I am back to my blog.  Back to writing, although not with a pen.  Pure joy.

Poodle next to me, lazy – eyed cat on the veranda.  Bird sound.  Lawn mowers whirring outside. The sound of rolling rubbish bins (collection day) and strangely, the sound of my fridge.

But I mostly have silence which is important when putting together a piece. Like a friend said,” I’ll write again when all is quiet and I can think straight”.

A lot has happened since I last wrote.  I’m over 60 and instead of becoming my BMI, I’m further distanced from it. I tried losing the scales which was good at the time but not worth the shock of realising my gain last week. It came like a  bolt from the blue – just like the lightning strike this second.  I now have a poodle on my lap and find it hard to type.

Apart from writing this, I have in the past few days examined my garden with an intensity I have not known.  The beauty of nature, the bees and the flowers…a balm for the soul.  It always had been, but now more than ever, that beauty points to the wonder and creativity of the universe. To the great design.  And it points to the designer, the omnipresent loving Creator. Time to stand in wonder of His creation and to deeper worship Him.  I’m now also realising gratitude for everything, through everything. I’ve had time to reflect.

Clearly, for everything there Is a season and a time for everything under the sun.

Not one of us looked happy. Perhaps it was those posters. “Mother’s Day – buy what you want, you deserve it!” We were obviously too self-controlled or else we managed the family budget.

I looked around for men who were preparing for the big day.  Not one male among the toiletry gift sets.  Who landed up buying them, I wondered.  Probably the women at the half -price sale a week later after their special day.  Something to look forward to, I suppose.

“Try the She-Bears, they’re 20% off for Mother’s Day,” said someone.  Wonderful!  Only one problem- the man standing with arms folded and staring at us.  How could I get near my sized bears with him looking at my every move?  He had been standing there long enough to know everyone’s size.

Perhaps he was the bra section’s bouncer. Or an irate husband, waiting for his wife. I eventually succumbed to the Wonderbra on special.

The woman in charge of the dressing rooms looked tired.  “OK,  you got five bras – cubicle at the bottom left,” she said to the girl in front on me.

Then, without warning she jumped up.  “Girls, you must look after yourselves while you’re still on this earth.  When you’re in heaven, you’ll just be singing ‘hallelujah!’ and ‘amen’ “.  She raised her arms while swinging her hips.  “Take some more expensive underwear while you’ve still got time!’

Were they battling to sell old stock, I wondered, or was this a stress-relieving exercise for the woman who is mainly cooped up behind a curtain?

Now trying on bras (or any clothes for that matter) is not my idea of heaven.  It’s more like a near death experience.  I’m actually looking forward to my heavenly body, especially when I see the earthly variation under the fitting room spotlights.  Dimples, rolls and cellulite.  And a deathly hue from those depressing lights.  Then the drama of the correct fit – too tight around the chest. Cups too big or too small.  They used to have underwear specialists in the old days. Probably did a course somewhere. They measured every aspect of your body so as not to waste time.  “You’ve got a difficult build,” they would say.  But at least they would be the ones shooing off the lone male starer outside.  And sifting through hundreds of shapes to get the correct fit.  I’d pay for someone like that.

Feeling vulnerable and weak after facing facts in the fitting rooms, I compromised and took an item.  “Hola! Remember now, girl, spoil yourself- it’s not going to last forever!” said a voice as I exited. I smiled at the thought. The cubicle attendant has finally lifted my spirits.  And I banked on my Wonderbra to lift the rest.

From The Struggle with the Juggle”