Ruth's Real Life

The Message by Ruth Everson (This story won the 2010 Woman and Home short story competition.) ‘Would you like to go to China?’ Anne stirred her tea with the usual amount of violence that she reserved for most tasks. ‘You can use your long leave. You’d be gone for eight weeks. My uncle needs someone to teach communications while he’s away in Lagos.’ Nothing in her forty nine years had prepared Ellen for the answer she was about to give. China was a moon journey away from the narrow, East Rand town where she had grown up believing that adventures could be dreamed but never lived. The reply was out before the fear that had made her heart retreat so many times could say no again. There was nothing to lose and when there’s nothing to lose, courage is easier to find. Two years of bending herself into contortionist shapes to fit a dead-end relationship had left her heart heavy and her days full of uncertainty. Ellen felt like a dog, waiting eagerly for a pat on the head

Go Gentle I have always loved teaching ‘Do Not Go Gentle’ by Dylan Thomas. In his poem, Thomas exhorts his father to fight against death, to ‘rage against the dying of the light’ and not to ‘go gentle into that good night’. I have used this poem in countless lessons to encourage my students to live a life that pushes the boundaries. Being part of my own father’s journey to the heights has given me a new perspective. Unlike Thomas, as I sat with my father in his last days, I was able to undertake a gentler journey with him. My father was a complicated man, I have described him in poems as the ‘thundering god of my childhood’, as an enigmatic ‘question mark man’. I was afraid that the end of his journey would leave me with too many unspoken conversations, too many regrets. But Dad, who was always a fixer of things, was able to fix one last thing. He left me with a deeper understanding of what it means to be able to let go well. There are many things in life that I have

Sucking on the Sun Perhaps it’s the change of season that brings a sense of restlessness with it. The garden is thick with fallen leaves. The sky is held on the blue fingers of empty branches. The late roses are in bloom – not because I have tended them – but because they have life and they will be what they are despite my neglect. I can see the deep orange of a Johannesburg Gold rose through my window. It looks as if it has sucked on the sun. It will drop its petals when it needs to and not before. My father, 91, holds onto the last fragments of his blooming. He will turn away when he has to. I was struck by the wisdom of one of my Grade 12s today when she said: “Everything turns to nothing.’ She’s right. But there must always be the possibility of something more between the appearance of the first tight bud and the fall of the last petal. Here I am, on the possibility path. I’m certainly not in my first bloom, but I’m not ready to shed the last petals yet. I fee

Caught in the UmPhafa Thorns The UmPhafa tree,  zizyphus mucronata , has a double thorn. The thorn on the bottom of the branch hooks backwards, while the thorn on the top of the branch spikes forwards.  The tree has many names, including the hook thorn, and the Afrikaans, blinkblaar-wag-‘n-bietjie (shiny leaf wait-a- bit). All the names refer to the vicious nature of the thorns. Animals and humans alike find it difficult to escape the thorns once entangled in them. King Chaka, the Zulu Chief, told his people that the backward thorn holds memory while the upward thorn points to the future. We cannot have one without the other, so we must look forward to the future but never forget the past. I know, in my own life, I am often deeply caught by the backward hook of memory and by the tree’s elliptical seed. The tree seems to have a sense of its own magic. Synonyms for elliptical include: cryptic, dark, equivocal, murky, mystic and nebulous. Memory, and how we choose to pla

On Thursday, I was invited to discuss my poem Black and White with 90 Grade 7s. The poem is about my second mother, Johanna Rapule. At the end of the talk, the girls asked a number of questions about the poem but there is one that has haunted me ever since. ‘What would you say to Johanna if you could speak to her again?’ The easy answer would be to tell her that I loved her. The real answer would be the deep regret that, although she knew my hopes and my dreams, I never knew hers. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, it seemed normal to have Johanna living in the tiny khaya at the bottom of the garden. It was normal to have her cook and clean and iron. I was five; my world was shaped by adults. As I grew up, visionary teachers, like Maureen O’ Gara, awakened me to the injustice that kept Johanna in her place. As a student, I protested and waved placards. We ran from the police down the streets of Benoni. We wrote angry poems, smoked furiously and drank too much wine.

A new year begins and with it come all the hopeful resolutions that see the light of day briefly before dying their usual death. Don't make new resolutions  I spoke to a group of people yesterday and asked them if they had made resolutions for 2012, many of them had. Most were horrified when I told them to ditch their grand plans as they would cause more stress than they were worth. The 1 st of January is like some magical line in the sand – there is a vague hope that we can step across the line and suddenly be all the things that we haven’t been for the last X number of years. It gets done Things that need to get done, get done. If you amputate a finger while cunningly carving a radish to decorate a salad, you don’t sit on the couch waiting for the right inspirational moment to go to the closest casualty room. You put your finger in a Tupperware container and just go. Building a better picture Our brains contain a dominant picture of who we are. In order to ma