A LOVE LETTER TO TATA MANDELA

lindiweA LETTER TO TATA NELSON MANDELA

From  your forgotten grand-daughter.

Dear Tata

Not sure where to start – so much has been said about you from all corners of the world by those who knew you, claimed to know you and from everyone who admired you around the world. Anyone who has a voice has said their piece, claimed a piece of you and ripped you apart into all kinds of objects and mementos, from bank notes to t-shirts, skirts, shops, street names, township names, shopping malls, even the ground I walk on. Tata you truly are legendary.   I have watched silently from a distance, jealous of course of all the time that these people got to spend with you.  I am hurting so much – because I have been so angry with you for a very long time, because I never understood you, I never understood why you took the decisions you did, why you spent so much time with everyone else but me. But now I understand, even though it hurts to admit, that they needed you more than I did.  For the past ten days I have gone through all manner of  emotions imaginable, from anger, sadness, joy, indifference, pain, disgust, disbelief, madness, grief, delirium you name it.  I felt as if once again I have been  silenced; my voice drowned out by the loud  trumpets  announcing your  passing  which  screeched  from every imaginable crevice of this country, I have Mandela coming out of my pores.  People can be so cruel when they think they are the only ones in pain. Everyone knows so much more about you, everybody knows what you think, how you felt, how you would want them to think to feel about everything. I have been trying to run away from you, but you are every-where – I go.  Everywhere I look. The radio has been all about you, TV, newspapers, conversations, street lamps and post. Someone said I should look for you, but now it seems I don’t have to look anymore for you. You are everywhere I go.  Maybe you’ve been trying to get my attention and what a way to do it.  You’ve  got my full attention now.

Behind the Rainbow.

Can you imagine I had to become a journalist just so I could be near you?  Close to you, follow you around? Be in your presence?  I laugh about it sometimes. I thought everyone else was crazy for claiming you as their father, grandfather, their leader, their liberator, their this and that. How could one single living human being be everything to everyone? I still struggle to remain true to myself let alone the entire universe.  But I guess I was the crazy one for refusing to see  the truth. I remember our brief conversation about politics. I was still angry with you then, my anger masked by a mix of admiration fear, awe and sadness.  I remember once I was forced no, let me say coerced into a conversation about you with Cornel West. He asked me about you and I told him and everyone who could listen that I didn’t care about you. That you were nothing to me, in some ways it was true in others in was a complete and utter lie because I loved you, love you now more than the first time I knew that your name was not Manelo.  And then came that time when you asked me if I had registered to vote and I said yes. You asked me who I would vote for.  I knew you were joking with me, but I didn’t have a sense of humour at the time. I couldn’t imagine why on earth you would want to discuss such private family matters in front of all those people when you knew very well that I couldn’t be a card-carrying member of any political party because of my job.  But thank you for saving me from myself.  You shielded me and made it a huge joke; everyone says you were such a joker in your later years.

Today I am filled with gratitude, because even though we never had a normal grandfather and granddaughter relationship, even though I spent the past 32 years living in your shadow, you were still with me everywhere I went.  You opened doors for me everywhere I went, just by your name.  Where ever I travelled when people heard that I was from “Mandela land” they would go out of their way to make me comfortable and to feel at home. You have shielded me in war zones, in dangerous places and saved  me more than once from myself.   In 2008 I took off my journalist jacket and decided to follow you to London at the 46664 AIDs Benefit Concert in Hyde Park London, I was so proud of what you tried to do. It was your  last public appearance and I was there among the roaring crowds as myself, off duty. I thought it was so sweet how you protected Amy Winehouse and held her hand through a dark period in her life. I fell in love with you then, how gentle you had grown to be.  Last year when you were admitted to hospital, I grieved for you, I shaved my hair and decided to leave this country because I just couldn’t imagine living here without you. I arrived in Dakar, Senegal,  naked, to everyone I sounded Senegalese, but one man took one look at me and said – You look like Mandela. I laughed for days, because in all my living years, no-one has ever said that to me – you found me in a place of utter hopelessness. When things didn’t work out I found myself back here again in this country I love so much, that has brought out the worst and best of me. I didn’t understand why. Now I know that I needed to be home for such a time as this. I was even more frustrated when journalism couldn’t bring me any nearer to your bed-side, at your home in Houghton, I felt like an outsider looking in, invisible. But now I understand that it was meant to be this way, how can a granddaughter report on the passing of their grandfather? I can be so silly sometimes.

It is a bitter-sweet moment for me, Tata,  in the past ten days I learnt so much about you, it is as if you were showing me again who you are, not anyone’s version of you, but really who you are. How it was for you when you were barred from attending the signing of the 1955 freedom charter, the drawing up of which you worked so hard to achieve.  I began to understand in real terms how difficult it must have been to face your enemy and forgive them, sit with them at the negotiating table, to reach out to someone you knew  hated you and would kill you given the chance. You taught me what it is to fight – hatred with love, because love is the only thing that saves. Through the work of Cheryl Pillay, you showed me your  ideas of restorative justice – how love and forgiveness is the only thing that can turn someone around, the only thing that can change people’s minds and hearts. Unconditional love.   You showed me that even though at times everything and everyone may seem to be against you, if you hold on to love things do work out in the end. And oh so Beautifully too. Violence has never and will never be the answer, I am so glad you changed your mind about that too while in prison. So proud of you.

Today I have so much to be grateful for, not only have I met the man of my dreams, the one I asked for, a man who loves music, who loves art, respects the spirit world and thinks with his heart, I am also starting a new job.   My dreams are coming true at a time when I had given up hope, when I said goodbye to so many of them. My dreams are coming true because you died. And it is a sad reality for me. Thank you for the small stolen moments, when I was so close to you I could hug you.  Thank you for trying to do what was best for everyone, and being  selfless  at a time when you had every right to be selfish.  I know you were just as human as me and that it is only our creator who lifted you to  where you are,  and to who you have become to billions upon billion, imagine!? It it only our creator who could have given you the power and strength to go  against the grain and alone in love, when loving was probably the last thing you wanted to do. Thank you  granddad, Tata, for freedom, now I can come out and be myself again, because I know now that you’ve got my back for real.  I don’t need a picture with you or any proof what so ever –  that you are mine- blood is thicker than water. Your spirit will live on in me and through me and through everyone you’ve touched with your exemplary life. The road ahead will not be easy as you know, but I know  that you are  in a much better place to help me when I need it. Even though I knew it was your time I am still sad that you left, because it was good to know that you were hanging out somewhere having fun. Or that I could meet you one day on assignment.

People kept saying to me, because I can be very timid believe it or not, that confidence comes with knowing who you are. I am glad to finally know who I am.  It brings joy to my tears to know that despite what I thought  you never forgot  me.  That you loved me even when I thought the worst of you.

Did I tell you have a million dollar smile? That melts my heart still today? You do.  I will hold on to that smile.   Apparently I have a million dollar smile too, according to mom. So each time I think of you, I will smile. Because what you have given me is a beautiful gift. I will never stop smiling. Never stop loving.  And I have you and Love to thank for that.

Lala NgoxoloTata.

Ndiyabulela.

Enkosi.

Camagu!

 

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LIFE: IN THE TIME OF WAR.

Dakar, Senegal: 2012  Before the dust settled.

09 Wednesdays 2013. Dakar, Senegal.  What to write after ten or more days in a country that has  occupied my mind  for the last two years solidly.  Dakar Senegal.  What is it about this place that has so ensnared my mind? That has made everything seem a little mundane if it had no link to Senegal .  A Year ago  in December of 2011, I packed my bags for a month-long holiday at an invitation from a  friend.  I was more than lethargic when I arrived. As the taxi drove through  the main highway from the Airport to the city,  I watched  the horizon, nothing was visible , dust-covered  evening. It was a thick brown fog that  was like  a  concrete wall hiding the  outline of the city.  I wondered why it was so important for me to be there.  I was on holiday, and the reason I was on holiday in Senegal was in the taxi with me. In the days that followed my host asked me what I thought of Dakar. At that point I honestly didn’t know how to  answer that question. I even wondered if I had an answer to begin with. I had not seen the city for one, having spent most of my time sleeping in bed or online searching for things “Dakar” to do. When I was not sleeping in the first few days of my arrival; I took walks around the neighborhood  to acclimatize myself to the newness and foreignness of the place. But as I walked I found little pieces of Barcelona, I found pieces of New York,   pieces of Kenya, Uganda, some pieces I imagine to be decidedly French, even though I have never been to France. I found to my amazement that the city had representations of  almost every major city in the world that I have had the opportunity to visit  and yet it was still nothing like any of them.  So after a long pause recalling the images from my morning and afternoon walks I answered: “It’s  like every city  I’ve been to and none that I have been to at the same time”   She nodded as if in agreement.  After the first five days of sleep-walking and through some connections I made through friends  I decided despite my inner protestations to be on holiday on not on sleep-holiday was during the day  as if I slept. Sleep oh. For the past 6 years I have had a sleeping disorder I didn’t know about which required me to drink enough alcohol to knock me out sleeping pills had become a no-go zone since I once tried to commit suicide by drinking pills after my grandmother who raised me died, in 2006.   otherwise I just could not sleep.  I had to be lulled to sleep, radio television, music book, anything…the opposite of that was sleeping during the day when sleep comes,  even that was sometimes hard to achieve, the TV had to be on, a radio something, I could read till midday, not that I slept of much, the only time I could sleep really  was during the day, with said TV/radio/music on… often I would just sit in bed not wanting to do or go or see anyone or anything – I just wanted to be left alone sometimes. I had to wake up and face this country I had chosen as my ideal destination for a holiday.   One forgets – at least I did, now less so – that Senegal is  mostly desert land,  full of sand and dust everywhere.  I was reminded  this morning while cleaning the new space I have just moved into.  Keeping yourself and your household dust free in a place where water is a very precious commodity can be a never-ending full-time  job.  So in the month of December 2012 I woke up from  my sleep-walking to go to St-Louis, an old French-Colonial-Slave town five hours north of Senegal’s capital city Dakar. I booked into a B&B and caught a set-place (seven seater) Peugeot Station Wagon to one of  Senegal’s most famous tourist attraction. I felt  completely and utterly nostalgic about the drive down  to Senegal;  again, it reminded me – hauntingly  – of  another  time and  place I once lived in but just couldn’t  put my finger on it. Could I have traveled this road once before?  Could I have been to Senegal before and not even known  about it myself? Why was my core, my heart  nudging  me about this foreign place that was once so familiar and strangely new at the same time? The drive down was peaceful as if I was in a time capsule, or on an airplane  where worrying about anything is futile, in transit as it  were or better still – No where.   My feelings and emotions were amplified my emotions (feelings) were amplified, the nostalgia was enough to make me want to cry, but I gratefully  fell into a lulling sleep instead. In St-Louis the air was decidedly different. The town itself felt abandoned – a ghost town – in December. People moved languidly and slowly under the scorching heat.  The sandy streets made walking seem like a marathon challenge.  Others sat in the dark shops from where  they sold touristy things to the few tourists that were shuffled around in horse driven carts.  I tried to imagine what St-Louis must have looked like back in the  1800’s under French occupation.  A place inhabited by french explorers who made their money selling people  and other commodities to countries  across the Atlantic. I kept looking for those quint and picturesque images that so beautifully describe my holiday destination. I re-read  descriptions of the wonderful St-Louis, and immediately wished people could write their feelings.  It is a beautiful place – but  I felt lost.  For me St-Louis, like Goree Island in Dakar had not changed much…. well they had changed considerably but the founding principles of the place, the  country and continent had still not changed. There are no obvious chains on anyone walking around  in St-Louis.   Slavery has long been abolished as we all well know. Indeed there are  no similarities. However the principle of people as commodities enslaved by the insatiable quest for power and money by those in power  have not.  I returned from St-Louis refreshed despite  my initial misgivings about the place.  On Christmas day I had the opportunity or pleasure of swimming at a place where the Atlantic Ocean meets the River Senegal (Oceane et Savanne). My host and I were the only brown people in the entire holiday strip, except for those who were serving the  guests.  I let my mind forget about the “glaring inequities” of it all  for a while, and chose to enjoy the beauty of nature and land which was given to us all humans and animals to enjoy equally though not every one is in agreement about that.

Back in Dakar, I walked into Riots, protests and daily demonstrations which made the otherwise quiet and peaceful country Headline news on all major international news channels.  I had not come prepared to work, in fact though I made mention of it in passing conversations, it was not the one thing that was upper most on my mind. What I had in mind was a chill session of heart, mind, body and soul, full of dancing and making love in the simplest ways, meeting new people, discovering new things –  as one does when on holiday. But the journalist in me could not watch a story happen right in front of my door step, literally and not write about it.  So I started to report on the pre-election violence/demonstrations  in the country and soon after the elections went ahead peacefully and a new leader was elected by popular demand, I found work at a regional radio station based in Dakar, where I spent the rest of my time working 18 hour days with barely  enough room to eat, sleep and wake up again for the next round. Though the work was fulfilling it had become like a heavy chain around my ankles, I’m  sure not so different from those worn by the slaves of yesterday. I worked seven days a week, I had no time to spend the little money I earned,  which was also just fine with me since it was enough for room and board.  I finally decided to return home in May, to put things into perspective – who goes on holiday for a month and ends up coming home six months later? So many have, and I needed to be sure.

The first six months in Senegal now in retrospect was a haze of  dust, smoke and tear gas.  My tears which came often (every two days or so) were a useful tonic.  In the last six month back home I spent a large amount of time trying to find work so that I could return again to Senegal, what for this time? ‘My internal questions were echoed in the faces of my friends and family.  As if to say okay baby, you have had your adventures, you’re not growing any younger and to top it all off, you have been living from suitcase  for a whole year – imagine 365-  days without unpacking a single thing! I still did not have an answer for this question. Until today.

On my walk from my new place to the a local shop to go on the net. It dawned on me. As clear as day – what Senegal reminded me of. What this place was about, is about perhaps.I started to ask myself this question more seriously this time when after  three days in the city I found myself again without access to money, through no real fault of my own. The back and forth from bank to bank between Johannesburg and Dakar, and my inability to anything at all this time round, nothing made me ask what was this big pull to move to be here.  I began again to ask my self the question why am I here?  Change at anytime or place is never easy, to decide to live in a place whose national and official language you don’t understand, whose customs and way of life are on polar opposites to your own, where so much is forbidden, where so much is mis-understood by you, to come to this place – again – Is one of the most challenging decisions I have ever had to make in my life. I weighed them up, the pros and cons of staying. The pros and cons of leaving.  And I decided on Senegal.

I met an artisan in St-Louis who asked me why I was  in Senegal or St-Louis. I said for a vacation. He asked me what was I looking for? Hoping to find in Senegal. I said love. Then he made me a heart-shaped necklace I have never worn with the words Senegal St-Louis on it.   I have been asked this question many times back home and here. I have asked myself this question openly and in private, in my prayers and in my laughter… what is it about this place? So….

There’s one other place I failed to recognize in Senegal in my many walks. And for the life of me this place is everywhere here…. in the language, french and Wolof,  in the religion and culture…and in the sights and smells. I was in this place during a time of war back in 2006 and I never expected to find, Beirut, Lebanon in Dakar, Senegal!

It’s the coffee sold in small tiny cups at street corners, it’s the people who continue to live and move on as if there are no rockets flying down  causing ripples through the dark roasted liquid. It’s the passionate way the people speak. It’s the way in which Islam the national religion – finds its way  seamlessly through french culture mixed with a decidedly cosmopolitan circular life where people from all corners of the world meet,  engage and love each other. It’s in the taxis,the cabs, yellow and black, in the images of Sheick Amadou Bambar in Senegal and Hassan Nasrallah in Lebonon. It’ in the calls to prayer throughout the day, it’s in the convictions of the people of what is right and what is wrong.   Love in a time of war is something else. Life in a time of war makes one grateful for every little thing, even the most basic things one feels grateful just be able to do them. Struggling to find oil, water etc, does not seem much like a struggle when you could die at any second or moment through no provocation of your own.  Every conceivable human emotion reactions is heightened – in the face of imminent death, living from a suitcase feels like duplex luxury hotel in one of the richest capitals of the world,you choose.

The 2006 Israeli-Hezbollh War – changed my life. I just didn’t know  how much.  As if I was literally courting trouble;  the dust had just settled in Senegal when I arrived in South Africa to a  massacre so brutal I was sure I landed in 1976  Apartheid South Africa. More than 34 striking mine workers were killed openly for the entire world to see.  Images of that massacre are still being  screened  here in Senegal.  I didn’t go to the scene of the incident this time, even though the journalist in me so wanted to go there and report on the aftermath.  In response to the Marikana Massacre, I did a series of interviews with conflict journalists/reporters,  asking them to share how stories of conflict/war/violence reporting has  changed their lives or affected them.  I had been with one of them on assignment to Lebanon.  I asked him to share a memory or  a story, an incident that changed his worldview.  He described the most vivid claustrophobic scene I have ever heard in my life. He  described a burial scene, at a Palestinian refugee camp, at a spot which had been hit by Israeli rockets, just a few hours ago, for the second time. You could hear the drones circling the skies like vultures searching for a target – and you were it. He told me he felt like he was trapped, and would be buried along with the rest of deceased, because we were literally the living dead. He told me that when he got to his hotel room he noticed he had aged considerably just from that one day out of a whole 34 days  that we had been reporting on what is was known in Lebanon as the July War  – Lebanons’ Hottest summer.   But what surprised me more than anything was not the scene he described or his real-time aging process there-after, but that simply I had been there with him, standing at that exact same spot. I had been there at that exact same spot and I didn’t even remember it. I was not drunk or high – my brain just couldn’t deal with the reallness of my mortality.  The drive to St-Louiss was the drive to Lebanon from Jordan via Syria. It was nostalgic because it was a dangerous thing to do at the time. Israeli rockets has not left the Syria-Lebanon border untouched.  Our taxi driver was playing Julio Iglesias, my parents and our favourite singer… I called my father on the spot, to say I was on my way to Lebanon, driving past the Syria – our taxi driver was playing  Julio Iglesias, I loved him.  The second time I called my father was when I had been standing outside the balcony of a room my fixer had organized for me to stay. I had been watching the view from the city, when a rocket went down shaking the very foundations of the building and balcony.  I don’t know why war still seems so glamorous. I can’t even remember how I managed to sleep that night.

So in an utterly strange way, Senegal now makes complete sense to me. Perhaps its  my minds’ way of  trying to re-write that story – change the past. I don’t want to be a martyr to this or any other war, worst of all I don’t want to be a martyr in my own life in whatever small ways.  Oh now I remember… I came to Senegal because I wanted to write about country, its people its history, culture etc.  But after the dust has settled in Senegal, life has gone back to a normalcy I have never quite experienced before – my foreignness is more pronounce, my decision to return even more daunting . After the dust has settled and after a year of living my life out of a suit-case going from couch to couch, place to place, living on rough  side of life does not make sense. I want my life before Lebanon back, the familiar  comfort of home  surrounded by my books, freshly cut flowers, coffee… friends and family.  It’s as if after all this time , five years precisely since I was in Lebanon, someone forgot to tell me that: –  ” Honey the war is over, you don’t have to live out of a suitcase, or run for your life, be poor or be ill not every thing is an emergency, not everyone you love is going die right this minute or the second you don’t see them, YES YOU ARE ALIVE, and you deserve to live just like everyone else including those who have died. It’s okay, It’s not you’re fault.  The war is over, live life make it all count now by living your BEST LIFE NOW.”

I am crying now, and Its A-OKAY with me, Because yet again I forgot to mention the  one other important reason that led me to  Beirut, Lebanon and Dakar, Senegal. LOVE.  Love for my work and a love for another human being.

And it is here in Dakar Senegal, that I learned how to walk again, sleep again, eat again, laugh, cry, trust, believe again, hope again, love again.

I have been scared to say I’m in love in case it does not work out… I’ve been scared to admit that I Jedi Ramalapa am a LOVABLE person,  I forgot in all those years (6 years), that My mother loves me, My father loves me, Oh my sisters and brothers love me, I have friends near and far who love me.  I am loved. Forgot what love feels like. everything, my humanity, their humanity and I am sorry.

There’s one other person… I love  who I know loves me more than I can ever imagine….

All I can say I am sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, I love you and I know that you love me too.  You are the only One I want!

I love you baby.

 

OVER THE EQUATOR: Crossing the Line.

equator02 January, Dakar Senegal. Funny how no matter how many times I have flown to and from everywhere around the world, not once did this thought ever occur to me.  The thought was prompted by the pilot in charge of SAA flight, 207 on the 28th of December 2012. We were delayed (grounded really) for over an hour at the OR International Airport in Johannesburg. A  first for me.  There was something wrong and providence made sure that I was seated on the window seat with a direct view of the source of the problem.  The pilot muttered something about a part getting stuck in the left-wing engine of the plane while they were checking to see if there is enough oil or some thing along those lines. While that was happening,  water was  guzzling out of the engine, it seemed there was an oil leak too as two pick up trucks pulled over onto the tar mark, with sacks of soil.  Men in emergency flat jackets poured the soil  on the ground – a technique used to absorb oil spillage. One of my first reports as a journalist involved an oil leak over Barry Hertzog, the driver had lost control of his oil truck  hit the curb an accident which flushed oil down on empire street, and stalling peak afternoon traffic.  A  man in a paper-thin white jump suit looks closely at the tool box left lying on the ground , his colleagues join their heads with him they laugh, shake heads  and the whole thing does not seem so serious. The pilot fills  in the blanks.  We are still delayed, now waiting  for a spare part, so we are waiting for the spare part, but first we need another part to remove the  part that is still stuck inside the area of the engine  where the problem is, after it has been removed, the new part will be lodged in, and then since we have also lost some fuel, they will pump the plane with more jet-fuel, just to be sure. It’s a one way eight-hour flight with one stop. My destination. The procedure could take  anywhere between 15 to 30 minutes.  The pilots’ reports which were  frequent, every ten minutes or so, were prefaced with unfortunately. With that there are  a number of questions floating through my mind, will we ever set off? Can’t we just change planes, what a lot of work that will entail, how long will it take? Worse still what if we do take off and then the problem is not properly fixed? For sure I would have been extremely nervous had it not been for the view from seat number – 64k.  The  the technicians working on the plane didn’t seem vaguely worried.  If  body language is anything to go by they could have been putting up balloons for a child’s first birthday party.  Pa de koi.  The irrational part of me reasoned that  perhaps this is my opportunity to make a decision about my life, approach the cabin crew and tell them I am now getting off because I am not sure if I will make it to my destination, there seems to be a problem, which so far was quite well communicated to the passengers on board, but I for one would rather be on solid ground.  Glad I nipped that thought in the bud.  Because in no time all was cleared and we were well on our way to the sky.  There goes my chance of getting out of  the plane.  Sure there’s really nothing to be done now.  I have said my loving goodbyes. I am at peace.

So once we reached cruising altitude, our very informative pilot tells us. “We expect to have a fairly good flight, with the exception  of some turbulence expected over the equator”  Now that is something I have never paid attention to before.  I will be crossing the equator, that imaginary line we learn about in geography,which separates the world as we know into two parts. The Northern and Southern Hemispheres. Regions closer to the equator generally  don’t have a change in seasons as the area around the equator remains more or less in constant relationship with the sun.  It’s an imaginary line.  We use it to understand where we are in the world, who we are when we are. Sailors of old make jokes about it, but it  was (is) still a right of passage.

“The Earth’s gravitational pull is slightly weaker at the Equator due to its equatorial bulge. The slightly weaker gravitational pull and momentum of the spinning Earth makes equatorial regions ideal places for space launches. It takes an enormous amount of energy to launch a satellite or other spacecraft out of the Earth’s atmosphere. It takes less energy (rocket fuel) to launch in lower gravity. It also takes less energy to launch when the spinning Earth is already giving the satellite a push of 1,670 kilometers per hour (1,038 miles per hour)”.

There was a lot of turbulence over the equator, no more than can be expected  on any flight no matter how long the duration.  My heart landed with me as we hit the tar mark in Dakar  We made it.  So I am  left with no doubt still even now. I am alive and happy to be so.  I thought I would write something more on the Esoteric side of things, something deep and enlightened about the equator once I started to think about it.  But I guess I have left my profoundness back in the Southern Hemisphere.  Here on the other side, the city was empty, the Great Magal of Touba, an annual pilgrimage of devout Muslims coincided with the new year celebrations. So everyone was in Touba, okay not everyone but most people and everything was about the Magal of Touba. It’s an important annual pilgrimage for Senegalese people.    I was glad I was not among the millions of people who go there to pay tribute homage to Senegal Spiritual and Revolutionary leader Ahmadou Bamba.  It’s a different world.  Last year I went after the New Year celebrations and came back  having lost my worldly attachments  to beauty, youth, dignity and most importantly money. Because I didn’t go this time, I expected nothing of the sort to happen, until of course I tried to draw money at a local ATM – the bank card didn’t come back.  This time though, I let it go without a fight.

Words fall out of my fingertips, and I am still even now trying to say something quite profound.   It takes less energy to launch a space craft on or near the equator. Less energy to get things done.  Less energy to be me. Why should we resist… why should I? Makes me think, many of us have  flown over the equator more than once in our lives and yet we have never given it much thought.  I suggest we coin a new term ” I am over the Equator with…. ” fill in your choice of words.  Because however the turbulent our crossing over the equator(was)  is – it is also the center, the core,  the perfect  circle, always constant and in harmony with the Sun.  However imaginary, crossing this line  is  far more conceivable than going over the moon.

I for one am Over the Equator In love!