Granny-dilla’s Diary

It’s December 27th, 2011. The frenetic rush of Christmas is over, New year’s eve looms on the horizon. There are ships on the horizon at the edge of my balcony in Sea Point – oil rigs, container ships and even the famous “World ship” that carries rich people around their world at their leisure with their annual levy of a million Dollars per apartment. It has chosen Cape Town as it’s docking site. I see their lights reflected on the sea at nights, flickering at the stars above them. There’s a baby on the horizon as well. She will be born January 4, 5 or 6th. I will track my perception of this impending horizon under the title: Grannydilla’s Diary.
My grandson Kieron named me “Grannydilla” after his favorite fruit, the passion fruit, otherwise named granadilla. It’s sweety-sour with a healthy dose of tart. A very unaristocratic fruit, that creeps up walls and gives of itself freely when it has the right environment – sun, water and shelter from the wind. The passion part comes once you have tasted one on a hot summer’s day…mmm.

Cape Christmas, Hug of Channukah, Seaside of Solstice

There’s a festive air here in the mother city, as she is wont to be called. The Jo’burgers have driven down the tip of their country in droves – you can see them a mile away, driving slowly, watching the waves, choking up the windy roads of Cape Town. Empty parking spots have become hen’s teeth. Droopy, sweating Santas ring bells at the malls and beside the road sit a few dusty Pine treelets, begging to be bought. The venue for Christmas lunch must be beachside or if not, then definitely BarBQ. Channuka candles light up late, since sunset takes it’s time.

Spiritual teachers come in many forms

I have been thinking that it takes acute discernment to be alert to read the signs that life  gives  in obtuse clues and hints. Spiritual teachers come in many forms. I often think of Rumi and how his great teacher Shams arrived as a filthy beggar in the marketplace. He recognized his greatness instantly and left his privileged life, his position as a wealthy university professor, his marriage  and famiy, to follow his great teacher  and through that courageous event, we have the eternal poetry of Rumi.

In the past weeks I have had two interactions that have left me thinking about this: both came as a person asking me for help. Just in a moment when my thoughts and prayers were directed towards an invisible God, asking for help. I’ll begin with an event that happened last night as I was leaving the hospital.