Ruth's Real Life

  (It’s not what you think.) My life, to quote Carole King, has been ‘a tapestry of rich and royal hue’. For as long as I can remember my tapestry has been stitched, not with fine and silken threads but with words. I can remember, even as a little girl, the excitement generated by the yellow blocks of paper that Mom would bring home from work. I drew pictures and invented words and worlds that took me away from the loneliness of being the youngest child and only girl in our large family. When I was twelve, I won my first writing competition. The story, about the 1820 Settlers, has long since been lost but I still remember what it felt like to write that piece. The story was submitted to the competition by my English and Maths teacher, Mrs Dorothea Knox. I still remember what it felt like when she beat me with a long wooden ruler with a metal edge. She called the ruler Mr Persuasion and wielded it daily on those of us who did not shine at Maths. I never shone. In high

Tall Standing   I am done with the safety razor life:   I have slouched in the shadows of smiles, I have been loved into comfort-fit shapes, I have run in a tight box of approval Banging against the hollow sides of my truth, Bruising heart and soul to bloodless thinness.   I choose to walk out of the photograph of self, I expose the black blank back of my eyes And dare you to stand tall enough to meet my gaze, Stretch your arms ‘till they are embrace long, Prise the words from between the stones of your teeth.   Now, call me by my name.   Ruth Everson   A comment yesterday by Mandy Collins (@collinsmandy), expressing her longing to be heard, reminded me of this poem, ‘Tall Standing’. It was written at a time when I was angry with everything and everyone. I was battling with issues of identity and felt lost in a world that seemed to demand conformity.   It’s not always easy to sing a solo song with conviction. It was a hard j

  Two Saturdays ago, compliments of the lovely Carel Nolte, I found myself at the Zwartkops Raceway. Ahead of me was a ‘Ferrari experience’, this meant driving a Ferrari F360. I love driving and I love adventures but I have to admit to some trepidation as I perched on a stool listening to the roar of the cars hurtling around the track. The driver’s briefing was brief! Back out at the side of the track, I was pleased that I had the first of my fears behind me – the fitting of the driver’s suit. I’m not small and I was convinced that there would not be a suit to fit me. I didn’t have to wear a suit – easy! Helmeted and ready, with a number of young men watching, I manoeuvred myself into the car and was strapped in. I was so concerned about my next fear – stalling in front of everyone – that I didn’t notice the technical hitch. My feet didn’t reach the pedals. As the seat couldn’t be adjusted, I had to move to the second car. I casually levered myself out and sauntered noncha

It's time to adventure again. Last night, I dreamed I was lost on the Great Wall of China. I was climbing a never-ending stairway alongside which a magnificent river rushed into a dark green gorge. Even in my dream, I knew it wasn’t the Wall. I have climbed a section of the Great Wall and it was nothing like this. In 2005 I undertook, what in my head, was a pilgrimage to China. I was in a state of flux in my life and when the opportunity to go presented itself, I  didn't  hesitate. I went on my own, knowing very little of what awaited me. One thing I was determined to do was to journal my experience and to try to extract a lesson from each week that I was there. I came away with my eight China lessons but after my return I understood that I had journeyed  26 000  kilometers  to learn the power of just two words. Let go. And I did. I let go of toxic opinions of myself. I was able to see myself in a more powerful way. I felt a newness of who I was and an unfo

There is always the possibility of an unfolding. This poem began with a piece of paper. I had a blank sheet in my hands while I was invigilating an exam. As I walked between the desks, I folded and unfolded the piece of paper. Life is a little like this I thought, as the possibility of a blank page presented itself as I unfolded the paper. There are pages in my life that I’d like to rip out, the deaths of my brothers Paul and Michael, the loss of my mother too soon, my father, perhaps too late as he became trapped in dementia. I’d like to erase bad decisions and pencil in decisions not made because my heart lacked courage. I’d like to rewrite words that hurt and shape them into something gentler. Those things will never happen, the past is written in indelible ink. Nevertheless, today is still to be unfolded. This poem is dedicated to my partner, Julia, who with tremendous courage chose to unfold a new page in her life. I think though, that it also applies to all who feel

Dream big dreams This poem was written a number of years ago in response to the following story about a very special girl called Amy. Amy’s parents went away. In their absence, her grandparents came to look after Amy and her brothers. At five, Amy already had an adventurous spirit. This was a girl who loved to climb trees. Amy loved to climb the tall tree in the front garden. Her little feet knew the safe places on the trunk. All the knots and branches carried her upwards. Always, there was the longing to rise. One morning, Amy’s gran came into the garden looking for her. She saw Amy in the tree and was terrified, as any reasonable adult would be. She demanded that Amy climb down, so she scrambled down and sat on the low veranda wall. Amy promptly fell off the wall and broke her arm. The moral of this story for me is simple. People, who love us dearly, will often call us down from what they perceive to be the dangerous places. Children dream big dreams and adu

I’ve had a blocked tear duct for at least two weeks. It looks a little like I’m keeping a giant Easter Egg under my eye. I’ve checked, there’s no Lindt or Geldhof surprise waiting for me, which is a pity. I refuse to visit the doctor for something as puny as an eye duct. When I go, I like to tick off things like back ops, neck fusions, foot reconstructions or the odd skin graft on the troublesome head. Eye will not admit defeat to something the size on a pin prick. I have tried various methods to unblock the duct. Using my powers of deduction (see what I did there?) and Google, I set about finding a solution. Dr Google suggested a hot compress. I heated up a face cloth and reclined on the couch in a tragic pose, calling faintly for tea. The compress did nothing. I’m still hoping for the tea. The next was to try an eye solution. I poured drops into my eye. Nothing helped. Julia did mention that the drops were so past their expiry date that Noah may have dropped them of

Madiba 9 It’s Human Rights Day in South Africa today. Around the country, those who fought for our freedom have been honoured and remembered. I could say many things about South Africa in 2013 but all I really want is for us, one by one, to follow the path beaten out for us by our beloved Nelson Mandela. Madiba leaves an indelible legacy. I would like to walk on the path that he has made. I commit to doing just one, small thing that will lift someone else every day. Perhaps you will join me. Madiba 9 You could buy a pair of shoes (size 9), That would fit the feet of this man, But you will not walk in them. You will not smooth the quarry stones Into the long road of forgiveness, Or write in blood words of love. This man’s foot shifted the dyingdust, Lifted from lost, tiredtattered Hope, This man unravelled the blackness To free the barbed-bound wounded rainbow, Held it high and wonder-wide for all to see. If you would dare to wal

There are times when life seems to be nothing but a mad, unconsidered rush to get ‘things’ done. This new poem is a reflection of a longing for stillness. It is a longing for the space and time to go deeply within the forests of soul and of nature, there to find the essence of self that I know has not been lost. Will you take a moment to sit quietly with me? If you are quiet Still, there must be time (and time) – For the Old Gods: Gnarled, gentle fingers Roots dipped in molten core – Wait – bluebalancing summer skies On a rainbow of green on green. If you are quiet, You may enter in beneath the boughs On moss slippered praying feet, There, They will meet with you, Barked-feathered-bright-eyed, Quivering with Life. If you are quiet, They will let you hear A wild of wind, Winding itself around the world, Whispering the stories of stories Of things you always knew. And if you dare, And if you will, You may find the old self,

Grand Passion     I would like to be loved. I’m not asking for GRAND PASSION, Moonlit romance Or a knight in shining armour. I’d just like to hear Someone else Breathing In The Darkness                         Ruth Everson There’s nothing wrong with passion. When I ease into the wrinkled winter of my life I’ll remember the heat of a slow kiss. The smile on my face won’t be in anticipation of red jelly and custard after a supper of mince and mashed vegetables. It will be the memory of a hand trailing skin-sparks across my back. We all have a fundamental need to be loved, but passionate love seems to be transitory.   Psychologists claim that we stay in the passionate stage of love for a maximum of two years, after that reality kicks in. The radiance of new love blinds us to the things that The Beloved does that, in a lesser mortal, would drive us to distraction and muttered threats of violence. Most of us have been kicked in the hear

The Jacket by Ruth Everson Gladys Nzimande had never stolen anything in her life.   Her bunion distorted feet, aching in the smart shoes passed on to her by Mrs Taylor, began a slow shuffle dance. She raised her hands in response to Pastor Gregory’s call. Two thousand voices began to Babel around Gladys. They had been singing for an hour already and now the energy in the huge auditorium was electric with anticipation. Gladys felt a twinge of guilt. She wanted to settle down in one of the white plastic chairs with the sunflowers on the back and pray quietly to the Jesus that she knew. She wanted the familiar comfort of her white and blue church outfit. She wanted the warmth of the friends gathered in her Soweto church. But her Jesus had not helped her. This church, Joanna had told her, was a place where miracles happened every week. Gladys needed a miracle. Not for herself but for her granddaughter, Ayanda. So this Sunday she had risen quietly at 5:30 and put on her best clot