Shirley’s Blog

In honor of Mother”s day, I thought I’d tell you about a short video I watched, captured by a visitor to the Kruger National Park, South Africa. A tiny baby elephant has fallen into a round pool of water and can’t get out. He places his front legs on the side of the pool and tries to haul himself up but the sides are too steep and his feet slide down the slippery edge. When he feels he’s out of options, he just stands there, his head down.

Enter Mom to the rescue. She bends her massive head reassuring him with the touch of her trunk, then stands up and circles around debating which way to do this. Finally, she moves to the edge of the pool, bends down and pushes him gently aside so she can climb in. With amazing care, she lands in the pool beside him and makes her first attempt to bush her baby out. Unsuccessful, she turns him around to a different vantage point . She moves up behind him, wedges his rear-end between two lethal tusks and literally lifts him up out of the water. But the sandy bank is too slippery and he slithers back into the water.

Next she moves him further round the pool and this time with much pushing and shoving he walks out the pool. Trouble is, now she can’t get out. She searches for a good place to get out. The slippery sand has no traction. She doesn’t panic. Finally she kneels on a section of ground and with great effort, pulls herself out. Off she lumbers to her little guy, trunk outstretched to see if he’s alright. He’s okay. She’s okay. Together they walk away.

When all else fails call Mom. Tell your Mom you love her this Mother’s day. I know I will.

One night, as a little girl living in Zambia, Africa, I heard shouting and running around outside our home and rushed to see what was happening. I could smell it before I saw it. Down the path from our house brilliant red and orange flmes lit the black sky as the homes of some of the children I knew were being swallowed up in a fiery furnace. Where I stood, our thatch-roofed house only needed one spark, sent on the wind, to set it ablaze too.

There was no fire brigade to call or telephone to call them with. No taps with running water to hose down the homes. No electricity to light the uneven ground in the backness. But there were people. Wonderful, warm-hearted people, who appeared out of the darkness and grabbed whatever they could to help put out the flames. Passing buckets of water from the well, they toiled in the weak light of hissing gas lamps.

No one was hurt but in the morning the small brick homes were blackened rubbles of soot and dust. Those families had to start their lives all over again.

We discovered there was no arsonist or vengeful activist. Just one little boy who played with matches. He didn’t mean to destroy his family’s home.

Words can be like that fire. Parents whose thoughtless words wound their children. Friends who discourage with carelss words. Spouses who hurt the ones they love because they’d rather be right than loving. We don’t ususally mean to cause a fire with our words but like a little flame, they can set a fire that burns relationships, self image and confidence.

Let’s start a new trend.Think first. Then if we need to, speak lovingly. Let’s rather put out fires by inspiring, encouraging and motivating.

I reached the top of the steep, uneven driveway, pulled in the two hand brakes of the 400lb motorcyle. Scooter actually. My left foot landed safely, its twin however, hovered, seeking anything stable enough to rest on. Nothing. Flirting with the law of gravity has its downside. Woman overboard.

Down I went. Slowly and gracefully. Legs in the air, arms splayed out, sunglasses gangling off my left nostril. But my large black helmet remained utterly loyal and my armour plated jacket lived up to its promise to protect me. Not a mark. The only damage was internal and I don’t mean spleen, liver or heart.

My inner monologue ranted, “Whatever possessed a white haired, pleasantly plump (okay, well covered) sensible woman to start learning to ride a motorcycle? 55 year old padding and rusty joints don’t have the same bounce-back they used to. I’m selling the bike tomorrow.”

Typically, when I’m wallowing in humiliation, I tend to laugh raucously. This I did with gay abandon. But I had to get back on the horse – I mean, bike. Problem is, armour plating is great for falls but pretty useless for helping you get up after a fall. When I had been lying prone for more time than what was considered ladylike, my husband Mark peered down at me and said, “Are you getting up anytime today?”

“Well, I would,” I said, “but it seems my muscles are on strike.”
“Allow me to break through the picket-line.” Magnanimous, he reached down to help me up.

As I heaved myself up, I realized I faced two choices. One would help me face my fear. The other give me blisters. I could get back on or walk three miles home in my stiff new riding boots. I opted for the bike. I reached out for my pride and placed it securely in my pocket. Then staring fear straight in the face, I jumped delicately back onto the bike and wobbled off down the road, head held high.

Who said old ladies couldn’t ride motorbikes?

When you make a mistake in life don’t be too proud to get up and try again.