Suddenly it is that time of year again when we are inundated by eggs (chocolate and boiled) and a mixed bunch of bunnies, frogs, insects and wild animals.
It is the time when we once again are reminded about resilience and rebirth and the quest for inner freedom.
Through retold stories we remember a 40 year trek across the desert to a promised land but as we read we are charged ourselves to become part of the narrative. It is as if we ourselves are part of the exodus, travelling slowly, one foot in front of the other.
This year particularly I have been thinking about how the people moved from slavery to freedom, from incarceration to liberation. For once I am less interested in the logistics of the travail, the route they took or even their meal and pit stop planning but more in the personal transformation they undertook to reach “free” on a metaphorical compass.
We are showered with information about when and how the war ended or the wall fell or the rules were abolished and how freedom was claimed but a description of how free looks is less documented. It is possible I just haven’t searched for it yet.
Indulge me with two new stories this year.
First one is a true story –
There is a special lady who has been employed by my parents for almost as long as Moses and his gang wandered in the desert. For 35 years she has shared in our family’s lives and we in hers. She has sat with us around tables as we celebrated and walked alongside us in the cemetery. When my father was alive they started each day together on the balcony with a cup of hot coffee and a cigarette and she was often referred to as his second wife. Her twin sons lived with us as boys and now with one grown and the other gone, a granddaughter has moved into our home and hearts. In 1994 South Africa became a democracy and the crushing arm of apartheid was lifted off her. When my father passed my mother invited her and her granddaughter to live with her. Still to this day, she chooses to live downstairs from my mom’s apartment in a room not dissimilar in size to a prison cell which she shares with her granddaughter. She uses the bathroom downstairs rather than using one of the three in the apartment. And despite years of insisting otherwise, she sometimes addresses my mother as Madam and refers to my late father as Master.
Second story I was told and probably is not so true –
Baby camel (to his mother) – “Why do I have two funny toes?”
Mother – “So you can walk easier across the desert sand, my son”
Baby camel – “Why do I have these very long eyelashes?”
Mother – “To protect your eyes from the desert sand storms, my son”
Baby camel – “Why do I have two humps on my back, mom?”
Mother – “To keep you hydrated when we have no water”
Baby camel (after some consideration) “So we have the toes for walking in the sand and the eyelashes for protection from the storms and the humps to store water in the desert so what in god’s name are we doing here in Taronga zoo?”
All the stories have made me wonder why the wandering took so long.
And why when the gates are opened do some still stay locked inside?
Fear? Lack of imagination? Paralysis?
A wise, generous of spirit, reformed friend who happened to find himself ‘inside’ for 3 years reminds us that “You can get out, call a lawyer” and even more poignantly that “not all prisons have walls and guards”.
It took 40 years to reach the Promised Land but they got there eventually.
Sometimes we need a gentle reminder of all we have (humps or eyelashes or toes) to be independent and free in the world.
“We must be free not because we claim freedom, but because we practice it” says Nobel Prize laureate William Faulkner.
Last year I brought famous quotations about freedom to the table, this year I want to see freedom, next year in Jerusalem or who knows?
In My Head 