The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.
Reflecting on this and the 21 Day Gratitude Challenge over a croissant and a cup of coffee, I have to say: this is about the best explanation for life that has been presented to me. Ever. I think Herr Goethe would be very happy if I printed this out - in real fancy letters - and hung it over my desk. Come to think of it, he would probably like it just as much if I wrote it in my clumsy hand-writing on a piece of paper and tacked it to the monitor. And ..... surprise ...... Mssr. Picasso wrote it.
After having spent most of my night, from one in the morning until five, saying good bye to Nelson Mandela, I am a bit overwhelmed by real world activities, such as sweeping leaves off my front porch, bringing along my cane to the coffee shop, reconciling gift giving and limited income, smiling when my hip refuses to act like the responsible, well oiled, and extremely functional joint it has been for 75 years.
In the glow of a flaming white candle, knitting away on a scarf for my granddaughter, I watched the NBC coverage of the Memorial Service for Madiba in the FMB Stadium in Johannesburg. There was much rain, much singing and dancing, many dignitaries, more rain, speeches, tributes, reflections, and respectful commentary by Brian Williams, supported by Charlayne Hunter -Gault. Heavy rain made transmission difficult at times, culture explosions in the stands beyond the bulletproof glass wall seemed to irritate some speakers. I can't remember who pointed out that Madiba himself would have smiled and done one of his little dances, were he present in the flesh. He certainly would have looked with pride at the singing and swaying umbrellas, I thought. The singing subsided and cheers rang in the air while Mr. Obama spoke, President Zuma received a good measure of boos. Winnie Mandela and Graca Machel embraced. President Obama shook hands with Raoul Castro. I cried. And wished Fidel had been able to be there.
Fifty-six years of many personal encounters - all imaginary - though, once I was present when Nelson Mandela spoke at the Coliseum in Oakland - have come to an end. He now resides in that big ball of goodness and light in the universe where my mother-in-law and a few others of my friends, imaginary and real, have gathered to guide me through the years to come. Guide in Peace Madiba!
So, coming back to the gift I have received - imagination and creativity - and giving it away - I have been hard at work. Around Thanksgiving I yarn-bombed a butter dish; it ended up as doll bed. Amigurumi has taken me in with a free mouse pattern by Sharon Ojala. A group of doll makers on Ravelry - led by Deena Thomson Menard has infiltrated my Bear world. Other Christmas projects like the scarf add to the fun.
I have made several mice as presents, but have only named one. She is "Ambassador to Kenya" and I have given her to my daughter "with strings/tail attached. My daughter must take at least one picture of her in Africa. I first told her that she also had to bring her back to the US, but knowing how giving she is, I changed my mind and the Ambassador to Kenya may stay in Nairobi if she is needed there.
The Ambassador to Kenya and her Mother
The other, much bigger project is a doll named Spelladonna. A witch. My first knitted doll. My first encounter with crocheted hair curls. My first I-cord fingers.
And, with fear in her eyes she says, "my first needle-felted face."
I have even knitted a tiny test eyeball to try out the newly purchased roving. I am roving in black, white, green, brown, and purplish. Little did I know when I emptied my wallet for needle felting pen and wool, that I could color white roving with a permanent marker. Well, you learn as you go along. And I am less frightened of the doll iris, now that I have mastered the eyeball. But, before I finish Spelladonna I must make serious placement and color decisions. Eyes far apart - too young to be a witch? Mouth to small -too unfriendly? Face high or low? Dots for the nose? Pink lips? Purple lips? Greenish iris?
But I haven 't neglected my Bears during all this upheaval with mice, a butter dish, and a bewitching redhead. I have finished Bears 286 to 291.
287, 288, and 291 are Matata boys, Bears 286 (Sing), 289 (Canto), and 290 (Snow Angel) are Carolers.
Dear Madiba! Tata!
I first met you in 1957, in Heidelberg, in the Foreign Student Club. I was playing chess with South African young men - young revolutionaries like you - and frightened young men who knew they had to go back home to Apartheid. They loved you. I began to love you. You never disappointed me. The last picture I saw of you, before your release from Robben Island, was a black and white taken in 1963. You had decided to deviate from passive opposition, when you saw that non-violence didn't bring about change. But you did try to avoid blood shed, being more interested in sabotage. You took in all races, including whites, into your military group, as long as they subscribed to the idea of equal rights for all. You were the one ready to die for your principles. And when you landed in jail you advised other prisoners not to allow foul language by the guards, or racial slurs. You stayed in prison when you could have gotten out if you had promised not to speak up. You urged other prisoners to educate themselves. Yes, you were at your best long before you became president, long before you became a person of interest to American news people.
Madiba! I will love you forever.
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