Katherine Graham's Blog, page 2

Lockdown Lament

My husband peered for a closer look at my phone. “You’re kidding, right?” But no, what he saw was real. There was a picture of a Facebook friend, posing in a red ballgown with her wheelie bin. She was dressing up for rubbish day.

As the COVID-19 pandemic rages around the world, the resulting lockdown in South Africa is making us all do things a little differently. “The new normal” is what it’s been dubbed as. Like your two-year-old daughter screaming in the background during a work conference call. There are days when I think it’s bringing out the worst in us. While teaching some of my creative writing pupils online, I asked them how they were coping. Stephen said matter-of-factly, “We are all going crazy slowly.” With a special emphasis on the word “slowly”. I thought that pretty much summed it up.

The day I hit the wall – along with all three of my kids – was probably the worst. Three weeks into the lockdown, we had finally reached our limit. And the fact that our confinement was being extended by another two weeks didn’t help – we all wanted so badly to escape. The Groundhog Day effect was getting to us. Only my husband managed to avert the crisis, but I think it left me realising I needed to realign my life if I was going to survive not weeks – but months – of lockdown.

My friend Kelly told me how her mother comes up with a list at the beginning of each day. Then she gets to the end of her day and it feels as if she’s gone backwards. I can relate. Sometimes it takes me the whole day to hang up a load of laundry. I keep trying to do it and the more I try, the longer it takes. The lethargy is draining. You just want to do something – anything! – to feel productive. Something to take up the hours and hours of time. Our neighbour took the whole afternoon making fifty pieces of ravioli for her family. I turn to baking for therapy – and my family gains the rewards (and extra calories).

My daughter used to ask me every day, “When are we going to school?” My heart would break seeing her expectant, upturned face. Then I had to break the news to her, “Not today, sweetie.” No school, no granny, no church. Not for a while, anyway. Now she’s so used to it, she doesn’t ask me anymore.

At the start of the lockdown, I made it my goal to be thankful. “Thank God for something every day as you wake up,” another friend, Jutta, advised. So I do. Small things, big things. I thank him for a special moment I shared with one of my children or the roses flowering in our garden. Or the fact that we have an income and don’t have to worry about food. I thank him most of all that I am not alone. As crazy as living with a family of five is in a semi-detached house, I would not want to be on my own at a time like this.

Much of this season of lockdown has been spent re-evaluating my life. Sometimes I’ve had to confront painful patterns that I see in me that I know only God can change. Like wanting to always be perfect, the performance trap. I wonder how much of my life I’ve been living to please others instead of dwelling in God’s love and acceptance. A scripture that has sustained me is from Isaiah: “In repentance and rest is your salvation. In quietness and trust is your strength.”

My prayer is that we emerge from this lockdown – and already we are emerging, thanks to restrictions having eased under Level Four – having changed. The protagonist of every story embarks on a quest to get what he wants, pays a price to get it and then returns to his original starting point having changed. Just as the drought two years ago in the Western Cape changed us, making us save water instead of wasting it,  I hope this lockdown makes us cut out everything in our lives that is empty and hollow.

I hope that we will get off the treadmill of work, eat, sleep and find the things that really make us come alive. That we would ask ourselves honestly who or what are we living for – and make the necessary adjustments to enable us to live more fully and meaningfully. And like a lot of other Capetonians, I’m looking forward to walking on the beach again.

Contemplations on my own mortality

“We’ll be back at lunchtime,” I confidently told Leekwin, the goat herder who opened the gate for us as we left the farm we were staying in Kamieskroon.

I mean, how far could it be from Kamieskroon to Stofvlei, the farm of my great-grandparents in Boesmanland? The map Oom Corneels, the 90-year-old farmer gave us yesterday, showed how close together everything was. We just had to head up to Garies (pronounced with a normal “g”, not a rolling one) and then down to Kliprand before turning left to join the road heading up to Poffadder. It was 9.30am. There was no need for sandwiches or a flask of tea, as my husband had suggested. We’d be back by 12.30pm, I was sure of it.

Writing about the farm my two aunts grew up on had long been a dream of mine. But I realised as I began to write that I lacked authority about the nature of the landscape. Geography – where a book is situated – informs so much about the story. I couldn’t just ignore the fact that I’d never been to Boesmanland. I had to get there. So we left our three children behind with understanding grandparents and headed north on the N7, where we overnighted on a sheep farm in Kamieskroon.

The next day, our real adventure began. Leliefontein, the first stop on our journey, was fairly uneventful. We stopped to ask a local for directions (not the man who “het met twee spore getrap” – blindly drunk outside the liquor store). Our next stop was Paulshoek, a small hamlet where we passed another store and then proceeded to get truly lost. There were lots of gates that needed to be opened and shut. And there was nobody about, despite us seeing signs of human and animal habitation. At one seemingly uninhabited farm, the sound of the windmill going clack, clack, clack was the only sound to break the silence.

The landscape was littered with large boulders. Gavin nicknamed it Rockville. It looked like a pair of giants had had a contest to see how many rocks they could throw at each other. Eventually the dirt road lead to another unoccupied farmstead, so we turned around and retraced our footsteps. It was now 1pm – past lunchtime, and we were no closer to our destination.

Now my thoughts – a few hours earlier so cheerful – took a more morbid turn. If we punctured our wheel or broke down on the side of the road, what would we do? There was no cellphone reception out here. Neither did there appear to be anyone around. (We had knocked on farm labourers’ doors and nobody was at home.) Our food (a few crackers and biscuits) and water (two small bottles) was not likely to last that long. It would be days before anybody found us. We had only seen one other car in the three hours that we’d been driving.

At the store in Paulshoek, we stopped for directions. Two men jostled for the privilege. Eventually I was told by the winning man who pushed his rival aside how to get back on the right road: “Left at the first T-junction, then right at the next.” When I repeated his instructions, he made up a little dance, pumping his fists up and down in the air like pistons: “Left, right, left, right, left, right.”

He inquired for me at the shop about water. The blue-eyed woman behind the counter said they didn’t sell any (or any healthy food either), but she kindly gave us a bottle of 2-litre Coke which was filled with fridge water. Drinking its icy contents was delicious. We handed our friendly guide a R10 tip and set off again.

Now we were on the right road. We headed towards Kliprand and then turned left onto the R358 to Pofadder. According to Gavin’s calculations, Stofvlei was meant to be on the side of this road – either to the left or right, we weren’t sure. There were not many signs to mark the way. We passed a horrible sight – dead animal skins pinned up onto a barbed wire fence. We stopped to look. One of the pelts had “rooikat” scrawled on it. Who would do such a barbaric thing? But then again, in a place like this, you probably couldn’t afford to not like such people. They might be the only ones around to save you, I thought.

We kept going. The landscape was uniform and flat. There were no trees or koppies – just scraggly bushes, tiny succulents and grass that crunched beneath your feet. Big rain clouds stacked up in the sky. In fact, the sky dominated the landscape almost in an oppressive way. The sky occupied about 90% of your vision, the land a mere 10%. Things felt weirdly stretched out and pushed down by the weight of the sky.

Eventually we stopped at a farm called Spioenkop, named after the notable Boer victory against the English. There was nobody there – the farm was completely deserted. Inside the storeroom was an odd assortment of farm equipment. The house next door was painted an upbeat orange – perhaps before the owners had realised how tough life out here was. But eventually the dreariness of the place must have got the better of them. The veld in front was littered with bones – I couldn’t help thinking of the biblical Valley of Dry Bones – springbok and dead sheep, and behind the house a tortoise who probably died of thirst.

By now we were close to giving up. Our petrol tank gauge was pointing towards empty. I had such an overwhelming urge to get out of there – fast! But Gavin urged me to try the farm we’d seen earlier: Bovenstevlei, whose sign declared: “Bovenstevlei is not for sussies.” Here at last were signs of life – geese and dogs and sheep and farm labourers bustling about. It was a welcome sight after staring for so long at nothing.

Willem Koopman the farmer complained that it had been “bitterdroog” – bitterly dry – even though it was their wet season. He said some of his sheep had died and lay buried in a shallow pit. He didn’t say much – he didn’t need to. His lined, pained face said it all. It was a hard life out here. I admired him that he kept going. He drew us a map – he knew all the farmers in the area. He said my Oupa-grootjie’s farm had been known for its “winkel” (shop). It must have been a hive of activity in the 1930s and 40s. I asked him about the rooikatte. “Ons jaag hulle (We hunt them),” he responded. And yes – it was he who had pinned their skins up on the barbed wire fence.

In fact, that was where we now needed to turn right. About 20km down this road, we stopped. We saw the small cement-brick house where my Ouma and Oupa once lived (he owned the winkel) together with my aunts. The house was now being used to store the feed for the sheep. We roamed the rooms. I tried to picture what had gone on in these rooms. The floor plan was slightly different from the way my aunt had described it. Was this really Stofvlei?

A few metres behind this house we found the homestead where my Ouma- and Oupagrootjie had lived. It had double walls – stone on the outside and clay bricks on the inside. Gavin guessed the farm school was the outer room that looked like it had been added on later. The inside/outside stove was clearly visible – my other aunt had mentioned it – and we discovered an AGA-type stove in the kitchen alongside it, covered in crumbling clay bricks.

It was strange walking through the ruins of the house – the roof was completely missing – and imagining what each room was used for. It must have been quite a grand and imposing house in its time. I thought of all the children from the outlying farms who stayed here during term time so that they could go to school. Ouma-grootjie must have been kept busy in the kitchen with the servants preparing meals for them every day.

I confess it was only when we went to the graveyard that I finally believed that this was Stofvlei. Up till then I’d had my doubts. But when I saw the two white headstones with Adam Johannes Wahl and Gerrida Wahl née Kotze, there could be no disputing it. This is where they had lived from just after the end of the Anglo-Boer War until they died in the 1950s.

We stood in silence watching the sun sinking over the western horizon. I was suddenly overcome with emotion. I thought of all the times I’d complained and cried out to God, saying my life was too difficult. Yet I had no idea what hardship was, how inexpressibly tough it must have been for Johnny and Gerrida Wahl. They had built the farmhouse from old stones and clay they’d found in the area. They had carved out an existence in such a hostile environment. This place that I couldn’t bear being in for more than a few hours, this place they had called home for 50 years. They had not only survived, but thrived, building a farm school and establishing a shop that serviced farmers for miles around.

For a few minutes I felt the force of my Oupa and Oumagrootjie’s determination and courage. I, the city slicker who couldn’t wait to rush back to civilisation, felt humbled by it. I was reminded of God’s promise to Moses when he encountered the burning bush: “I am the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob”, a multi-generational God. And of God’s promise to Joshua: “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you.”

I’d like to think something of their stubborn resilience lives on in me. And I will never forget Boesmanland, although I’m in no hurry to go back.

Grief and Grace

“Would you like to borrow this?” My daughter’s preschool teacher Sue held out a book to me. It was small, about the size of the SA constitution (in the early democracy days when you could pick up a copy for free from the Post Office).

I glanced at the cover. Grief and Grace, read the title. There was a picture of a Knysna Loerie. I saw the author’s name, Tim Tucker. Sue explained that Tim, of the Message Trust SA, lost his wife unexpectedly in 2016, leaving him alone with three children.

“Sure,” I said. The circumstances of Tim’s loss and mine were different (see my previous blog post), but I thought it couldn’t hurt to read someone else’s experience of grief. And the subtitle appealed to me, too: “Facing the future I didn’t choose.” That spoke to my situation as well.

There were so many things that I could relate to. Tim wrote about how time slowed down in the aftermath of his wife Laura’s death. I could relate. I felt weighed down. Even simple things like taking a shower or getting dressed were so hard for me in the early days after losing my younger sister.

Tim also wrote about a “sixth sense” that he felt. This was the grief that he carried, which could turn a pleasant trip to the beach into a nightmare because it would remind him of Laura. For me, it’s like a ghost that follows me around. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable and at other times it overwhelms you, flooding you with memories, pain and regrets.

Kelly Sauer, flickr.com

But what I liked most about Tim’s book is that he keeps pointing to grace. While the journey through the Valley of the Shadow of Death is real, I don’t want to miss whatever flashes of joy, hope or grace there are along the way. Tim writes about the many agents that God used in his life to remind him of his love – family, friends, books, songs, hugs. I cried frequently when I saw a look of compassion on someone’s face when I told them what I was going through. That feeling of empathy was so deeply felt and appreciated, especially when words fail.

What I’m learning, and what Tim’s book has reminded me, is that grief is a journey and it can’t be rushed. Some tell you it will take a year to get over someone’s loss. They say birthdays, Christmas and family celebrations are the hardest things to cope with. That is when your “sixth sense” or the ghost of past memories will be strongest.

I’m not sure how or when this journey will end. My friend Linda told me recently, “You’ll get through this, but you won’t get over this.” And I think that’s true. Until then, I’ll keep reminding myself to be kind and gentle to myself – and accept grace in whatever form it may come.

Letter to Livi

It has been almost one month since you chose to end your life. Knowing that this is the way you wanted your story to end has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to accept in my life.

The news shattered us, your family. None of us saw it coming. If anything, we thought you were in a good space. We were enjoying the quieter, gentler, kinder side of you. It was easier to handle than the argumentative, volatile side that made me nervous of being around you for a long time. And yet the fire inside you was dying. We should have seen that as a warning sign, but we didn’t.

I have found this so hard. There are a thousand unanswered questions in my mind. The “What if’s…” that plagued me when I first heard the news, I’m now starting to ignore. It won’t change the fact that you’re gone. And I’m kidding myself if I think that if I – or anyone else – had done anything different, it would have changed your mind. It wouldn’t have. You had already made your decision.

Livi – I will always remember the delicious cuddles I had with your chubby, two-year-old self when I welcomed you into my bed early in the mornings. I will remember your cute underbite, your feisty determination not to listen to Granny and Grandpa when they came to look after you while Mom and Dad were away. You wanted to wear your own choice of clothes and decided it would be far better to go with Ali to university and play Barbie dolls while she attended lectures than listen to your domineering grandpa.

I remember your love for horses and your best friend Sarah who accompanied you on many excursions to Stoneyhurst. Your speech was so similar it was difficult to tell you apart. You were a good friend.

At your memorial service it was lovely to see how many friendships you’d cultivated over the years how many lives you’d touched. I enjoyed chatting to Adam, Leone and Kim and filling in the missing pieces of your story. The sunflowers (your favourite flower) and sunlight cheered a day that was otherwise clouded by your absence. It was the most surreal experience – I kept seeing you out of the corner of my eye and wondered when you would walk outside and join us.

Looking back, there were many things you struggled with that I was blind to. Your over-confidence masked your insecurity and fear of failure. We marvelled at your bravado when you boasted about what car you would drive (a Toyota Yaris) or what kind of clothes your kids would wear (Gap). As you grew older, we became more aware of your mental disorder and how it limited you, but you refused to give up. Despite many setbacks, you always picked yourself up and looked for work, trying your best to live a productive life. I often think how much I inadvertently judged you for not measuring up to my own standards, when really I should have admired you for your determination and courage.

I’m sorry, dear sis. I’m sorry for so much. How you must have suffered before you made this decision, this point of no return. I would love to have one last conversation with you to tell you how much I love you and how much your life has meant to me, the good and the bad.

But I do have this comfort. I know I will see you again. God has given me the reassurance that you are with Him and that you are finally unfettered and free. I’m glad I prayed with you as you surrendered your heart to Him.

I have your journal now in my bedside drawer which begins with the verse, “It is by grace you have been saved through faith.” And I know it’s grace that will get me through this journey as I learn to accept that you’re gone.

There will always be an empty seat now at family gatherings, the seat that should have been occupied by you. Your laughter and presence will be gone. The boys will miss the Kinder Joy eggs you bought them. Hope will miss her hugs from you, the aunty she never got to know. And I will miss you, Livi, the younger sister I loved and was wary of. Fly free, little bird – at last released.

Adoption Blues

I had it with my two biological boys, so I don’t know why I didn’t expect it with my fostering-to-adopt daughter. Yes, I’m talking about baby blues or post-partum depression, which I didn’t fully wrap my head around until about six months after Son No 2 arrived. I just lived with the symptoms, trudging on (I have a strong line of dogged forefathers and -mothers). And then one day I woke up and realised I wasn’t okay. That I’d been through a lot and I needed help. And that’s the first time I reached out for counselling.

A lot came out of counselling – mostly just understanding who I am and the unique temperament that God’s given me. I realised that most days I’m just below the baseline of a normal mood, a kind of Eeyore with just enough Winnie the Pooh in me to keep me from plunging the depths of despair. But I suppose having a baby was enough of a shock to wrench Winnie out of me and off he went floating up, up and away on the end of a balloon while I was left with the sleepless nights, pooey nappies and crying baby. Double bother.

Mercifully, the depression did lift – sans drugs – but it made me aware of my own sensitive nature, something else that came out of counselling. I am what is known as a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) – don’t worry, I hadn’t heard of it either until I was told I was one. HSPs take knocks in life rather hard and have to control their sensory environment so they don’t get overstimulated. Boring and routine are good things for HSPs, as long as they also get the right dose of excitement now and again.

Another thing about me which I learnt after my daughter Hope came is how hard I am on myself. I’d booked myself another session with a different counsellor this time and after listening to me for a while, she asked me a question which pierced me to the core: “Are you under the law or under grace?” As a Christian, I knew what the right answer was. Grace, sure. We’re saved by grace. But if I was honest with myself, I knew I was living according to man-made standards. I was living according to the law.

And that’s part of the reason why I was feeling down. That – and as an adoption counsellor pointed out to me later – I was grieving. That may sound strange. Why am I grieving? I wasn’t forced to give my child up for adoption. I haven’t lost my birth mother. Yet I am part of this adoption triangle therapists refer to – I am the mother grieving the biological daughter she never had.

I cannot tell you how deeply ingrained this was in me. I so longed for a little girl who looked like me. In my mind she had blonde hair and blue eyes. Or emerald eyes and long red hair. I had played with dolls as a child and so from a young age I’d built up a picture in my mind of who my daughter was and what she would look like. And let me tell you she didn’t have brown skin, curly hair and coffee-dark eyes.

That was the problem. I was grieving so badly (though I didn’t know it) and I couldn’t click with this baby that had come to live with us. I wanted so much for her to fill the void in my heart, the daughter pocket that had been reserved for her, but at the same time I was subconsciously rejecting her because she didn’t match my expectations. And then I felt so much shame for feeling this and for not loving her more that I was an emotional wreck, always close to breaking point. I am afraid my family felt the brunt of my anger.

Again, I hid it well to the outside world. Whenever I sense something in me that doesn’t fit in with what’s expected of me, I conceal it. But those closest to me knew I was struggling. I remember my 86-year-old aunt looking closely at me and saying, “Are you okay? There’s something not quite right.” But I didn’t have the courage to tell her. I had to put on a brave face that everything was okay, the fostering-to-adopt journey was on track.

I am so glad a friend lent me a book, Wait No More: One Family’s Amazing Adoption Journey by Kelly Rosati. In it she shares how difficult it was connecting emotionally with their third adopted child, a boy. She described it as having a stranger in their midst. And she wrote about how hard it was talking about the slow attachment and how much shame she and her husband felt. That was a huge weight off my shoulders, knowing that other families also struggle, that I wasn’t alone. Perhaps it was what prompted me to seek out a counsellor – that and my husband’s constant encouragement to find help.

As I sat with the adoption counsellor and stroked her dog – part of the therapy package – I was finally given permission to grieve the little girl I lost. I wept for the little girl with the long red hair that I would have brushed and plaited. That little girl was so real to me for so many years. But she is gone now and I must accept that. There will be no more babies coming out of my womb. That season is gone. I cannot explain why God didn’t allow me to fall pregnant a third time. I must just cry my tears for her and grieve and mourn.

But as I let go – and it is a circular process, this grieving; you don’t just do the denial-anger-bargaining-accepting and have done with it – I am finding there is more love there. More love freed up to love the little girl I do have, the little girl with the bright eyes and the impish smile, the little girl who loves to dance and is the life of the party, the little girl who mimics our speech and sings songs to us – this little girl called Hope I am loving more and more each day. And that’s something to be thankful for.

Doing the BookDash

When I heard I’d been selected for this year’s BookDash in Stellenbosch, I was elated. BookDash, in case you don’t know, is an event where a bunch of creatives are locked in a room for 12 years – yes, 12 hours – to come up with free books for kids who can’t afford them. Isn’t that a great idea?

Well, I thought so when I applied for BookDash, but as the day drew nearer, I felt more and more apprehensive. I was giving up my whole Saturday with a bunch of people I barely knew. And I’d done most of the work up front (the words for the book had already been submitted), so what was I going to do on the day?

Our team: Nicola Rijsdijk, me, Sarah Slater and Nicola Smith

Thankfully, my editor friend Nicola Rijsdijk reminded me how much fun BookDashes are. The creativity, the vibe, the free-flowing yummy food and drinks. Mary-Anne Hampton, an illustrator to whom I gave a lift, reassured me too. “Oh, writers have it easy,” she said. “We illustrators are the ones who do the hard work. All you have to do is swan around and eat croissants.”

Oh, I thought. Is that all? I can do that. But I’d brought my laptop with me, so I decided to make the most of the opportunity and blog about it all the same. (By the way, I did not just eat and network. I did do some work – a little.)

We started off by meeting all the other writers and editors and being briefed by Arthur Attwell, the founder of BookDash. He gave us some pointers about how to let your story go and allow the illustrator to take the lead. A few hours later we gathered to hear each others’ stories. I loved how each story was so unique and so specifically crafted to delight toddlers. (This particular BookDash was aimed at 0- to 2-year-olds.)

The day’s not done yet. My hard-working illustrator (Nicola Smith) and industrious designer Sarah Slater are still putting the finishing touches to the illustrations, but my work is basically over. As I write, the wine is being served and the festive feeling is building. The time went a lot quicker than I thought it would.

Nicola Rijsdijk was right – it was fun. I’m glad I did it. And I hope all those who read the books – kids and adults alike – enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed creating them.

Happiness begins today

This application process for Son Number 1’s Irish passport, I assured myself, was going to be a doddle. For one thing, most of it was done online. I took the photo of my son myself on my smart phone. I uploaded it online, I paid online. The only non-digital thing I needed to do was get the school principal to sign a document. Sounds pretty straightforward, right?

But once again a spanner appeared in the works. (The last time I went through the passport application process for Son No 2 I ended up posting the documents to the Angolan Embassy in Pretoria instead of the Irish Embassy. The howl that came out of me when I realised what I’d done was unearthly.) The principal signed the document three times and I thought it was in the bag. And then…

While trying to follow the thread of hubby’s conversation after supper, kids safely asleep, I began signing the document. And then I signed it twice – where I was meant to sign as Guardian 1 and where he was meant to sign as Guardian 2. Aargh! Another howl of dismay. Much muttering and uttering and battling with despair.

Okay, okay – I consoled myself. All is not lost. I’d reprint the document and get the principal to sign it again. I’d populate all the fields myself so he wouldn’t have to do it himself (hubby’s clever suggestion). Then the principal fell ill and couldn’t sign the document. And because I’d populated all the fields (why did I listen to my husband?), the vice-principal couldn’t sign the document. So now I’m stuck. I guess I’ll have to reprint the document and start all over again.

I’m the kind of person who likes things to be finished quickly and neatly. These unfinished projects are lessons – painful lessons – for me. Firstly, I’m realising more and more that I cannot accomplish anything without God’s grace. I’m a fool if I think I can do it on my own – the truth is, I can’t. I rely soley on His grace which sustains me and is sufficient for me. If I get anything right, it’s because of His grace. And if I get it wrong, it’s okay because of His grace.

And the second lesson I’m learning is that life is full of unfinished projects and loops that aren’t closed. Cognitive closure is wonderful, but I can’t keep waiting for things to be finalised before I start feeling happy – whether it’s a book that needs to be finished, a document that needs to be signed or an adoption process that needs to be formalised. Life is messy and many things will remain incomplete for some time – days, weeks, months or years. But that’s okay because I am complete. I am whole in Him.

And I’m not going to put off happiness till another day when everything has worked out and life is sunnyside up. Frustrations, delays, challenges, step aside, please. Happiness will start today.

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