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March 27, 2008

Posted by trevor at 11:22 AM | Comments (0)

March 26, 2008

I first saw the Nee Nee Man when I was a young boy in Johannesburg, South Africa.

He was a gray-haired old African man who carried a tattered, brown leather suitcase and wore a red fez on his head.

The Nee Nee Man walked the streets of Johannesburg spreading what he called “God’s Joy”. Even though his shoes were worn totally through, his toothless mouth always carried a genuine, infectious grin. He handed out incense to people who stopped to hear him sing his Nee Nee song.

He always chanted the same song. “Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.” He did this over and over again as he walked. That’s why everybody called him the Nee Nee Man.

We would get so excited when we saw him walking down our street. Kids in the neighborhood would run out of their houses when they heard him singing. He was funny and magical and seemed so joyous.

He made us all feel good when we saw him.

He walked through a very happy time in my childhood.

The Nee Nee Man walked hundreds of miles every week spreading the word and handing out incense.

As a kid, I saw him all over town as I peered over the edge of the window in the back seat of my father’s car.

From Yeoville to Sandton, Parktown to Glendower, this materially poor, but spiritually rich man, walked.
He walked for years and years. I did not see him for a while during my early high school days, but he appeared again when I was in my final year of school.

He came into the sandwich shop where I was working during a school vacation.

I was so happy to see the smiling, toothless old man with his red fez.

“It’s the Nee Nee Man,” I said, happily welcoming him into the store.

“What can I get you?” I asked, smiling at the man who brought my own happy youth back to visit me through his eyes.

“I’ll just have some water,” he said. “I have no money for food.”

I gave the Nee Nee Man some water and a sandwich on the house.

He appeared again the next day.

And the day after.

I felt compelled to give him a free sandwich each time I saw him.

“Thank you,” said the Nee Nee Man. “I will pay you back one day.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You made me smile so much when I was a kid. That’s more than enough payment.”

This happened every day for about three weeks. (I was finally fired for giving away the profits, not only to the Nee Nee Man, but anyone else who looked like they couldn’t afford to pay for food.)

One day, during my last week of work, the owner of the deli asked me to drop off the day’s takings at the bank on my lunch break.

I took the bank bag and was walking down Rissik Street when I noticed four shady-looking characters loitering on the sidewalk in front of me.

Something was no quite right, so I crossed the street.

So did the group of men.

Then they disappeared.

And appeared again from an alley in front of me.

They sauntered along very slowly allowing me to catch up to them.

By now I knew that they were up to something.

My heart began beating very quickly and I got scared. They knew it. I could sense that recognition in their eyes.

It was too late to run. I braced myself for a confrontation when suddenly, the Nee Nee Man appeared out of nowhere.

He strode directly toward the group of slouching men.

They quickly stopped in their tracks trying to hide behind one another.

The Nee Nee Man pointed his finger and barked at them in Zulu.

The men’s eyes grew big.

They cowered at his voice, then quickly broke up and dispersed in different directions.

The Nee Nee man smiled at me.

“Don’t worry. They won’t bother you again,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, and walked off singing, “Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.”

Posted by trevor at 01:28 PM | Comments (1)

March 25, 2008

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March 24, 2008

Trusting the Universe

I was painting a watercolor picture the other day. It wasn’t turning out how I had planned though. My picture seemed…too forced or something. Uncomfortable. Contrived. I did not like what I was doing at all.

I wasn’t happy with the color or the shape of what I was trying to paint.

I loaded up my brush with some fresh paint and tested a new color on a scrap piece of paper that was sitting alongside my painting.

I liked the rich burgundy color I had mixed on the scrap paper.

I smiled to myself. My test blob looked somewhat like a pear. I did another sample blob on the scrap paper alongside the first. It too looked strangely like a pear. Out of curiosity I did a third blob on the scrap paper.

There it was again! A third pear to add to the first pair.

I ignored my original painting (which I decided I was going to discard), dabbed my brush into some yellow paint and touched each wet pear gently. The paint bled down the side of each pear. Damn. I was liking my pears. I closed my eyes and cringed because bleeding is so hard to control when watercolor painting.

I opened my eyes expecting to see a muddy blob but was overjoyed to see what the paint had actually done during my absence. Lo and behold, while my eyes were closed, the bleeding yellow paint had turned into a warm orange glow on the side of each pear. It did it all by itself. Without my help!

The orange looked like the reflection of a warm fire in the hearth.

Finally I dragged a little white paint over the belly of each pear as a highlight.

The ‘Three Pear’ accident turned out way better than the original painting I had planned, sketched, labored-over and contemplated for weeks.

I really like my Three Pear painting.

It’s amazing how wonderfully things can turn out if you open yourself up, have a little faith, trust your instincts and let the universe do its work.

Posted by trevor at 04:41 PM | Comments (1)

March 19, 2008

Posted by trevor at 02:09 PM | Comments (2)

It was raining today.

I was drinking a cup of tea and watching the raindrops running down my window when I noticed a spider climbing up the glass.

The spider was about to reach the middle section of the window when a drop of water ran down the pane, scooped up the spider and carried it all the way down to the bottom.

At the bottom the spider pulled itself out of the water and slowly started to climb up again.

Before it was even halfway up, another tiny rivulet of water enveloped the spider and carried it back to the bottom.

Again, the spider pulled itself out of the water and began the long slippery climb back up.

This time the spider made it, but success was short-lived, and it was pulled down to the bottom again.

The spider tried to reach the middle section of the window three more times but was unsuccessful.

I gave up on the spider and started sketching in my journal.

After a few minutes I looked up just in time to see the spider finally reached the center frame of the window without being washed away.

The spider didn’t even look back down to see how far it had come.

It didn’t beat its chest and gloat.

It didn’t high-five any other spiders.

It didn’t write a book about its traumatic journey.

It didn’t call Oprah-spider.

No. This little arachnid simply shook off the excess micro-drops of water on its tiny legs and began to climb to the top of the window.

Posted by trevor at 10:25 AM | Comments (0)

March 17, 2008

Tea and Sympathy

A few years ago I met an incredible Zulu woman in Kwazulu-Natal, South Africa.

Unfortunately I never learned her name.

She works at the hotel where I was staying.

One afternoon I was sitting under a thatch awning on the hotel patio drinking a cup of tea and watching the dull, grey sea.

She was the waitress who served me.

The warm afternoon rain had sent most of the guests indoors and I was the only person on the covered patio.

“I’m sorry it’s raining,” she said, pointing at the sea. “Is the rain spoiling your holiday?"

“No," I said, smiling. “I actually love the rain. It’s very cleansing. I like to imagine the rain rinsing out my mind.”

“Yebo,” she replied. (Yes.)

She stared out at the sea and I saw hear chest heave with a silent sigh.

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. We just looked out to sea, mesmerized by the breaking waves.

I don’t know what prompted me, but I turned to her and said, “Are you sad?”

“Yes,” she said.

I looked at her and felt an overwhelming sense of compassion because she had tears in her eyes and swimming in those tears I could see a deep sadness.

I pulled out a chair and invited her to sit. I knew that it was against hotel protocol for the wait-staff to actually sit down during their shift, but because it was raining and none of the managers were in sight, I thought it would be okay.

I poured some tea from the pretty floral teapot into my cup and handed it to her.

She drained the cup and handed it back to me.

“Ngiyabonga kakhulu, ubaba,” she said. (Thank you very much, sir.)

She looked out to sea again.

“My husband, he passed away,” she said. “Last year. UDezemba inyanga. (Last year in December.) I was three months pregnant.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yebo. He died and after six months I had two boys. Twins. They were both dead when they were born."

"That’s terrible,” I said, putting my hand on my chest. “I am so sorry.”

I felt awful for this poor woman. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hold her or give her money or run away. Run away with shame because I was sitting like a king at the hotel being served by someone who earned a pittance and who should have been at home grieving for her husband and children instead of bringing me tea and only making a few dollars a month doing so.

“Would you like another pot of tea?” she asked.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

She picked up the tray and walked toward the door of the hotel.

“Can I help you at all? Is there anything I can do?” I said, trying to assuage the horrible guilt that was pummeling my insides.

She turned and smiled.

“You already did, ubaba,” she said.

Posted by trevor at 02:09 PM | Comments (0)

March 10, 2008

The Wishing Ceremony

Two weeks ago I visited my dear friends Con and Marion Cloete at Botshabelo, their incredible eco-village for AIDS and economic orphans, in the Magaliesburg mountains an hour from Johannesburg in South Africa.

It was an amazing visit!

On the last day of my trip I was invited to join Marion, her three daughters and about thirty kids of all ages for what they call a Wishing Ceremony. (The group included Hopalang, pictured above, from my trip to Botchabelo last year.)

The Wishing Ceremony is something I will never forget. We walked single file through the bush and up a winding path to the top of a small hill. Some of the kids held hands and some simply walked alone, sweetly comfortable with themselves.

On the top of the hill sat a gnarled old thorn tree with a pile of stones under it. We sat beneath the tree, in a circle, around the stones.

The ceremony was beautiful and incredibly powerful. Marion asked all of the children to pick up a stone and in turn, place the stone on the pile while making a wish for themselves and anyone else they would like to wish for.

Most of the children in the group have lost one or both of their parents to AIDS. As a South African I am disgusted to say that many in the group (some as young as four or five) have been raped or prostituted, an epidemic in South Africa where a child is raped every four minutes.

In the safety of Marion’s wishing circle child after child spoke of their wishes and hopes.

One tiny girl hoped that her mother was not crying anymore now that she was in heaven.

One little boy said he hoped the man who raped him was not hurting other children. As he spoke a big tear ran down his cheek and dropped into the pile of wishing stones. When he sat down Marion reached out and pulled his little body toward her, holding him tightly as she kissed the tears on his cheeks.

Another boy who was about six thanked Marion for taking care of all the kids in the village.

Hopalang, who is four, didn’t say anything, but as he placed his stone on the pile his smile told me he was wishing the love, support, and nurturing that filled his pot-bellied little body, would never stop

Maki, a beautiful girl who was fifteen or sixteen, cried desperately for her mother and father who both died of AIDS and left her with nothing but painful, terrifying, gut-wrenching memories.

Marion wished that the children in the group who were in terrible, emotional pain would soon find the smiles that had been stolen from them.

I was touched beyond words.

To end the ceremony Marion made a last wish for all the children in the world who were being raped, hurt, or orphaned at that very moment.

When she finished speaking the children all reached over and placed a final rock on the pile. As that happened, I felt this incredible sense of wellbeing envelope my entire body. I think it’s the closest I have come to what one might call a religious experience. I can honestly say that at that moment I truly felt the presence of the guardian angels who were standing behind each and every child in the group. I think I heard the gentle rustle of their wings as we stood in silence although it could have been God’s sigh moving the tall savanna grass around us.

We all stood quietly around the pile of rocks with our arms around each other as our wishes rose from the huddled group and swirled toward the heavens in a wonderful plume of hope.

Nobody spoke as we made our way back down the path to the village.

I hung back as we passed the village cemetery and stopped off at a grave that was marked by an infant’s bottle and a stuffed animal. (There is not enough money at Botshabelo to have gravestones and because of this most the children’s graves are marked by the children’s own meager belongings like bottles and stuffed animals.)

The grave I stopped at belongs to Demi (pictured above), a little girl I met on my last visit to the orphanage. Demi was 12 days old when I met her. Her mother had died during childbirth and Demi was born prematurely. Demi and I bonded instantly and I held this tiny little twelve- day old baby the entire day. I wanted to take her home so badly.

Demi died during her sixth month due to complications from premature birth and awful medical ineptness.

I kneeled down at the grave and spoke to Demi. Suddenly, thoughts of her and the emotions stirred up from the Wishing Ceremony opened the floodgates.

I began to sob.

A hand suddenly touched me on the shoulder. It was Hopalang, the four year old. (He is an old soul though and way older that his years.)

Ever the inquisitive little investigator he had wandered over from the group to see what I was doing.

“It's okay to cry,” he said, patting me on the shoulder as I crouched alongside the grave.

I looked up at this amazing child and smiled.

He wiped my cheek with his pudgy little hand.

Then he patted me gently on the head.

I hoisted Hopalang onto my back and carried this true angel, and a bursting heart, down the hill and into the village.

Posted by trevor at 12:55 PM | Comments (0)

March 05, 2008

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