a smackerel of honey

I had a conversation this morning with an incredible woman who I didn’t know was so incredible despite having known her a year and a half. That’s what happens when you don’t talk to people–you never learn how truly amazing they are. I am blown away, and I am inspired by the number of extraordinary life stories this 70-year-old woman has to tell. I pleaded with her to write them down, to write a book, and I passed off that request as an encouragement to record her life story for posterity when in fact my intentions were entirely selfish. I want to read this book. I want to have lived a life as exciting as hers. And maybe I have. Margaret Atwood would be disappointed in me if I didn’t tell my story. But she doesn’t know me, and she would never read me. She simply planted a seed that she intended for anyone who would listen. I did.

To satisfy Margaret’s request and another of an old friend, here is a bit of my story.

. . . . . .

I was maybe five years old at the time, too young to be distracted by worries and too old to not notice the important things. I stood atop a hillside of tall yellow grass spotted with gray, jagged rocks and mammoth boulders. The rolling yellow hills extended in all directions until they met blue sky. Baboons perched on the boulders nearby, looking out over their home with the same wonder. I felt an intense sense of freedom. Standing in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everywhere, looking out over the vast African landscape made an intense, profound, and everlasting impact. Freedom was a discovery I made through a combination of experiences there, witnessing a dichotomy of human bondage and the vast expanse of the savanna. But magic, the magic of the imagination, is the second most important thing I learned and carry with me still.

My mom kept my bookshelf well stocked from before I could read until our house burned down when I was in junior high. Middle-child syndrome is real, but very young, invisible me was given the gift of books to bide my time alone. One particularly lonely afternoon, I discovered a paperback on my bookshelf that had a picture of a dark, wild jungle, with images of boas hanging from twisted tree limbs and assorted glowing eyes peering out of the blackness. The illustrator had stolen the image right from my memory. My family lived in South Africa and travelled through the southern countries. Our travels led us through a mysterious jungle, the looks of which were amazingly torn right from the cover of that book, Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling, of whom I became an instant fan. I wrote a research paper in high school over Kipling and discovered his imagination was like mine. The line between imagination and reality didn’t exist for him as a young boy in the jungles of India. As an adult, he recounted his magical experiences as though he were a child, as though they were real, as I have always done with my African experiences. But in a dark jungle, who’s to say what is or isn’t real?

. . . . . .

Eleanor lived a magical life in her mind and some might say an exciting one in reality. Perhaps she will peek outside from behind the heavy curtains in her living room and let some light in. Maybe even set aside the ruse a bit and put a little of herself into the world. Just kidding. Her ruse is often sabotaged by her inability to keep her own light in. She cannot help being her authentic self, as much as she tries to fool the world. Silly girl.