middle of the night.

Had breakfast in a beautiful place that mayors as a bar at night I suspect - (impressing cocktail menu for a coffee-shop) with amazing Spanish quitar music playing in the background...I am still waiting for the waitress - Aida - to email me the name of the cd...perhaps I should just give up on that...

Drove back to SF, had lunch at the Warf - got some info on harbor maps to sail in to this port area, had a close encounter with a giant seal sun-taning in close proximity - dropped off the car during peak-traffic and flew back to Texas on Monday evening.

What an adventure traveling up Highway 1 from the city, cut accross toward Napa and coming back south again - my first official driving experience on the 'other' side of the road here in the States.

Whenever the psycho drivers here in Dallas freak me out, I think back of getting to the airport in one piece on a highway with twelve lanes going in both directions, and all impulses of intimidation dissappear.

Crowning this whole experience was having a South African dentist, now married to a Canadian filling the right seat next to me. What a lovely conversation we had while tracking the inflight-movie via the Vietnamese lady to my left who watched the 'Fantastic Four' at top volume.

Felicity also grew up in my home town and we both graduated at the same university there. What are the odds? My dad had a seat further back and was unaware of our connection. She was a few years younger than him and about ten older than me, so we decided that our trick might work. She walked back to greet him in our home language, introducing herself as one of his ex-girlfriends in his student days....by the time she reached his seat though, she was laughing so much that she couldn't pull it off...

(I still can not figure out how the spell check deal is supposed to work on this thing!)

playing with mud

Obsession about color in my family began when my father’s second grade teacher informed his (painter) mom that little Louis had the wrong end of the stick because his trees had purple trunks and red leaves and everybody knows that trees have brown trunks and green leaves.

“Everything goes well with brown,” Oupa (grandpa) Louis always insisted, “all the flowers in the world look great with the soil they grow from.”

Brown

Add more yellow and I dream about the beautiful desert architecture of Islam.

Carved out in the soft belly of the Sahara, private courtyards merge with public streets through a wooden door. For the sake of surviving the harsh heat, cold and winds, this ancient design type formed by clusters of communal buildings and open shared circulation space still prevails today. I see the rhythm of harden creamlike mud columns casting shadows on her outfit as a hidden woman hovers past in rough raffia folds made from spun camelhair.

Add more pink and I remember the western facades of Tuscan terraces.

They beckon the dying golden rays to warm their earthy walls plastered centuries ago, still resisting gradual coups by ivy fingers crawling heavenward. Here proud Cabernets breathe with relief as corks in sandy shades lift out at sunset releasing the smell of copper brown soil handed down through generations.

Add more green and I return in my mind to the thorn tree bushveld of Africa.

Camouflaged conservationists observe carefully as enlarged shapes in a distance suspect their intrusion. Drenched in khaki, a rhinoceros emerges from the cool dripping ground. The look of thousands of touristy travelers who studied Meryl Streep’s costumes in Out of Africa but thought little about how hot that color gets in the Southern sun. In addition to this, dangerous tsetse flies get attracted to dark shades resembling mud bathed beasts.

Add more black and my mind gets stuck in clay soils.

Generated by weathered dolomite this persistent dark chocolate mud causes more than a migraine in any construction worker’s mind. As an active soil type this clay reacts dramatically to shifting water levels, snapping concrete footings to large buildings if not designed properly. When it gets wet it sticks to your boots, adding height with every step as you try to inspect the workmanship and drainage system. I sit sideways in my car, scraping off giant chunks of Dove’s dark promises onto the curb in Joseph Street.

Take away the life from brown and I am back in Dallas.

I think of the packaged Create your own grow kit sold for less than a dollar each. Fake soil dehydrated to consume less space on Target shelves―neatly cleanly cheap―for indoor use on my Swiss Towers window sill if my air-conditioning system allows these seeds to live.

focus

Saturday, October 14:
I watched Gladiator this morning as I finally got around to attacking the endless battle of conquering dirty laundry in my life.

“What we do in our life echoes in eternity.”

Around noon I found a quiet spot to have hazelnut flavored coffee with God next to the first tiny pink bud on my African Violets.

I feel so distracted, tired, sad.

At least the plants respond to my sporadic watering and careful weeding of their plastic beds on the sill. I sit down and stare through the mosquito gauze to where a few two-year-olds play in the garden below. A heavily pregnant mom moves some toys out of the way for the boys to push each other around on the paved path.

Yesterday afternoon we celebrated Fall Fest on campus and it appeared to me that the offspring of this student body had doubled in the past year. I loved on my friend’s six-month-old baby girl―Liz―all afternoon and could not get enough of her tiny body squiggling in my lap, warming me all over by her constant oogge-ling and chewing on my fingers whenever she could get her toothless gums around one.

Back in Rome, Maximus lost everything he loved to save the Empire from evil. His innocent son and wife killed by his enemies. The honor and respect he earned through a lifetime of service to Marcus Aurelius stripped on a frosted morning, exchanged for an existence of slavery to entertainment-hungry idiots who cheered as life ebbed out of slain corpses into the burning sand.

As I speak to God about this, I read the story of a king who became a slave, a slave who grew up as a carpenter, a carpenter who matured into a teacher, this Teacher who defied Hell itself.

God whispers in my memory another mentor’s words to a his young protégé: you need to focus on your mission like a soldier has to spend all of his life on disciplined execution of his orders, like a farmer that spends all he has on daily efforts through all seasons for a harvest to grow, like an athlete training day in and day out to win the Olympics…

What do You want me to do with my life? You sent me here with a specific purpose sixteen months ago, but today I stare out at the families multiplying everywhere and I wonder…who did you make me to be? A mother? A warrior? A lover? For the sake of whom?

I must focus. Drink up the coffee. Get the wet laundry out. Buy new trash bags. Catch up on my reading. Sacrifice my hopes. Give up my mortal desires.

Obey what I do know and just get the job done…

“How will this story end?”

is this bear-country?...hope not

afraid

I am less afraid when I can see all the way to the horizon. Like a lioness seeks out a high vantage point over the plains to plan her kill – I flee from this foreign forest of concrete and noise to higher laying hide-outs to brace myself.

I fight my anger caused by strange foods, misunderstood words and unexplained behavior that hurt my heart. There are few things I fear though. Death is not one of them – I have seen it too often. Loneliness doesn’t threaten me anymore either – I have adapted to it’s demands of solitude. Its peaceful silence has become a cave where I can contemplate whatever is scaring me. When isolation is not available I get onto my hind legs, claws revealed and attack until I am left alone. Fear is defeated by an instinctive knowledge of the threat.

I have studied the American way of life closely for a year now. I have learned much about surviving this country. Don’t expect her to understand me and don’t try to understand her culture in terms of mine. Stay at a safe distance, observe the busy valleys carefully, but visit the high grounds often. Most importantly, always remember the big picture – He said; “Fear not.”

Mozambique:a decade after the war ended

perfect love drives out all fear

itsy bitsy spider...

Inside my heart I carried a timeline―not from the past to the present but a knot where the future got tied up in it somewhere too. It throbbed with golden volts. Liquid knots lighting up at the slightest disturbance. Wet drops jammed on a freshly spun web. Microscopic images of neurons and synapses show how our brilliant brains transmit millions of thoughts through biochemical conductors, but I think the memories that flow through my heart run at a much higher current.

Triggered by eighties music or the smell of cheap carnations, the nodes on this silky grid light up like downtown Paris after a power failure.

Countless connections―places, people, pain.

Resurrecting recollections―delight, delusion, dread.

Were those relationships real? Did I dream up the intensities of those associations or did the idea of their existence just feed my adolescent addiction to recognition?

“Emotions―can I trust them?” Doctor Dobson asked.

“No! A thousand times no!” my cheated heart still responds.

A wicked spider wove this web; it trapped my soul and tricked my mind, bitter ancient poison drugged my innocence, alluring adventures tempted my fate as filthy fingernails began their tearing caress. But before I could fall, my true nakedness was gracefully rescued. In a strong single sweep came divine destruction of those sticky threads that clinged to my mistakes.

Destroyed in that moment―now cleansing tears drip down from the shattered webbing. Christening new hope of an old dream recaptured. Fresh rose petals shower down on a soft white dress and shining smiles. As two hearts believe in just One mind…beating together until the end of time.

my country my history my people

www.sagoodnews.co.za
Generally people fear what they don't know. Unfortunately they are usually unaware about how little they understand about their greatest fear. It could be a natural phenomena like the ocean or hurricanes or driving a 'stick car' as my local neighbors say. It could be intangible entities like God or cultures or worldviews.

Currently my dad, Louis, is in Chicago for a conference and he called me a few minutes ago. He shared a bit about what he heard there today and was supprised that both main speakers for today and last night started their presentations talking about one of my heroes, namelly Nelson Mandela-an incredible human being with the largest heart imaginable.

These guys (the speakers) were using bits and pieces of my country's expensive learning curve without ever experiencing what the reality looked like. They made American assumptions about all sorts of aspects that contributed to the success story of how South Africa became the "Rainbow Nation". Describing how they understood when and where racism was expressed or not, without ever paying the price of being either black or white or coloured in whichever way one can describe ethnic differences.

I immediately decided to post one of my pieces about Madiba (his nickname back home - after the name of his Xhosa clan). As much as Michaelangelo left a legacy of visuals speculating about concepts we find in the Bible, Madiba is still a living example of grace and mercy. Some outspoken (academic) theologians believe beyond any doubt that Michaelangelo's soul is doomed as some Americans here in Texas ask me (a white, minority class South African) questions about Madiba with a similar hushed uprehension as if he is the devil himself.

I choose to look at how the fruits of these men's lives affect mine. When I think of how I stood in the Sistene Chapel in Rome on two occations, neck aching while I try to take in the overwhelming view around me, I see God's beauty and grace in creating a human with such talent-whether there is a difference between decorating a holy space and painting ikons on the windows. In 1998 I was priveleged to see the legende, Mr Mandela himself, only a few feet away from me at my university in hometown Pretoria. The love and acceptance I feel from my fellow (black) South Africans when I get to go home during my studies here in the States exist among other reasons because this humble freedom fighter paid with his life to achieve his ambition of true democracy for all. When I think about the freedom and peace I feel when walk through the passport control at Johannesburg International, I want to get on a plane right now!

The peace and reconsilliation in my country came as a result of a man named Madiba who chose obey a loving God and modelled forgiveness to all of us.

We use a term in our country to describe our sense of community (we have 11 official languages and even more people groups-the average South African can talk 3 different languages) called Ubuntu. It means "I know who I am because we know who we are."

I am so proud to be part of that history and hope. Only 68 more days before I can set my feet on African soil again!

Fresco VIII

Michaelangelo

driven by divine perfection

who used to

see shapes breathing air

in stone

and draw onetwothreefourfive figure-studies justlikethat

watching people be people for hours

he was a lonely man

and what I want to know is

does he still draw pictures of you in heaven

Lord

a picture of forgiveness

Madiba

mediator

who used to

care for goats in the Transkei hills, barefoot boy wearing a blanket

jailed

freed

reigned

and united a country nineteneleventwelve peoples justlikethat

birthing our rainbow nation at seventyfive

he is still a noble man

and what I want to know is

do you still visit the Transkei hills steadying your cane

Mr Mandela

dark and light

On the dark side lies loneliness, wasted moments, absolute silence.

My name forgotten, lost in too many passport stamps without a home.

My deeds a vague reference at school and family reunions over cold chicken and diluted beer.

“Such a pity that she never settled down.”

A bend-over posture, barren womb never visited, sagged breasts shriveled―wasted fruitfullness

An endless ache in my chest from decades of stifled weeping before falling into solitary sleep.

Opportunities noted but a life unspent.

Years of learning but no reproduction of ideas.

Needs felt but no change induced.

Dim hopelessness fogs up thick lenses as I exhale into my mug of watery broth. Shackingly settling down my tea on a bleached table cloth still wishing for somebody in my room to share my fading memories with. Arthritis fingers pulling at a pale shawl that reeks of cat pee.

“May I take out those dead flowers now, Miss Wessels? The water is beginning to rot.”

Where the sun shines fullness of life explodes, dust twirls into spirals where my soles land, golden strands of hair flying in the air.

Serenity among foreign peoples, sunsets over every ocean, tastes from every spice and drink.

I know a tale behind every flag flapping at the UN headquarters, left a footprint on each country on the map.

Traveled in all modes conceivable―hot air balloon, snow sleigh, camel caravan.

Survived each danger in their ecozones―crocs and elephant on moccoros in Africa, immigration officers in airports and train stations, pirates and storms at sea.

Experienced the raw elements of God’s creation―rain drops echoing on large leaves in the Amazon, smelled the imminent rain over the Serengeti savannah, rocked to sleep by the rhythmic swells of the oceans.

“Thank you Sir. May I see your inoculation record also, Mama?”

Where I dream of this existence, two hairy arms wrap around my rib cage regularly, jungle stubble scratch my sun-kissed cheeks.

There I am one of two called us.

Together we fight to get kids to sleep at night.

Outlasting waves of thundering footsteps along the kitchen cupboards.

Wiping butts and kissing knees.

Multiplying our clan’s shared legacy of adventure, passion and beauty.

“What about spending Christmas with your parents this year sweetie?”

● the price of life in the Masai Mara ●

March April May less rain little rain no rain, less water little grass no food must move.
Impalas patiently prepared―whisks stunted tails, flashing white flanks, sniffing sneezing warnings must move. Zebras skittish―echos callings across from the ridges, young stallions bite necks, kicking fat thighs in the air, must move. Wildebeests congregate confused―growing restless, instincts urging intervention, must move soon. Parched river beds in southern Maswa cry out to the empty skies―“leave us alone wild beasts, nothing remains here for you, you must move”―ivory tusks dig in vain, rumbling tummies roar in frustration, matriarch starts north, must move now.

Singed Serengeti planes reverberate, thorn tree leaves tremble, ant hills demolished, it has begun―1,800 miles facing vulnerability. Continuously risking each enemy ceaselessly―exhaustion, starvation, predators in foreign territories, getting trampled, dehydration but worst of all ironies, drowning in the Mara while smelling salvation in the grass opposite the swelled torrent, must continue to move.

June July August more dust stuck in nostrils and choking throats, must move, rhythmic martyring of muscles and sinews, must move, deliriously conscious of salivating felines following a breath away, must move, adrenaline stifles fearful panic among the migrating masses moving on. Mirages mirror objects over deceiving distances, dried out dung marks the path, must continue to move. Weaker legs fall behind, their spines snapped in a single clawed swing. Carcasses dragged toward crying cubs, temporary relief for her lair, must move them with her, must feed, quench their thirst with blood, must survive.

Muddy Mara banks emit the smell of water, churned by hopeful hooves slipping against unclimbable gradients. Tired limbs sucked into the river’s clay edge. In their demise, bodies build buttresses for braver legs still moving. Danger lurks beneath the crowded flow, swimming into prehistoric jaws, momentarily distracting hungry hazards from the remaining herds. Splashing forward in hope when the murky bottom surfaces, skinning arriving knees. Ankles twisting on slippery rocks, fragile legs running for freedom, rest ahead, must move a little longer still.

introducing the zebra

I feel flattered by your attention and interest in this new development called
www.zebrasbark.blogspot.com.

You've already met Sandi, my ever-patient mentor helping me since January 2005 with my writing and the great big world of publishing.

Sharing my first baby-steps in this direction, you witness my first submission to this fabulous mechanism for communication!

Yee-haa! Hold on to your hats here in cowboy country. In here you will encounter REAL wild animals and TRUE stories of adventure, move over longhorns, make space for the WILDEBEESTS of the Serengeti...

I took this picture of the Zambezi from Namibia's side looking north across the awesome river to Zambia on the other side. I guided a group of three Americans to visit an orphanage located at Katima Mulilo in the Caprivi in July 2005. There are more where these came from...Have fun!
(Don't forget your sunscreen and insect-repellent!)
...where do I find the spell check on this thing?...

Greetings! Meet Sandi. She's my writing prof. She's also my friend. Not in that order.

She was sitting on Santorini in Greece looking out at the Aegean when this shot was taken by her husband. It was during a cruise they took to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary.

Sandi thinks I write great stuff. And she does not think that about every writer she meets. So I finally realized I'm insulting her if I don't believe her. I'm smart like that.

It was her crazy idea that I have my own blog. And then this guy in my creative writing class, Toph (with a "ph" not an "fe"; it's short for ChrisTOPHer), echoed what she said. So it must be true, I mean if two people say it and all....

In the months to come, I hope to share with you some of my amazing experiences on the African continent with wildebeests and zebras and animals with tusks. In the states the only animals with tusks live behind metal bars. I'll also share some of my more interesting experiences trying to learn the president's English (as opposed to the queen's).

I'll share with you some of my poetry. And my thoughts on leadership. Pretty much anything that strikes me as being worthy of comment.

I'll tell you something you wouldn't guess about Sandi. In this picture she is wearing a Harley Davidson t-shirt. And she teaches at a conservative seminary. Who knew?

I'm full of surprises, too. So plan to return every few days for more of my musings and tidbits about the world.

For starters, did you know that zebras bark? Think of me as a zebra and hear me barking here.

Woof.