Wednesday, 20 February 2019
An Old Pair of Shoes
A Mary T. Lathrap poem published in 1895 birthed a reminder to practice empathy: Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.
Empathy I have in spades but it has to be said that patience was out of stock when the genetic mix of my creation was brewing. In short - I have none!
Which is why I've so quickly realised how far I've come with personal development since beginning this chapter as a professional Carer. Even I can appreciate how my tether has expanded and stretched over the horizon as I slowly breathe and relax through watching a dear old lady struggle with the thought process of deciding whether or not she'd like a cup of tea. Or where the gravy should be poured over her lunch. Or whether she is warm enough or needs a cardigan.
The Carer mindset has invaded my body on a cellular level to the point where I understand there is a process operating at a leisurely pace and frankly, why shouldn't it? Where has dashing about really got us?
Another lesson taken on board is appreciation for an able body. Suddenly, the lumps and bumps, cellulite, crinkles and wrinkles don't feature as star attractions when thinking about my corporeal being. It works. I can stretch, reach, bend, sit, kneel, crouch, walk, climb stairs and even break into a lumbering run of sorts if pressed. Without thinking and with minimal preparation as well. Sure, I heave myself up off the floor and often grab onto something to assist the lift but overall, my body works just fine. It's operating better today than it will be in the future and grateful for this I am, especially when watching my poor clients struggle with movements I don't even think about.
It's been good to spend time with people still possessed of sharpness of wit and their own teeth at 97 years of age. It gives me hope!
One thing I'm not enjoying, though, and can't get my head around is the misery of interrupted sleep. Nor have I developed the ability to nod off quickly. Night after night, I lie awake between calls anxiously telling my buzzing brain to switch off NOW. That is something I envy my clients - their ability to doze off at any time, then wake up and continue reading the paper, eating or carry on with whatever they were doing when the urge to snooze overcame them.
Still, all things being equal, experiencing the reality of life for people in their 8th or 9th decade is a sharp reminder that this, too, lies in our path and I honestly and truly hope that folks will show great forbearance and understanding when I dither and dother over the choice of cream or ice-cream with my fruit salad. Especially when the answer is ALWAYS fresh Jersey double thick cream!
Sunday, 10 February 2019
Karma Chameleon
We can skim along life's surface like a water boatman, without impression or impact; or plunge into it like a hippo, creating a swirl of suction and disruption that says 'I'm here, watch out!' I like to wallow and submerge, snuggling deeply into life and making it my own. It's there for seizing and shaking, carpe diem and all that, and why not?
Making the best of what's delivered to my feet is all very well but the startling ease with which I slipped into a life unimaginable just 4 months ago is unsettling, to say the least.
I find chameleons fascinating and charming and will spend time watching them change to blend into their surroundings. But for people, adapt or die is rather dramatic; few of us ever have to face that choice and while 'it is what it is, just accept it' gets me through and over many challenges, there is something, well, shallow, about changing one's own skin so to speak and slipping into another lifestyle without pause or hiccup.
Born in England and raised in South Africa, I've long considered Africa to be my heartbeat and England my cosy, snuggly slippers. Comfortable and as easy as it is to live in the UK compared to the helter-skelter of Africa, there is something about the drama, colour, noise and vibrant human warmth of the continent that has ruggedly grasped my heart and soul and won't let go.
Or so I thought. Until I arrived in England one chilly December afternoon.
Less than an hour after landing, I was repeatedly asked for help by travellers trying to navigate Thameslink rail system. During many years of travel to the Netherlands, UK, New York and even Paris, I became accustomed to being stopped and asked for directions - it rather thrilled me because I felt that I looked 'local' and saw that as rather a compliment.
Now, I question my loyalties and skin-deep partisanship. How can I consider myself a true African while loving the astonishing choices and benefits and sheer comfort of living in a First World country, with easy access to everything you need and a whole bunch of things you didn't realise were possible, let alone needing them? How the hell did I lose my Saffer accent so fast and master the public transport system so quickly? Now I raise my eyebrows and sigh impatiently at people hesitating on the London underground, or fumbling with tickets when a quick tap with a bank card will do.
Who IS this person of such shallow roots and loyalties she swirls across the ocean like a rainbow iridescent splash of oil on water?
I like living here in England.
There, I've said it. So far, two months in, I've suffered only fleeting moments of homesickness. Worse, I'm scouring travel specials - do you know how cheap it is to go to Cuba from here? Prague, Turkey, Croatia are just a stretch across the channel and the pound, at least for another month, still buys a ton of things the ZAR can't even contemplate. Plans to fly south in early Spring are changing - there is so much to see and do here and Africa isn't going away.
Truth be told, I'm somewhat shamed by my shallowness and how easily I discarded who I thought I was for creature comforts.
Making the best of what's delivered to my feet is all very well but the startling ease with which I slipped into a life unimaginable just 4 months ago is unsettling, to say the least.
I find chameleons fascinating and charming and will spend time watching them change to blend into their surroundings. But for people, adapt or die is rather dramatic; few of us ever have to face that choice and while 'it is what it is, just accept it' gets me through and over many challenges, there is something, well, shallow, about changing one's own skin so to speak and slipping into another lifestyle without pause or hiccup.
Born in England and raised in South Africa, I've long considered Africa to be my heartbeat and England my cosy, snuggly slippers. Comfortable and as easy as it is to live in the UK compared to the helter-skelter of Africa, there is something about the drama, colour, noise and vibrant human warmth of the continent that has ruggedly grasped my heart and soul and won't let go.
Or so I thought. Until I arrived in England one chilly December afternoon.
Less than an hour after landing, I was repeatedly asked for help by travellers trying to navigate Thameslink rail system. During many years of travel to the Netherlands, UK, New York and even Paris, I became accustomed to being stopped and asked for directions - it rather thrilled me because I felt that I looked 'local' and saw that as rather a compliment.
Now, I question my loyalties and skin-deep partisanship. How can I consider myself a true African while loving the astonishing choices and benefits and sheer comfort of living in a First World country, with easy access to everything you need and a whole bunch of things you didn't realise were possible, let alone needing them? How the hell did I lose my Saffer accent so fast and master the public transport system so quickly? Now I raise my eyebrows and sigh impatiently at people hesitating on the London underground, or fumbling with tickets when a quick tap with a bank card will do.
Who IS this person of such shallow roots and loyalties she swirls across the ocean like a rainbow iridescent splash of oil on water?
I like living here in England.
There, I've said it. So far, two months in, I've suffered only fleeting moments of homesickness. Worse, I'm scouring travel specials - do you know how cheap it is to go to Cuba from here? Prague, Turkey, Croatia are just a stretch across the channel and the pound, at least for another month, still buys a ton of things the ZAR can't even contemplate. Plans to fly south in early Spring are changing - there is so much to see and do here and Africa isn't going away.
Truth be told, I'm somewhat shamed by my shallowness and how easily I discarded who I thought I was for creature comforts.
Thursday, 7 February 2019
When Did We Stop Applauding?
The fog-enshrouded island of Jersey caused some personal travel mayhem this week but to be honest, this was the first time in several hundred flights that I've ever had a flight cancelled after boarding so I can't complain - it comes with the territory and I've been very lucky thus far.
It's interesting how much travel contributes to escapades and interesting anecdotes, especially when plans go awry and I'm grateful for the fairly regular font of stories to relate. Lightly Green wouldn't be much of a blog without these moments of discomfort!
Gifted with a month's work in Jersey it was with a song in my heart and a smile on my face that I carefully planned travel to and from the island to include some sightseeing days either side of my work assignment.
Every decent adventure commences with getting up before many people have gone to bed and this one was true to form; I got up just after 4am to be ready for the 5am shuttle to Gatwick. When one refers to the speed and convenience of air travel, very rarely does one take into account the extraordinary amount of time we build in to get to the airport and present ourselves through check-in and security etc which the airlines insist on and which add an additional 2 hours onto a 45-minute flight. Hey ho, part of the package, right?
Swiss watchmakers would have been proud of the smooth transfer from bed to departure gate, most of which was undertaken with my eyes closed - it was bloody early in the morning! Neatly deposited in my window seat, with an empty one alongside, life was perfectly on track.
Not.
At 7am, when we should have been pushing back from the gate, the captain made the first of many announcements in his melodious Irish voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for the late departure but fog in Jersey is preventing flights from landing. I'm going to wait for an hour and see if things improve as I'd like to give it a shot and get you there."
Fair enough, I have a whole 24 hours before signing on at work. What's an hour between friends?
At 8.30, our captain appeared in the cabin and updated us. The fog was getting worse, the weather prediction not good but a British Airways flight had just taken off and our clever (and delightful to both look at and listen to) captain was going to wait and see if the BA flight managed to land and if so, would take a crack at it himself. He had secured a takeoff slot for 9am should things go our way.
When Captain Cute returned at 10 to say we were out of luck, the BA flight was still circling Jersey Airport and our flight officially cancelled it wasn't really surprising, I'd been following the action on Live Flight Tracker. My work colleague was on the BA flight and I was interested in seeing whether she got there first!
No, she didn't. Two hours later, both of us back in the Gatwick terminal and booked on the evening flights, we met up and calmly chuckled about it all over coffee before deciding this called for gin and tonics! The day sped past and at 5pm we headed off back to bag drop and our respective boarding gates, filling the WhatsApp waves with shared news about how far down the line we were getting - through the gate. On board. Seat belts. Could we? Are we? Will we?
The captain on my new flight came through into the cabin and filled us in. Fog was still hogging the runway in Jersey and while he was going to give it a go and had loaded extra fuel, it wasn't looking very good but we were going anyway.
Less than 45 minutes later the lights of Jersey airport glimmered below, along with strands of fog. 'Bang'! We were down, albeit a bit skew and skittering along from side to side down the runway. A hard landing which the captain had managed under difficult circumstances, bless him for getting us to our destination.
A desultory few hands tried to clap then petered out in embarrassment. Ah, I remember years ago when EVERY landing received a good round of applause from admiring and appreciative passengers. When did we become so blase about the miracle of heaving tonnes of people and baggage across land and water that we decided landing this juggernaut, with us aboard, wasn't worth the energy of a polite clap?
Shame on us for rewarding golfers, tennis players and the cricket team with a smattering of enthusiastic applause when they connect with a ball, yet two pilots, using their skills and immense coolness under appalling weather conditions, deliver us safely to our destination without any acknowledgement of appreciation from the people who had put their lives into the care of the pilots.
As for me, minus several critical hours of sleep and the treasured sightseeing day, it's all part and parcel of accepting the rough with the smooth and I got a fair bit of mileage out of "I've shown my passport twice and didn't get further than gate 55E!" uttered to Easyjet staff and fellow passengers in the lengthy queue. Making people chuckle at my weary riposte gave me a much-needed burst of energy too.
It's interesting how much travel contributes to escapades and interesting anecdotes, especially when plans go awry and I'm grateful for the fairly regular font of stories to relate. Lightly Green wouldn't be much of a blog without these moments of discomfort!
Gifted with a month's work in Jersey it was with a song in my heart and a smile on my face that I carefully planned travel to and from the island to include some sightseeing days either side of my work assignment.
Every decent adventure commences with getting up before many people have gone to bed and this one was true to form; I got up just after 4am to be ready for the 5am shuttle to Gatwick. When one refers to the speed and convenience of air travel, very rarely does one take into account the extraordinary amount of time we build in to get to the airport and present ourselves through check-in and security etc which the airlines insist on and which add an additional 2 hours onto a 45-minute flight. Hey ho, part of the package, right?
Swiss watchmakers would have been proud of the smooth transfer from bed to departure gate, most of which was undertaken with my eyes closed - it was bloody early in the morning! Neatly deposited in my window seat, with an empty one alongside, life was perfectly on track.
Not.
At 7am, when we should have been pushing back from the gate, the captain made the first of many announcements in his melodious Irish voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for the late departure but fog in Jersey is preventing flights from landing. I'm going to wait for an hour and see if things improve as I'd like to give it a shot and get you there."
Fair enough, I have a whole 24 hours before signing on at work. What's an hour between friends?
At 8.30, our captain appeared in the cabin and updated us. The fog was getting worse, the weather prediction not good but a British Airways flight had just taken off and our clever (and delightful to both look at and listen to) captain was going to wait and see if the BA flight managed to land and if so, would take a crack at it himself. He had secured a takeoff slot for 9am should things go our way.
 |
| Gatwick at 7h10 |
No, she didn't. Two hours later, both of us back in the Gatwick terminal and booked on the evening flights, we met up and calmly chuckled about it all over coffee before deciding this called for gin and tonics! The day sped past and at 5pm we headed off back to bag drop and our respective boarding gates, filling the WhatsApp waves with shared news about how far down the line we were getting - through the gate. On board. Seat belts. Could we? Are we? Will we?
The captain on my new flight came through into the cabin and filled us in. Fog was still hogging the runway in Jersey and while he was going to give it a go and had loaded extra fuel, it wasn't looking very good but we were going anyway.
Less than 45 minutes later the lights of Jersey airport glimmered below, along with strands of fog. 'Bang'! We were down, albeit a bit skew and skittering along from side to side down the runway. A hard landing which the captain had managed under difficult circumstances, bless him for getting us to our destination.
A desultory few hands tried to clap then petered out in embarrassment. Ah, I remember years ago when EVERY landing received a good round of applause from admiring and appreciative passengers. When did we become so blase about the miracle of heaving tonnes of people and baggage across land and water that we decided landing this juggernaut, with us aboard, wasn't worth the energy of a polite clap?
Shame on us for rewarding golfers, tennis players and the cricket team with a smattering of enthusiastic applause when they connect with a ball, yet two pilots, using their skills and immense coolness under appalling weather conditions, deliver us safely to our destination without any acknowledgement of appreciation from the people who had put their lives into the care of the pilots.
As for me, minus several critical hours of sleep and the treasured sightseeing day, it's all part and parcel of accepting the rough with the smooth and I got a fair bit of mileage out of "I've shown my passport twice and didn't get further than gate 55E!" uttered to Easyjet staff and fellow passengers in the lengthy queue. Making people chuckle at my weary riposte gave me a much-needed burst of energy too.
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