The night Reeva died

Only Oscar and Reeva know what really happened the night she was killed. Since we cannot ask her, we have to rely on Oscar’s word.  I read his affidavit and although there are many things that make sense, there are just as many things in his story that I find difficult to believe.

If he was so safety conscious, why would he leave the sliding door open, but then be struck by fear when he sees the open bathroom window?

If you hear a noise coming from a bathroom in the middle of the night, would your first assumption not be that it is your partner using it? I know I have woken up many times hearing noises in the bathroom.

If I hear a strange noise in the house, I first verify the whereabouts of my partner to make sure it is not him making the noise and then to make sure he is safe. (It has happened many times in our house).

How did he find the gun under the bed in pitch darkness? If it was light enough for him to find the gun, surely he could see Reeva was not in the bed anymore or at least use the time while finding the gun to make sure she was still there and safe. (This is the most difficult part for me to believe).

Why shoot 4 times?

Why shoot through a locked door?

All these questions mean nothing though, because he was found not guilty of murder. I understand why judge Masipa could not find him guilty: The prosecution could not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he intended to murder her. I, however, still suspect that he did intend to murder her.

The other factors that I take into account when I ponder his situation are the numerous times he engaged in violent, narcissistic and reckless behaviour. This is a man who considers himself above-the-law if you look at his history of recklessly endangering the lives of others through speeding, negligent gun handling, fights and violent threats. Even if his defence team could justify every single altercation and deed, it does not change the course of events. All the good reasons in the world do not make his volatile testosterone driven behaviour acceptable. It is a sad reflection on the morals of a society that finds the lawless behaviour of celebrities permissible.

Let us for a moment believe his story. He was fear stricken, unable to think clearly, driven to murder by a state of panic. This introduces a new set of questions:  Why did he not shoot a warning shot? Why did he not call the complex security first? Why be afraid to turn on the light (When I stayed on my own and heard a noise the first thing I would do, was to turn on the light)? Once again, why shoot 4 shots and why shoot through a locked door?

His defence team did a pretty good job of answering to all the allegations, sowing enough seeds of doubt to acquit him of murder, but I am not so sure that I feel completely satisfied and content with their explanations.

Anyway, as we wait for the sentence to be delivered so that we can be duly impressed with the judicial system or angered at its failure to deliver justice, we have to think about the victim of this crime. Reeva Steenkamp. Whereas Oscar will have another day to live and make better choices, Reeva won’t.  She will be forever remembered as the girl Oscar killed on Valentine’s day and that to me is the saddest part of all: that her life is reduced to the sensational story of her murder.

Thank You Eli Stone!

There is a difference between knowing something and truly comprehending it.  I know a light-year is the distance that light travels in vacuum in one Julian year. It amounts to just under 10 trillion kilometres. Can I wrap my brain around it? Absolutely not. I know a baby takes 9 months to develop and grow in her mother’s womb. Can I grasp the mystery of a new life? No way.

The same principles apply to the human condition. I may know about the effects of a romantic crush, but until I have experienced the rush of hormones and the sleepless nights, it will merely be an idea.

I believe it is the experience itself that is the alchemical force transforming knowledge into understanding. It is only when we go through a challenge that we can start saying: “A-ha! Now I see!” Without experience, knowledge is a collection of facts that have little power over us and our lives. Ask a person of faith. It is not the reading of a holy scripture that makes you believe, it is the experience of what it teaches, that makes you believe and that changes your life. It is and always will be about experience.

A while ago I felt that I needed a new experience, something to shift my perception to teach me something extraordinary and how does the saying go? When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Enter Eli Stone.  It was this seemingly ordinary TV series that ignited a remarkable epiphany. Paul and I watched as the characters of the story experienced the familiar emotional highs and lows of love and everyday life. It is not unlike many other stories, but somehow I was more immersed and involved in this show. When it finished I felt a strange sense of loss. I had to say goodbye to everyone I got to know so well and I felt foolish for feeling this way about people that did not even really exist.

It was just what I needed to see so I could understand the most vital element of emotional well-being. I wish I could bottle this elixir and give it to the world, but alas, I can only write about it. I can give you the knowledge of what I experienced, but not the experience itself. You see, as I was feeling upset about the end of the show, I had an a-ha moment and as far as insights go, this was the most important one of my life.

I suddenly realised, or rather, I intuitively felt that I was much stronger than the anguish I went through in that moment. I was more connected to my strength than to my fear. In one single instant I knew I was truly powerful and completely invulnerable to the pain my ego was suffering. 

I realised that any feelings, sad or happy, are just temporary rivers that flow over a bedrock of strength. This bedrock of strength is my Essence, the core of who I am.  It is there for me to access any time I need. I always have a choice. Either I can immerse myself in the temporary rivers of my ever changing feelings and drown in it or I can connect to the vast and immense solidity of unchanging peace underlying the surface of it. It is self-pity vs self-confidence. It is letting go of all illusions of control in order to genuinely take charge. I realised that the power was in me. I simply had to experience it to earnestly recognise it.

Although there have been times since this particular experience that I have felt worried and happy and sad and anxious and confused, I have been able to take a deep breath, shift my perception and touch the peace that I know to be far more powerful and vast than anything else I have ever felt. It is the kind of peace that exudes a quiet confidence; a humble whisper of thundering strength.

As René Daumal’s famous quote goes:

“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”

My experience on the summit was one of complete peace and inner strength. I wish I could give it to you to help you through difficult and confusing times, but it is not mine to give away. It is yours to take and experience for yourself.

Is just to love and be loved in return

Every day Paul wakes me up with the three words all women want to hear Coffee is ready.

While I am waiting for the caffeine to kick in, my eyes still blurry with sleep, we start talking about whatever the day brings into mind.  It is easy, comfortable conversations about all that excite us, worry us and ultimately, form us.

We cheerily talk away the morning until the clock reminds us that there is work to be done. It is then that we feel a little resistance to leave each other on the wrong side of the door and all the unfinished topics still hot on the table.

By the time he comes home we share new ideas, starting new conversations. Alas, they aren't finished either. They get interrupted by supper time musings, bath time banter and familiar bed time giggles.

And so the unfinished discussions pile up like the dishes and washing of everyday life, but I am deeply grateful for them. I would rather have too much to talk about, than too little. I’d rather feel a tinge of sadness when he leaves, than a sigh of relief.

All the half conversations fill me with excitement for the next one...and the next...

It is after 11 years of constantly sharing that I am finally starting to understand a little about the true nature of love.

You see, I always thought looks mattered, talents mattered and for someone who isn't a daisy chained hippie like me, money might matter. I believed chemistry was love and heartache a sign of true romance. I was sadly mistaken...very sadly indeed. I found out that the infatuation swinging you from dizzy heights is not love and a crush can fade as easily as it appears.

The real kind of love is the one that not only lasts, but gets stronger as years go by.  It is the love you see when you watch a man with a halo of grey hair, feed his wife after she had a stroke. It is the warmth you feel when you watch a couple dancing, celebrating their 40^th wedding anniversary. It is simple, pure and very very true.

This kind of love is rooted in a deep appreciation for the unique beauty of your loved one. It is a strong soulful connection that makes generous acts of love and kindness inevitable. It is thinking less of self and more of the other, but mostly of us together.

Paul taught me about this kind of love.

No. He shows me.

Every day.

For this I am deeply grateful.

'Cos you're amazing

How dreary would life be if all of us were perfect little drones? I suspect it would be a flawless black and white world of precision and predictability. I don’t know anybody who would love that, perhaps except for a few fanatic German engineers.

It is for this reason that I believe that it is the quirks, those wonderfully unique eccentricities that make us colourful, attractive and ultimately lovable. The irony is, of course, that deep down I aspire to this boring perfection I publicly denounce. Why? Because society has subtly and very brusquely led us to believe that anything less than “perfect”, is not good enough.

Winners are lavished with praise. Runners up are losers. The beauty queen wears the crown. The rest are rejected. The smartest kid gets the A. The others have to worry about their future.We are bombarded relentlessly with the idea that we are ashamedly flawed, any time we don’t look like a cover girl, don’t earn like a rock star, and don’t cook like Jamie Oliver.

Then the unexpected happens. Society throws a spanner in the well-oiled works of zero-defect. It retraces it steps and promotes flawed self-acceptance in an attempt to compensate for the damage it caused by endorsing unobtainable ideals of perfection. Now I am confused. Must I be myself or must I be “perfect”? I can’t be both. 

So, I decide to look up the definition of perfection, just to make sure I know what exactly it is I am trying to attain. According to the Oxford advanced learner’s dictionary of current English, it means:  Complete, with everything you need.

Reading this I realise something I know, but constantly forget. I was BORN complete, with everything I need to enjoy this one miraculous life. It dawns on me that taking first place gets you a medal, but last place means you are in the race the longest.

Although it boosts the ego to win a medal, diploma, crown or title, they are only indicators of temporary achievement. They do not determine abstract concepts like perfection.

True perfection happens at the moment of birth, when life gives one of its countless breaths through the lungs of a little baby. Even if that baby’s body and mind are different than that of others, it is still complete, still has everything it needs.

All that is necessary is to remind that baby throughout her life of this one simple truth. She is perfect just the way she is.

LIVE STREAMING AUDIO

The voice in my head is as excitable as an ever alert sports commentator. I imagine her in the comfort of a soundproof booth announcing every random thing that pops into mind, peddling it as vital information.  I am her captured audience. I have no choice, but to hear an incoherent stream of ramblings invading my head.

I understand that I cannot escape hearing it. My question is: Why do I listen to it? Why do I take it so seriously, especially since the voice is such an inflexible fear driven task master?

Rarely does she compliment me or give me permission to take a break. Instead, I am pushed to do better, give more. The problem is that the disembodied voice is never satisfied. My efforts are met with criticism and displeasure to a point where I sometimes don’t even start a task, not because of fear of failure, but because of the immense backlash I will receive because of it.

The most disconcerting part is when another voice chimes in and they argue about the best course of action for my life. They completely ignore me as they enjoy their silly spat about my future. Once again, it reminds me of the sports commentators whose arrogant opinions become the fixation while the live game itself, is ignored.

My puzzlement lies in the origin of this live streaming audio.  Who am I that I can distance myself from these fear driven voices, yet sheepishly still take their direction?

In an attempt to free myself of the incessant chatter, I have turned my attention to the game itself. I realised that when I fully immerse myself in the enjoyment of play, I become one with the flow and the action. I become Present. In this moment there is no space or use for commentary.

Think of kids blowing and chasing bubbles. They are not concerned about whether they have dirty knees, or laugh too loudly. They are in complete joy, unfettered by the naysaying inner voice.
Once the commentators are muted, I am surprised to hear the quiet. It is a powerful silence; a vast universe in slow motion; a peace of mind. It is a space where my real voice sounds a lot like Love.

But Mango

As I am writing this, Mango, my sturdy ginger cat, is offering his neck for a scratch. I am tempted to sink my fingers into his soft fluff and tickle him until his gently lulling purr sings into my heart. I am not the only one distracted by our attention loving felines. Frequently my son claims they lure him away from his work and play, much like the scoundrel in the Dr Seuss classic.

This made me wonder how much time I spend inventing excuses and distractions in order to avoid the succulent slices of a well lived life. I use necessary phrases such as “I must” and “I need to” to fuel the importance of the distractions I choose.

As my day fills up with e-mails, texts, Facebook messages, Google articles and a TV series or two, my life quietly slips by. It does so without demanding the attention the distractions so readily receive. Am I escaping this singular moment of life due to a fear of completely inhabiting it? What, I wonder, will happen if I let go of the comforts and plunge into the present, head first, senses alive?

I might find true joy and real connections, not just the fragments and illusions of it flickering on various small and big screens. So, why do I love these distractions then, even though I know bliss waits on the other side?

Perhaps I am Mango in that moment, closing my eyes to the barking dogs of the world, enjoying a little scratch under the chin. I can hide on a social network or lose myself in a TV series, but I cannot shut my eyes to the beckoning of a well lived life forever.

One day I will have to face the growling dogs of my vivid imagination and tame them. If I look closely I might even see that they were purring kittens all along. The fears of success and failure; of loss and gain could all be just as illusory as the comfort I find in avoiding it.

This I will find out when I stop turning my back on the present moment, or as my son says when I ask him to brush his teeth: “But Mango..."; a two word attempt to postpone the inevitable.