Category Archives: Snippets

Metaphors and Stories, Snippets

Don’t look back

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They say you should never return to places or people you once loved.

I go back to Kampala, with Craig and Roscoe, to where we all began. This exploration of rootedness is also a celebration; we are here, together, twenty years on. Still talking, still breathing, still loving each other. These small miracles acknowledged and noted. What seems simple, is not.

We fly Uganda Airlines, cramped together in an airless cabin, in seats so close together you could kiss your neighbour by a simple turn of your head. Unfurling ourselves in Entebbe, we walk through the sanitised airlink sealing us away from the welcoming smells of rich red murrum earth. However, the stench of progress is quickly wiped by the familiar chaos of immigration. One day a country will design an immigration service that reflects the warmth of the people within. This is not that day.

The vast emptiness of the Chinese built airport building, is in contrast to the melee of humanness which swarms outside. I’d forgotten the propensity for noise and nearness. These are a people who can create a noise level unmatched outside of a premier league football ground on a Saturday afternoon and an ability to stand so close that they can see the freckles on my nose.

We spend 30 minutes in the car going nowhere; embroiled in a queue of traffic inching towards the two barriers which offer a tantalizing escape from the airport confines. The argy-bargy of cars, trucks and Matatu’s bursts onto the Chinese owned highway where every toll shilling goes ‘Kerching‘ into the coffers of the Chinese government. This is a prime example of the Belt and Road initiative, binding Africa to the future of the Far East; an active choice of the current political elite who ignore the vision of their new colonial masters.

I still marvel at this highway; 20 years ago a drive to Entebbe could take 1 hour or several, if you made it at all. From 1998 to 2000 it was so dangerous and the kidnappings and shootings so frequent, you had to be escorted by armed guard. Given I travelled across Africa so frequently, I was incredibly blasé about a truck full of loaded AK 47’s ahead and behind my regular airport convoy. I look back at my old-self life and wonder what happened to that woman; the one full of ignorant bravado.

Now we are in Kampala in 50 minutes. The city has grown four-fold in the twenty years since our first departure. It’s a grown up city with high rises vying with traffic lights and the hive of boda-bodas swarming every inch of tarmac and murrum road. It’s interesting to see a rise of middle class affluent Ugandans unabashedly flaunting their wealth and good fortune, this alongside the obvious increase of international populations from the Middle and Far East, lends a curious distinction between the haves and the have-nots.

We stay with friends in Kololo, the same familiar suburb where we used to live. That word familiar is an oxymoron- what remains is the names of the streets, what exists today is an capricious mix of office blocks, and high rise apartments crammed together next to restaurants, clubs and bars. These compete with each other to be heard in a cacophony of thumping baseline beats lasting until 4am. Ear plugs are essential for a good nights sleep.

Where he began.

I drag the boys to Owino market. I want Roscoe to see and experience real life for ordinary Ugandans. It’s hugely entertaining to hear the calls of “Big Man, Hey, Big Man” and “Mzungo, Big Man” as I trail in his wake, letting him take the heat in the hope of a white-man sale. We eventually reappear into the light of the day not having spent a dime but rich in the assault of all senses.

After the clamour of noise and hustle of Owino, we jump in the car and crank it up the hill towards a new attraction; the mosque which was completed in 2006, two years after our departure. Funded and opened by Gadaffi, it is the fourth largest mosque in the world and the largest in sub-Saharan Africa. It is well organised and dressed appropriately we embark on our tour which culminates in a circular climb of 272 steps to the top of the minaret where we are rewarded by a 360 view of Kampala. It is comforting to see a few green spaces in about the morass and jumble of concrete and brick. From up here there is an obvious haze lying over town, created by over industrialization, belching black smoke from old cars and trucks, the burning of charcoal and anything else from the city slums and a general lack of regulation. The plethora of shisha pipes in every bar adds to the already poor air quality and my pretend tongue fizzes warning signals leading me to wonder about the longer term health of Kampala residents.

Kampala mosque

Back on the ground we head off to the place of our betrothal; the Baha’i temple. Even here, the pace of industrial development is ever present- the steam roller and digger are both noisily busy creating a new murrum road up to the temple itself. The building itself is reassuringly familiar and we hide on the other side of its sunshine yellow decagon walls, enjoying the setting while reminiscing and concurrently boring Roscoe who indulges us with feigned interest.

Africa’s Baha’i temple

The next day we leave Kampala just after sunrise, the city is already bustling with busy people and tired revellers returning home from the jangle of 24/7 bar fun. We are heading towards Jinja and the promise of a Grade 5 white water rafting experience. This drive is not for the faint hearted and we pass several lorries and sugar cane trucks upended on both sides of the road. Years ago, as we drove through Mabira forest, we would see local folks walking with big stones in their hands, to throw at the marauding baboons who fight each other harder than rival supporters at an ‘auld firm’ game. This trip there are no baboons but the road sellers are still peddling their well-cooked ‘chicken on a stick’ proving the longevity of old favourites. Arriving at Nile Explorer River Lodge, it’s fascinating to see the wide age range of dwindling tourists still seeking Ugandan thrills. I’m not daft enough to go anywhere near the raft- I left my need for that kind of excitement somewhere on the birthing table- so I spend the day watching the backpacking youngsters chasing adrenaline kicks offered by bungee jumping, white water rafting, kayaking and the catapult slide into the Bilharzia infested waters of the Nile. I know we will need to attend the Doctors surgery the following day as the boys will need the necessary medication as payment for their day of fun.

The boys on the Nile

There follows a lovely day catching up with old friends in new haunts and a final meal in Aurous, the fine dining bar and restaurant which has been created in our old house and garden at plot 11 Roscoe Road. It’s surreal to be drinking cocktails in that garden, with our boy. A plot beyond imagining when we locked up the house for the final time all those years ago.

The old ‘hoose’, plot 11, Roscoe Road

Being here with Roscoe has been all I had hoped for. He understands our passion for Africa much better by stepping onto Ugandan soil. But there are other African nations waiting to be explored.

So as we say our farewells, I think this truly will be my farewell. I love the Ugandan people who are, without doubt, one of the warmest, most hard working and diligent African people on earth. But I cannot support the values of the political elite and some of their recent draconian laws, challenge my personal values to their core.

Uganda won’t miss me or my tourist dollar. It’s thriving, attracting alternative continents of nationalities to its borders. But understandably its lack of tolerance to difference has negatively impacted its attraction to Western tourists and the knock on effect on local businesses and the economy, alongside reducing the exposure of Ugandans to the rich myriad of cultures, attitudes and beliefs, will be sadly felt for years to come.

Sun sets on the Jinja road.

General Musings, Insights, Life change, Snippets

Limbo

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Here in Port Louis, Mauritius, I sit in a hotel room waiting for tropical cyclone Eleanor.  The downstairs bar is emptied of its glasses, bottles and furniture, tiny birds fly unchecked in the indoor breakfast room, grateful to be indoors where the crumbs are plentiful; guests gather at the buffet, filling their plates, unsure of when the next meal will be served.  Storm tracking apps are traded like stocks with much chatter on Eleanor’s projectory and strength; reception lies quiet, its glass front doors locked.  Hotel staff who have not gone home bustle around, calmly helping guests with their queries and needs.

Caucan Waterfront, Port Louis, Mauritius

Bellies full, we stagger back to the room where the food coma hits and I pass out, missing the blustery gusts, the driving rain and the Palm trees bent double in the gales.  I wake up to silence.  No bird song but no perceptible damage either.  The anti-climax hangs in the air between us, like a missed opportunity for a story yet to be told.  In gratitude, Craig completes his expenses and cleans up his emails while I sit with my book, trying to concentrate and quieten the busy mind.

For me the last 24 hours are the analogy for the last six months – a promise of something which turns out not quite as expected.

For South Africa is a beautifully cruel country offering contrasting experiences and incredible highs and lows.   Learning to trade in trust has been hard, I’m having to go inward to come out again.  While we remain physically safe, I have lost psychological safety having trusted people who have stolen thousands of pounds worth of irreplaceable family heirlooms and jewellery from our home.  When coupled by a serious physical assault by a medical professional, who was (wrongly) trusted on the basis he was a British High Commission approved Doctor, I find myself unmoored, bobbing along in a questioning sea; What is my skill set?  What is my cultural awareness?  How do I show up?

Male Lion in Madikwe National Reserve

By contrast, placed in wide-open spaces of endless sky and a far horizon glinting in the sunlight, with elephant breath through the window and a reverberating lion roar in the ear drum, the country of South Africa delivers a truth perspective; I am but a mere speck of breath in the universe.

And so, in this ying and yang of experience and expectation, disappointment and joy, fear and excitement, I sit in stasis.  I have to work first on self before enjoying the fruits of future work.

While this cannot be rushed, I also recognise my fortune; a now comfortable home and a life-partner gainfully employed, I have the luxury of taking the time needed to heal and explore.  My South African counsellor, used to dealing with victims of violent assault, murder and rape does not indulge willy-nilly, self-reflective wallowing.  Let’s call the spade a shovel and we will dig in to the past to understand the present.  In reality this means I am swallowing medicine I have tried to avoid for 30 years.

You can’t lie to liars without becoming a liar. We can’t cheat a cheater without becoming a cheater. Fighting fire with fire doesn’t protect trust it merely leaves you with the ashes of your integrity. Michael Josephson

I don’t know where this will lead.  For the first-time, in a long time, there is no clear outcome.  To learn to trust again, I must first trust in time and instinct.

Sit in limbo.

The storm may hit;

It may also swerve past.

Tropical Cyclone Balal 2024

Engaging people, Snippets

Decency and Manners

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Moving to a new country and starting the process of integration is always fraught with excitement and disappointment. And while I am fortunate to have some knowledge and contacts in this continent, I have to remind myself to lower my expectations of what would be considered to be common decency and manners in my own culture.

Where I’m from and brought up if I were to say, “I’ll call you next week”, I would call you next week. Were we to arrange to meet and I had to cancel because I was ill and therefore had to reappoint, I would make darned sure, I was in contact to confirm and I would show. If we made an appointment, I wouldn’t call 30 minutes beforehand and cancel. If I said I would look you up next time I was in town, I would look you up and we’d meet for coffee or a glass of wine.

In short, where I’m from, you do what you say. You stand by and show up to your commitments because that is being a respectful human. Respectful of others time and their attention, respectful of what it takes to reach out.

Of course events happen, plans change, other priorities pop up. But communication costs nothing and for the sake of a 30 second text, a quick email or a short phone call, mutual respect is maintained.

So now I’m adjusting my expectations while making sure that I don’t let my own standards slip. It’s important to observe, note and manage oneself accordingly. While behaviour might be driven by cultural, hierarchical, psychological patterns, it should never be mirrored particularly when it contradicts values, or decency.

 

 

Insights, Life change, Snippets

Here we go again

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  Culture shock. Part 1

In the past 6 months, I’ve experienced two international moves, a short-term rental in the homeland where my task was to support the boy to pass his IB diploma; Surrendering a role I loved; A close family member’s death and funeral; Bed hopping in England; Tenants moving out of our property ; Putting the house on the market; Dealing with incompetent estate-agents; Taking the house off the market; Removing/throwing out items and repacking a storeroom after a rat party-infestation; Refreshing, repainting, cleaning and sorting the house; Finding and supporting new tenants; Packing away a life; repacking for a new life. All the while being accompanied in all endeavors by our family dog, Monty.

Monty the Golden dog

Part of my Intercultural Communications Masters degree meant studying both culture shock and reverse culture shock but there is no textbook in the world that prepares you for this level of change.

We were in Barbados for five and a half years. Known for being a “great place to go on holiday” on arriving, I wasn’t prepared for all the classic stages of culture shock; the newness and novel nature of being somewhere different but similar, followed quickly by the need to sleep for long hours of day and night; the growing anger and disgust at some of the attitudinal and behavioural differences, much unexpected on an island so reliant on tourism; the futile attempts to make changes to improve the community; the gradual acceptance of societal norms; grief and reluctance to say goodbye.

But it was so much more than this – the island was a place of security and sanctuary during the pandemic. Led by a communicative and charismatic Prime Minister, Mia Mottley, inhabitants were kept well informed of the context of decisions, even when such decisions were unpopular. Once airspace was closed down – the repatriation effort on this is a blog post on its own – the people who were left had chosen to be there, or belonged on island, and the shift towards connectedness became palpable. Almost, without exception, compliance was close to 100% whether it be mask wearing, specific days and times to go to the supermarket (based on the initial of your last name) and not leaving your home cartilage (for an initial 6 weeks). Although somewhat claustrophobic, as adherence was so high, there was a strong moral tolerance borne by all. This temporary burst of community-spirited socialism and kindness enabled resilience, positive mental health and survival so I’m truly grateful that we lived through this period on ‘De Rock’ as a family.

Ariel view of Barbados

Of course, it’s the people who make the place and we become close to a wildly diverse group of billionaires, millionaires, musicians, golfers, dog lovers and fun folks. Barbados brings out our not-so- latent hedonism. Rum runs through the veins as much as blood and we are never far away from the next gathering or party or bonding chats and conversation. I have mixed feelings for the actual place but I cry for the people I leave behind.

Final evening at La Cabane

We say goodbye to the Caribbean at the end of February and fly first to England, for 10 days. I’m unclear if this is reverse culture shock, sadness about parting with dear friends, or the clear division, politically, morally, economically or socially created by 13 years of economic mismanagement, avarice, lies, corruption and greed, but this place no longer feels like home. I become wary of engaging in deeper conversation beyond pleasantries- every day brings a new political scandal, a new division created and stoked by all kinds of media, in particular the rabid press owned by billionaires who neither live nor pay tax in this country. It feels like the stuffing has been kicked out of England, it’s certainly much changed and it doesn’t take much to see individuals and their thin-skinned lack of tolerance emerging. Of numerous examples I’ll cite one – at a petrol station in Southampton, I fill my car and pay. I don’t have sat-nav in the hire car so pull out my phone to confirm my onward journey. Given my destination is already pre-programmed, this takes less than a minute. During this time, a large Ford Ranger truck reverses in front of me, blocking me in. I beep my horn and a large, bald man tears out of the truck and using the most foul and colourful language tells me in his own inimitable way to be quiet and that as I was obviously using my phone I deserve to wait. I show him my sat-nav screen and he hurls yet more verbal abuse, in particular sharing his thoughts about my gender. He scares me into silence and as I depart he uses threatening, abusive gestures towards me. No one intervenes.

So we head northwards to Scotland, to my own kind, and I spend 4 months eating all the chocolates and sweeties, baked goods, pies, bread, black puddings, haggis and meats of my childhood. Despite all the walking, I gain yet more weight but the tasty morsels are doing more than satisfying my appetite, they are feeding my soul. And this isn’t talked about in the academic books – the coping mechanisms of dealing with reverse culture shock. Familiar food, re-purchasing familiar knick-knacks, drinking childhood drinks ( hello ‘Cremola Foam’), listening to traditional music, going to places you would avoid if you lived in country. Chasing nostalgia and connection as if it’s a drug. It’s all normal.

The suitcases get packed, unpacked, repacked once more, the traveling with a dog stress cranks up again, the short temper re-emerges as the adrenaline-fueled, organising stress, seeps, drips and pours into all waking and sleeping time. This is not the time for partners or husbands to disappear but invariably he finds some excuse or some way of becoming invisible, indisposed, busy doing  ‘important’ other (away-from) activity.

The conveyor belt of travel takes over and total submission is required. Landing 11 hours later and going through all the normal palaver of immigration and customs, luggage collection and finding the driver, and I’m launched back into the newness and discovery of a familiar, yet different, place; the Mother country of the Mother continent: South Africa.

South Africa

So my plan as I hunt for my next role, is to become the experiment – to observe the shifts in emotions, observations, instances and experiences and to recount these here as a record of one individuals response to culture shock. Let’s see what happens…

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Life change, Snippets

Digging deep

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In less than 90 minutes we are leaving this hotel, leaving St Andrews, leaving Scotland, leaving behind our boy.

I have no idea how other Mothers cope with the leaving. There is no manual and like other “women’s issues’ little discussion on how. And while I imagine every leaving is different dependent on the relationship and on practice; this is my first time. It hurts as if some magical being is reaching inside me and slowly extracting the organs which keep me breathing.

I promise Roscoe that I will not cry when we walk away from the boarding house. I remain dry-eyed all evening. The bright blue sky’d sunny yellowness of the following morning lifts my mood: the day beckons to get to know better the town where he’s going to be for the next few years. We are texting and he says that most of the boarding house boys are off to Edinburgh for the day so of course we pick him up and saunter into St Andrews for a large plate of celebratory oysters. Leaving the restaurant it’s apparent that this Barbados boy is inappropriately dressed for Scottish sunshine so we purchase a lightweight fleece to go on top of his thin T shirt as he is beginning to turn blue with the cold. Craig has to take him back to our hotel as he cannot get heat into his bones. His first lesson in dealing with our home climate; Layered dressing.

We walk the beach. The sky is glorious and the miles of cold hard golden sand are scattered with dog walkers, kite flyers, pram pushers, whole families out enjoying time together. We amble-walk, the wind at our backs, catching our words, our laughter and blowing all imminent future wrenching away. We argue how far Ben Cross, Nigel Havers, Ian Charleston ran for the opening sequence of Chariots of Fire; both boys have no faith that the actors ran far at all. My romantic notions of about a mile dashed by my husbands pragmatism as he points out the freeking freezingdom of the North Sea. Although we are surprised at the amount of hardy Scots with their trousers rolled up and their feet bare as they walk in icy waters this afternoon. It’s enough to make my bones ache just watching.

I know they ache for other reasons as I loop my arm into my son’s as we more purposely stride into the wind heading back towards St Andrews town. Turning into its cold embrace is a metaphor of momentousness: the leaving is marching towards us. 

We decide to have dinner at the hotel; Roscoe lured by the promise of escargot and being still of the age where the whiff of strong garlic is of no consequence. I watch him wrestle with the tongs and a few elusive snails and wonder how the boy who dislikes anything but pasta, loves the food we’ve eaten today: another quirk of his capricious contradiction.

All too soon it’s time. This time much harder as we all know this is the dreaded au revoir. I have to dig deep to maintain any semblance of composure, managing only by seeing my boy is matching me and I don’t want to make it any harder for either of us.

Now, I watch the rain battering against our window; it’s dreich grayness apt. How do other Mother’s do this? I have no blueprint, no plan. The packed cases mock me, silent tears run as I type. No words come. It’s just screaming emptiness inside, impossible to describe.

My challenging, gorgeous, contradiction of a boy is now being nurtured and grown by others.

I ache.

 

General Musings, Snippets

First love

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The boy falls in love. Tumbling blinded into desire and pulsing need. His world obliterated by one gorgeous group of atoms molded into female form.

I watch. Powerful and powerless. A jealous enabler; part taxi driver, part cook, spare part. It is too soon for him to understand the love jumble of emotions: at fourteen he is still a child and she is older by 15 months or perhaps years. He has no chance of breath or choice while faced by such advanced feminine wiles. He cannot and does not listen to me. Why should he? What can I possibly know of young love in my “ancient” form? I persist, trying to keep connection, trying to be neutral, dropping suggestions and hints of how to spend time, where to spend time, gifts and ideas shrouded in wisdom and guidance.

I helplessly watch him make poor decisions on where to spend his time, grateful that the love of the game means he still goes to practice and still performs on the pitch. The difference is she now joins me to watch him play, even though she doesn’t like the sport. I think he likes having her there although the other players both tease him and revere him for this female slavish devotion.

We are bonded in our love of the bones of him and I gradually let her in as time shows this is not a fleeting first love but a deep felt connection fulfilling some primal calling.

She’s bright, well read and attractive. Her parents go from acquaintances to friends and we bond over concerns of the nature of their relationship, shared taxi duties and mutual values. This is hugely helped by their Scottish/Danish sensibilities, this similar cultural references making even the most delicate of conversations somewhat easier. The hardest of these being the “are they really ready” and the discussion and debate between blocks and facilitation. Of course the kids are steps ahead and I have the painful pleasure of listening to my boy explain his feelings and ask for my support. I sit on the sand, letting it run through my fingers as he confidently puts forward his thoughts and opinions; how can this be my child, my boy? But then again, how can this not be my son? We walk back along Bathesheba beach and the world has changed, the juggernaut of progress has found a different gear. He runs ahead to play with Monty dog and I realize the gold of the moment is not in the sand or the glistening Caribbean Sea, it’s not in the delight of watching boy v dog races and the joyful hoots of his laughter; rather it’s in the acknowledgment that this is the beginning of letting go. The start of my journey to learn to let my child grow into a man. It’s not easy.

Almost a year later I stand in the kitchen and say to her “You must finish this. You deserve better and are worth more than how he’s treating you now. Let him go. He does not have the courage to tell you it’s over for him. Instead he’s treating you badly and it’s breaking my heart as this is not how I have brought him up. No woman should be treated with such cavalier distain – never let this happen to you again. Have the courage to break your heart, you cannot change him, change yourself” She nods tearfully and goes downstairs to almost verbatim repeat what I have said back to him, I guess in the hope to make him change.

I stand battered by his hormonal rage when she leaves. He’s confused. My sisterly solidarity has trumped my Mothers love. He doesn’t understand my betrayal and is determined to prove me wrong. This lasts less than a week and she is cast off again. I rage silently wishing her courage.

Four weeks later, he tells me she’s done with him having sat him down during break-time to let him know her decision. I ask for his response and he shares that he sits with her , letting her talk, feeling responsible for her pain,  yet relief that she’s ended it. I give my female perspective and watch as his eyes cloud over.

There is much learning still to be had.

She will always be his first love, always be special.
He doesn’t realize this yet.

One day…

 

 

Snippets

Being bendy

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There are some of us who find yoga to be a transformative, relaxing  way of being and others who struggle through, gamely trying to be quiet as we topple over, wobble or lie flat and inactive hoping the instructor doesn’t notice.  I belong to the latter while hoping to reach the former.  I keep striving, and falling.   One day I’ll make the pose, it was not today.

 

While contemplating trying to get my nose closer to my toe, my mind wanders off to my latest insight.  In my line of work, change is planned with methodical precision.  Depending on the change methodology being used, there are tools and techniques for every stage of the process.  This structure always reassures the client;  it makes change seem linear, manageable, controlled.  It can be charted and measured, tweaked and adapted, recorded and reported.  It will all work out the way it says on the plan.

However, reality is, change is messy.  Unless you’re discussing system or technical change requiring no human intervention, this happens once in a blue moon;  most of the time, change involving living breathing humans is rarely controlled and structured no matter what the charts and spreadsheets tell you.  So change managers learn to be flexible and adaptable; managing client expectations with swan like serenity as their brain and feet run nineteen to the dozen with possibilities, interventions and persuasions to get the change programme back on track.

Living in Barbados is akin to  managing  constant change.  Ironic when culturally the local people seem so change adverse.  As expats here we make plans, only to change them given the time it takes to travel, or the heat intensity of the sun, or the need to be flexible to accommodate others, or the changing weather, or that someone has had another bright idea.  Dinner party plans can be thrown as not all the ingredients needed are available that day/week, or football or exercise classes  cancelled because the players or instructor have other things to do.  The internet goes down so work needs to be rearranged, the water doesn’t run as somehow where we live has problems with water supply.   The queue for the bank is so long, plans to run other errands are put off to the following day.  In Barbados, being flexible is a prerequisite to a peaceful  existence  with the ability to not stress and worry when plans change at the last-minute.

This type of living is not for everyone and some visitors struggle with the lack of structure or the inability to stick with and execute a plan hatched the night before but changed by morning circumstances.

I get it.  I used to love putting structure around every aspect of my life.  My mental wardrobe was full of neatly stacked boxes, compartmentalised, organised, indexed and never to be messed up.  Correspondingly I spent my energy trying to manage and stretch time to suit.   Today, as the Bajan way of being dripplingly seeps  into my daily activities,  my attitude is also changing; I am way more open to compromise, to taking the time to properly listen without expressing my inner view.  Today I have time for discussion, for genuine enquiry and curiousity to emerge.  This approach has the benefits I used to talk about but rarely do; building deeper trust and mutual respect, learning differently  about others and their perspectives.  Flexing and being adaptive to circumstances of today, putting the building blocks of trust in the bank for next week or month or year.

This insight deepens my change practice.  For delivery of any successful people-change programme requires the upfront analysis and planning time to be split 70/30. 70% of time is on relationship building, observing , enquiring, deeply listening, activities which are way beyond the talking and the words on the wall.  30% of our energy is on structure change; the charts and maps and “as is” / “to-be” process analysis. Splitting our time investment this way means that change delivery time is quicker and output more useful and productive.  And that the process of adapting through change is not feared or hidden from view but is instead welcomed as a demonstration of engagement and ownership.

As our staycation plans change once more, I’m realising that my feelings of disappointment and irritation and anger and frustration are just minuscule moments in time.  What matters is the bedrock of friendship and relationship remains intact.  Connection, care and love are worth way more than getting worked up about how and what we do today.

 

 

 

 

 

General Musings, Snippets

High on happy

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I’ve written a couple of blogs over the past few weeks which have not made it to publish stage yet, somehow all the negativity , worry and concern created by a potential Brexit and the utter stupidity from the Orange one across the pond, has seeped itself into my writing.

Thankfully, I know a cleansing is in the offing and as I board the plane I have the excited tingling sensation of a four year old anticipating gooey chocolate cake and the resulting sugar high; the mountains beckon.

We are here for a full 8 days and after the first day of purgatory where I’m still trying to break in my Surefoot custom-made ski boots which after 8 seasons of blister plasters, ibuprofen pain relief every 3 hours, and bruised shins, are obviously a lost cause, I give in and go to the hire shop. As I slip my feet into the padded softness of the brand new, rented, Alpina ski boots, I realise that this is what having cancer does; it shortcuts decision making. Yes it costs, but whether it’s a penny, a pound or millions of spondoolies, you can’t take it with you. I am here now.  My own blasted boots are never going to ‘spark joy’ and I want to enjoy my time on the mountains. What a fabulous decision this is proving to be. Free of foot and leg pain, I am able to go anywhere and do any ski run of my choosing.

There is a moment today, when the ice wind is cutting through my 7 layers of clothing, my 2 pairs of socks and gloves, my full face balaclava, goggles and helmet and eating into my very bones, when I look out and down the hill. In front is my husband and son together cutting sharp turns on freshly pisted virgin snow. We are the only people on this run. The lake at the bottom of the mountain glistens in the pale sunlight, the snow blows silently off the pine trees and drifts into the air as I pass, the only sound I can hear is the satisfying squeak-crunch of ski on snow. I momentarily stop, thinking I should take a photo to capture the moment before shaking myself to my senses. This is a moment for living, not recording. A moment of sheer aliveness and gratitude that no camera could ever hope to capture. Seared into my memory bank; the only way to thank the universe for my being here is to keep going.

One of the joys of skiing for me is the ‘present-ness’ of it all. It’s the best form of mindfulness that I know. There are no other thoughts than icy, bumpy, lumpy, pisted, groomed, deep powder, tracked-out snow and the kind of skiing and control it demands. It’s been 3 seasons since we last skied together as a family and in this time we have all experienced significant life changes – not least that Roscoe has grown over 8inches and his new body means he needs to adjust his skiing style. On day two we send him off on an advanced ski lesson and he returns wild eyed, exhausted and slightly deranged. From one of the chair lifts we look aghast at the places where he’s been and I’m so glad that I don’t have the burning need to prove myself anymore. As a boy with competitive mates, he probably has many more years of sheer stupidity and daftness on skis ahead of him.

 

Although the following day, his muppetry extends to a new unparalleled level , where mid-way through the morning he turns to me and says, “Mum, I’m just not feeling it today”. I leap to the conclusion that he’s lost confidence given his extreme ski the day before and reassure him we’ll take it easy. Later, as we tighten our boots after lunch, he makes a surprising discovery – his 70’s style clam shell boots (now coming back into fashion) are on the wrong feet and he has skied like this all morning. I reflect that he must be fairly reasonable on skis that he made this possible.

By contrast as Craig and I are inching into our middle years, our aches and pains seem to linger longer. These little creaks are gentle reminders that our bodies are not designed to keep going ad-infinitum. In the mountains the aches become muscular, deeper; a welcome reminder that we can still ski-fly down the hill but there are consequences attached to such decisions. I wonder if skiing decisions go the same way as life itself where the caring adult becomes the child and the child becomes the caring adult. Do black runs and the high of surviving off piste glide into the gentle delight of blue and green runs as the pine-tree snow-dust scatters in the wind?

When I was in hospital one of my best memories to replay was of a restaurant in Switzerland, full of some of my favourite ski friends, and us skiing from our lodge in Chatel in France, across the mountain and up on a T-bar to this shining bastion of good food and even better wine. Fortified with full tummies and the requisite amount of alcohol, we would all ski like demons home, making the last ski lifts as the clanging bells sounded across the valley. On our final visit, we didn’t acknowledge this was our last time, there remained the potential of another sojourn, another year.

Now of course, I am more aware of time; next time, last time, final times. So I don’t take for granted this ability to step into comfy ski boots and have an easy glide down the mountain. Who knows what lies ahead. Apart from today and tomorrow, everything else just stops, while the mountain envelops me in her magic of possibilities.

So irrespective of the absolute tomfoolery which is currently happening in the homeland; the plots, defections, confusion, concern and uncertainty, there will always be a mountain beckoning somewhere. A mountain of promise. A mountain of fun. And if we’re  lucky we might meet at the top of such a place and have a bite of something delicious and a toast, or two, to the sheer joy of breathing in the air of just being here.

Snippets

Traditions

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This Saturday we drive up to Clifton Hall,  Great House in St John, dressed in full Scots regalia.  We are out for the evening to celebrate Burns night.  After a 30 minute drive through some of the beautiful Barbados countryside, we arrive at this stunning plantation house, the driveway lit by flickering candles, the piper standing at the door with our host,  Massimo.  It feels like we are in a  scene out of a movie and I have to pinch myself to stop my gleeful insides bursting out.

We have agreed, as bone fide Scots, to help maintain the traditions of the Burns Supper and Craig delivers a superlative “toast to the Haggis” where he stabs the aforementioned creature with great gusto until its “gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich”!

After some wonderful food, education and entertainment, its my turn.  I have agreed to give the response to the Laddies and never one to turn down a speaking engagement, I’m there, ready, in full entertainment mode.

So in case any of you are ever pressed to deliver the lassies response, I thought I would share my words.  At least it gives an insight into what thousands of Scots would have been doing this weekend, no matter where they are in the world.  What I re-remembered on Saturday is that my culture and traditions live bright in my heart and although I may not return very often, I carry Scotland with me wherever I go.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it falls to me, your allocated lassie for this evening, to take up the challenge of replying to   Howard’s unconventional, highly entertaining toast.  What a lovely toast it was to us lassies so I’d like to personally thank him for his words.  These sentiments are much appreciated, especially now we’re a few drams doon – you may need a few more by the time I’m done.

When I agreed to take on this task, which was at the end of one of those long, noisy, heid-banging Sunday afternoons at the Cliff Beach Bar;  Massimo was at pains to point out that previous iterations of this event had been over-long and would I keep it to 5 minutes.  Well I’ve never listened to a man before.  And I’m not about to start now…

There are various womanly wiles I could use to encourage you to listen;  I could use facts and figures for those of you who have logical, rational brains; I could use props and pictures and other “techniques” {shoogle boobies} for those of you who are more visual.  Those who are more auditory may prefer the words of the Bard himself, the kinesthetics amongst you may prefer to contribute – not heckle mind – to what I’m sharing.  One voice at a time though otherwise I may get all “Ms Jean Brodie” . Actually, this  reminds me of a true story I’d like to share.

Great friends of mine, moved up to the home country to a wee village called Braco, just off the A9 (its in-between Perth and Stirling for those geographic types).  Nick, who’s originally from South Africa, was in the pub one evening and got chatting to 3 laddies from Wick; the wee Highland town where I was brought up.  Now, I have spent many hours with Nick;  I spoke at their wedding; I helped him wet the heid of his first born; I’ve sat more evenings than I care to remember, at his dining room table and in his kitchen and had many, many  long sober and drunken chats; his wife, Clare,  is one of my very best friends.  Nick knows me.  So in the course of the male bonding love-in going on in the Braco bar, Nick asks if they know a Laura from Wick and hopefully mentions a few of my finer qualities.   One of them says, “Laura who”?

By now, Nick is a few pints of Heavy down and he frantically casts around his grey matter for my surname.  He remembers a video I had given him when they first moved from England, to assist with his broader Scottish Education, and inspired, he splurts,  “ Laura…Brodie”.

By all accounts, three sets of eyes cast upwards to the right as they search for a connection.  Laura Brodie.  “Aye”, says one of them. “ I remember Laura Brodie.  She was in my History Class at the High school.  She was a bit of a goer.  Popular with the boys.  Never said no”.  “I was with her”, chimes his mate.  “Just for a night.  Aye”  “Go-an” says the third, “me too;  she ate me up”.  Nick sits at the bar, shocked, staring at his pint of Heavy and mulling over the fact that the version of the Laura he knows is far removed from what’s just been described.

He staggers home to impart the news to Clare, that her ‘besie’ mate has a colourful past.  Clare, a no nonsense Northerner, listens to the whole story and then makes him walk through it again, this time getting more of the detail.  These three braggard boys from Wick had obviously been on the mushrooms, or figured that Nick would be impressed that this lass that he knew, was so accommodating.  It’s a shame then that my surname is Ferguson. Laura Brodie is yet another figment of a male imagination.

But how illustrative is this, of the male need to compete, over Women; Sport: Life.  Rabbie Burns knew this.  Take the furore which happened last year when the former national poet of Scotland, Liz Lochhead, referred to Burns as “Weinsteinian”.  This serious charge of misogyny and rape is  based on a letter he’d written in 1788 to his pal, Bob Ainslie,  in which he described having sex with his soon to be wife, Jean Armour who was heavily pregnant by then with his 2nd set of twins.  Using Burns’ colourful command of the Scots vernacular  he describes how he “ gave her such a thundering scalade that electrified the very marrow of her bones”

Not content with such a graphic description of his sexual prowess, he then goes on to eulogise his penis. And let me share this for it truly is a work of prose;

“Oh what a peacemaker is the guide wheel-willy pintle! It is the mediator, the guarantee, the umpire, the bond of union, the solemn league and covenant, plenipotentiary, the Aaron’s rod, the Jacob’s staff, the prophet Elisha’s pot of oil, the Ahasuerus Sceptre, the sword of mercy, the philosopher’s stone, the Horn of Plenty, and the Tree of Life between Man and Woman.’ 

Well I don’t know about the rest of you ladies but this makes me come over all in a hot flush! Dear God, there’s not many women who would not pray to encounter one of these at least once in her lifetime,  let me tell you!

Frankly, this is more likely to be a bloke bragging to a mate about his sexual prowess, in a situation where this cannot or will not be challenged; a bit like the three blokes in a bar in Braco, pretending to have had their way with the fictional Laura Brodie.

We wise women are aware of the male need to have the ego stroked;  the highly strung mind, calmed;  the warrior male, aroused; any wounded pride re-built.   We are experts at humanness, we can use our energies to help men feel male again.  While most men tend to be linear, simple, transactional, translatable;  we women, we are atoms of variety and fascination.  We can choose to be Sex kittens; Bitches;  Queens, Lovers, Mothers, Warrioresses, Sorceresses. Grounded by the earth and nurtured by the soul of the moon; women hold a different power – not better, not higher, just different.

 

You men would be well advised to take heed of this.  Rabbie Burns understood it  after all he is quoted “Mither nature…her prentice hand she tried on man and then she made the lasses, O’” . The Burns I know and love,  is not a sex pest or philanderer, he loved women;  his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his wife, his daughters and, yes, his lovers. Burns valued and appreciated women for our beauty and intellect, along with our political views, our humour and  passion for words and language.

Burns’ love of women began with his Mother; Agnes Broun Burns.  By all accounts she couldn’t read or write a word but she was an avid storyteller. Imagine this wee slip of a woman with bright red hair,  going about her daily chores with a wee Rabbie rapt by her side as she sings the songs of the ancient lands, verbally imbibing his desire for Scots legends, history and  folklore.  Seeped deep in the art of oral history it’s no wonder Burns developed his passion for rhyme and song.

We all know Burns put into practice his assertion that he preferred the company of women saying “The finest hours that e’er I spent were spent amang the lasses, O’.”   This probably explains why there are so many descendants of his lineage running about the world today.   His was a seduction of humour, intellect and outstanding rhythmic language. In a world where getting pregnant out of wedlock was considered to be the worst of mortal sins, Burns was Baby Daddy to  12 children by four different women. Thinking about it, Burns could quite happily live in Barbados today ; to the Kirk on Sunday for absolution, the fields for work, the rum shop for stories and the beach for pleasure and conquest. He’d fit right in.

So that brings me to tonight, what would Burns  want me to share with you men that gives you hope and rumination in the wee sma ‘oors when the whiskey is still doing a wee dance in the brain.   I combed the Burns annals, toyed with “the Rights of Women” still apt today, but thought it ower long and I still have my favourite Scots joke to share.  The delight of “What can a young lassie dae wi an Auld Man” made me giggle but it could potentially send some of our present company to the bottom of the whisky bottle.  So, I’ve settled on the short and not well known

“A bottle and a friend”

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

A prescient Burns had it right, long before Carpe Diem and the Dead Poets society.

So before we seize the day, or the rest of the night, or the glass, I want to leave you with my favourite Scots joke:

 An armed, hooded, robber burst into the Bank of Scotland in Princes Street, Edinburgh, and forced the tellers to load a sack full of cash. On his way out the door with the loot, one brave Scottish customer grabbed the hood and pulled it off revealing the robber’s face. The robber shot the Scotsman without hesitation! He then looked around the bank to see if anyone else had seen him. One of the tellers looked straight at him so the robber walked over, raised his gun and calmly shot him  straight in the heid. Everyone in the bank was by now really feart and were all  studiously looking at the floor. “Did anyone else see my face?” roared  the robber. There were a few seconds of silence, then one elderly Scottish lady, still looking down, tentatively raised her hand and said:

“I think my husband might have caught a glimpse .….”

Thank you to the laddies who keep us on the slow boil, for the evening festivities and the shenanigans yet to come.  Ladies please be upstanding and lets give a toast to to our laddies.  Bless each and every one of our scallywags. To the Laddies”.

 

Engaging people, General Musings, Life change, Snippets

Legacy

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Between Christmas festivities and New Year celebrations we fly to the USA for a reminder of first world life.  3 nights and 4 days are plenty enough to gorge on Floridian excesses including Miami South Beach posing, head-turning car porn and excess bling; to Key West tourist-tat, determined displays of alternativeness (if you have to try this hard, then you’re not living authentically) and wish-washy sunsets; we are happy to get back on the plane laden with a fresh supply of magazines and bargain basement clothing.

Many of these magazines have articles focused on looking back; on a year in review, person of the year, etc. They provide interesting reading; some names and stories I was unaware of, others have been shared in mainstream media.

These articles bring to mind a charming animated Disney Pixar movie which I watched on a plane last year.

Coco, tells the story of the dead souls who annually reunite with their living relatives as long as they are remembered. When the last living soul who remembers them dies, they turn to dust.

I’m also reminded of a recent radio programme talking of when Bing Crosby met David Bowie and the recording of their duet “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” for Crosby’s popular TV special. By all accounts Crosby was not much enamoured of this young upstart, he being the much bigger star at the time. So it’s interesting to move forward 40 years to find Roscoe’s generation being inspired by Bowie and wondering who the old geezer wearing the Granddad jumper is in the video.

I ask Craig during our drive down to Key West, who he thinks will be remembered in 150 years time. When our generation and the next two generations have gone, and many of us will be dust. He responds almost immediately with a cynical reply,  “despots and tyrants are always remembered”.  We start to go back in history and I reluctantly see his point. We also talk about explorers and scientists and have a lively debate on if Stephen Hawking will be remembered years from now. Is his legacy strong enough or do his pronouncements on relativity (the nature of space and time), and quantum theory (how the smallest particles in the Universe behave) to explain the creation of the Universe and how it is governed, merely lay the foundation for others to make more startling discoveries? On British Royalty, we agree that Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana are likely to be remembered for their actions and enacting change. Our jury is out on Prince Charles. Driving past the still half-mast American flag (we presume due to the recent death of 41, President Bush) we talk about those American Presidents still living and dead and mull on those who are memorable or not. We deduce that those who were firsts or created long-lasting change are remembered, those who served and chartered a steady course, less so. This is equally true of British Prime Ministers; Blair, Cameron, May will disappear into a historical timeline, Churchill, Pitt, George, possibly Thatcher, Atlee and even Chamberlain stand out. Of business leaders, I think Gates will be remembered for his philanthropy and determination to rid the world of polio, malaria and other curable diseases, much more than him co-founding Microsoft. Will future generations remember Buffett, Zuckerberg, Branson, Dyson or Jobs? Or the GE titan, Jack Welsh?

When I coach senior leaders and CEOs I ask the legacy question as a way to get them to think beyond the quarterly or half-yearly results; to look beyond their tenure and out into the horizon. Focusing on this helps them align with the broader purpose of the organisation and these two elements tend to be much more engaging for employees than the traditional mission, strategy and vision. An organisation led by a leader who knows where they fit in the bigger picture, who they are, why they are there and why they want to achieve their goals is much more likely to succeed in the longer term than those solely looking for enhanced Total Shareholder Earnings and quarterly profit growth. The sustainable long-term health and viability of an organisation and the success of its Leader should never be measured on financial performance and metrics alone.

While using this question is instructive for those in positions of power and authority, I’m not sure how helpful it is to others. For focusing on legacy feeds the human ego, leads to craven angst on meaning and satisfies our craving to be noticed.

It’s true that considering our legacy is a way of making sense of why we are here. But why are we focused on creating meaning and measuring success on a time-bound, out of our control construct?

Surely it is enough that our contribution to life and living is honored and celebrated by those who we love and who love us in return? Being our version of a legend in our own lifetime helps focus our energy. It doesn’t matter how big or small our achievements are, it matters than we care and we count. That our lives are meaningful to one person or many. It matters that we absorb, learn from and accept life change while remaining true and constant to who we are.  It matters that we stay open to, and flexible about, our ever-changing knowledge and beliefs. That we take positive action when we can.

At this time of year, we can get caught in big hopes and aspirations, in setting goals and maybe making changes. In making ourselves better, living our lives differently, being more. Many start to think of legacy as the years quickly move on. This time of year, encouraging change is good business for those of us in the business of change. You will find your inbox and social media accounts littered by offers of helping you shift your mindset, your waistline and some of your bank balance.

Before you swipe up for more information or click the reply button, or get lost in Pinterest or Twitter while worrying about what’s missing, your negative voice chattering about inadequacies and comparisons, just stop.

Take a moment for reflection.

Shift focus, acknowledge you are human, fallible, contradictory and unique. That you are enough as you are. That you matter, irrespective and sometimes because of, all the choices and decisions you make and the people you love and care about; who love you, as you are now, in return.

By all means keep improving, growing, learning, developing, thriving. But start from the premise that you already count. That you are already a legend, for someone, somewhere.

Now what’s possible?