Cape Town, beautiful Cape Town

Cape Town is beautiful. Seriously. And I am not just saying so because I have had an overseas visitor who I have been going around with! Yes, I know that Capetonians are guilty of taking their beautiful city for granted.

Apart from getting out there with my friend to Kirstenbosch Gardens and Kalk Bay, I am also week 3 of Boot Camp. Last week we had a session in Newlands Forest - I had no idea that there were so many people out there at 6:00 pm on a week night - joggers, people walking their dogs and, of course, the silent army of boot-campers marching along with yoga mats under their arms!

On Saturday morning, braving the rain we hiked to Elephant's Eye in the Silvermine Nature Reserve - the scenery was breathtaking and was certainly worth the sweat and pain to get there. I cannot remember when last I walked through the Reserve. Most of the sessions are on the sports fields of a local high school, in full view of Table Mountain. I can assure you that crunches, push-ups and lunges are a little less painful with the mountain, the fresh air and the grass beneath your feet for distraction! 

What attracted me to the program, was the chance to reacquaint myself with the outdoors and get my fitness levels up so that I can once again do regular hikes. Long may it last. Any takers for a regular hike (when I am fitter, of course)?

Check out the links Newlands Forest and Silvermine Reserve and Kirstenbosch Gardens for a little reminder of what's out there.

A Friend indeed

As I write this my friend is winging her way back home across the Atlantic Ocean. She was here ten years ago but we had seen each other in the US, where she lives, in 2007. This visit has been both sad and joyful for her, with a wedding and a funeral to attend.

She phoned on Saturday and we quickly arranged an impromptu pizza evening for later. She had hardly walked in the door and said hello when we were in the study deciding on the pizza order as if it was last week we had seen each other, and not four years ago.

This last week, we have caught up over countless cups of tea, explored the little shops in Kalk Bay and revisited memories in Kirstenbosch Gardens. Our children connected face to face, not via Face Book and made some memories of their own.

Over the week many memories have come flooding back – memories of carefree university days, spending Christmases together, travelling to the Eastern Cape, being one of the bridesmaids at her wedding, having babies and spending time together in the US and here.

I love how you can have such a deep connection with someone that you effortlessly pick up where you left off. What a blessing to have shared such good times that you can enjoy again. 

Kirstenbosch putting on a display for us

No Pain,No Gain?

“I am going to get fit if it kills me” was the thought that occurred to me last night as I “jog-walked” - going a little faster than walking but not quite jogging - around the sports fields of Westerford High School.  The jogging-walking was interspersed by step-ups, push-ups and crunches, and other mean things involving weights and stretchy bands. This morning the muscles underneath my muscles are complaining.

I know I have just finished the yoga challenge, but the truth is that I need to up the cardiac exercise, being of a certain age now. I hate the gym – the thought of exercising indoors is a foreign concept to me. I don’t even like the smell of the gym, the fluorescent lighting, the noise of weights knocking on weights, and the smell of chlorine wafting up from the indoor pool.

Yet over the years I have tried to overcome my aversion numerous times, but never lasting very long. In fact the longest I did stay was at the Sports Science Centre and that was about five years ago. It didn’t seem quite so “gym-y” and there were few designer-leotard-clad people about. It seemed more serious. Like business was happening there. One of the reasons I did stay, was that we went on a run through the leafy streets of Newlands and along the canal once a week.

This time I have been seduced by the promises of sessions in Newlands Forest, Silvermine Nature Reserve and Lion’s Head, and, apart from assessments, we don’t have to set foot inside the gym. I did balk at the thought of “Boot Camp”, picturing a sergeant-major-type screaming instructions at me while I dragged my body from one torture site to the next, but it’s not quite like that – or not yet anyway. In any case, I am the boss of my body and I know how far it can go.  So bring it on!

 Visit the Sports Science Institute - http://www.ssisa.com/

Surviving 14 or Grunting through grade 8

I have just been deleted as a contact on my son’s BlackBerry Messenger because I was making comments on his status. I am not sure what I have done wrong – isn’t that what you are supposed to do?

My 14 year old son has, in a very short while, become the tallest in the family. I remember I spent his first two years comparing him to his older sister (she didn’t climb the burglar bars or do a back flip off the top of the couch) before I accepted that he was different. But now I am back to comparing...

About two years ago, I became “untouchable” – any public displays of affection suddenly and without warning, stopped – no hugs, certainly no kisses and a display of indifference as to whether or not I was watching games (although I know that last one is all an act when he asks “Did you see me score the goal?”). Now I have to suffer being picked up, mauled or nearly bowled over, in a display of manliness. It reminds me of the Golden Labrador we had when he was two years old – it was a six month old puppy in a dog’s body.

Doors are being slammed and pointedly locked – this from someone who once streaked from our chalet at a resort in Mauritius, all the way down to the water. He seems to have lost the power of speech and only speaks in monosyllables or grunts. SMS is no better – ‘Y’ (why) and ‘K’ (okay). At the same time I now strangely seem to have lost my hearing, in my "old age". I am also not as clever as I used to be, and when I sing along to a song on the radio, it must be a remix from “my day”.

He does manage a full sentence - as in “What’s to eat?” – spoken in a very low growl. I swear he is eating us out of house and home. Which brings me to all the shopping over the last 6 months - we have replaced his entire wardrobe including school uniforms, sports kit and shoes. He is now making noises about nothing fitting him – if you are not careful, you could be bankrupted in the process. 

And talking about clothes – in the last week I have sewn buttons on shirts, shorts and blazer more times than I care to count – I have mental images of boys swinging each other around by their clothes, buttons popping off. Or maybe there is a Hulk-like conversion taking place?

So, if you are a mother to sons, I wish for you a secret trust fund, a large fridge, a wallop of patience and a thick skin. 

Moving On - St Cyprian's Day and other rituals

Last week was St Cyprian’s Day, as celebrated by my daughter’s school.  It is celebrated every year but this year had special significance for her as it is the last one of her school career. In an age-old tradition the matriculants went off the previous day to a farm in Stellenbosch where they picked lilies to decorate St George’s Cathedral for the St Cyprian’s Day service. They ended off with a picnic.

On the day the girls dress in their summer uniform with their hair in French braids, done up with a blue ribbon. They walk down from Oranjezicht, through the Company Gardens to the Cathedral for the evensong service. Old girls come from far and wide to join in the celebration and afterwards there is a sumptuous feast on the lawns of the school.

At the beginning of the year they had their matric dance. Each matriculant has mentored a grade 8 student, passing on the knowledge and experience of the last 5 years. Last term they handed over their portfolios to the new batch of leaders and last week she had a reunion with the girls she was in junior school with, before they all go their own ways – on gap years or to university. In the next two weeks she will be having the valedictory service and lunch and a dinner with her teachers before the final exams begin.

The feeling of the end of an era has been all around us this year as she has turned 18, voted for the first time, learned to drive, applied for university and looked at a life after school. All of these rituals have been marking the passage of one phase to another.

Rituals have been practised since time immemorial to help us to move on in life – there are rituals for giving a baby a name, for marriage and burial. As we move from one stage to another we say goodbye to the old way of life and embrace a new set of rules for behaviour. As she moves on with life, I find that the rituals help me too to let go and enter a new phase of my own life.