Healing is not always possible. The wheels of time turn, seasons change and there is no going back, because choice has been taken out of our hands. At one stage, all of us have to face the inevitable. But sometimes it is simply too soon. And no one is ready. We can never know when it is going to be our time to say goodbye.

So when time and choice are available to us, we have to make the most of them. Life is too short not live our dreams. Especially when the dreams flow from a core of love and kindness and beauty. And when truth can set us free. The things I want are simple and I am prepared to fight for them, no matter how tired I am and how easy it would be to give up. There has to be a way. And I have always been infinitely patient. And full of hope.

Someone I care about very much waited all afternoon long for her beloved husband to come out of a serious surgery. He was admitted to hospital last week and is in ICU now after the op. His recovery begins tonight.

Yesterday afternoon, I sat at a woman’s table who has faced cancer head-on and will not give it the satisfaction of ruining her life. She, too, is brave beyond words.

I have had to take my little Glinka three times to the vet in the past week. Today, she was there for eight hours. This is the longest she has been away from home since her sterilisation almost fourteen years ago. She had to have some more tests and a procedure done, and it wasn’t certain whether she would be able to come home tonight, but she is back, has already eaten and is on my lap. I couldn’t face the idea of sleeping tonight without her in the house.

I tried not to think too much in the last few days. Did my work and enjoyed every smile, beautiful word and sunray that came my way. The FLF happened and it was amazing. I am supposed to write about it. But that will have to wait until tomorrow. Or maybe even the next day …

Tonight, we sleep, and heal.

My washing machine is broken. It has been for quite a while. In the beginning of the year, the municipality was fixing the ancient water pipe system in our area and the repairs caused prolonged disruptions to our water supply. We hardly ever received warning when the water would be cut off. It was difficult to plan anything. One day, the washing machine was on, the water went off, no one noticed, and, running on empty, the pump broke. (I think.) Everything came to a standstill and no matter what buttons I pressed and dials I turned, the machine seemed dead.

The washing machine is ancient. It was in this house before I arrived in South Africa. It might be even more than twenty years old. But: it had served me well, and I love it. I really do. Sadly, I have been busy and broke and just as broken, so making a plan to fix or replace it has not featured highly on my agenda. The facts that my mother gave me a suitcase full of new clothes recently, and that I’d had enough clothes and linen to last forever anyway have encouraged the decision non-making about the poor, old thing. Anyway, there is a nice laundromat nearby, and my friends have functioning washing machines, and I have no problem with washing a few items by hand. Time is on my side, too.

After the breakdown, the machine did not respond to any attempts at revival. It needed to lick its wounds. A few weeks, I tried a settings or two and discovered that even though the pump was broken, the machine could perform other functions. It just needed a bit of help, and understanding, and time. I studied it, assisted a bit, fiddled some more with the settings, showed patience and did not expect miracles. I could do a pre-wash by hand, transfer the laundry to the machine, help with the pumping of water, and the machine would wash and spin like it used to. Gradually, we found a way. Together. I am not saying it’s easy. Nothing really changed: we are still both broken and need to be fixed, but with a bit of kindness and care, we manage – the ancient washing machine and I – and piles of freshly washed laundry are waiting for ironing.

Big family news: I am going to be a step-great-grandmother.

The fifth wave is rolling in. I oscillate between gratitude and despair. Gratitude, because I am still here, still standing. Despair, because I feel the weight of what has been lost in the process. Both have to be acknowledged. I am noticing something else, too. I know of a few people who have managed to thrive – personally and professionally – under lockdown. The stars aligned in such a way that this time of loss and heaviness became a time of opportunity and lightness for them. It is heartening to see. But it is rare. So many others have had to survive the impossible. Many didn’t. And I am beginning to understand that even those of us who’ve managed to get to the other side seemingly unscathed – who are still here, still getting up in the morning, still carrying on – are running on empty. The act of getting here has exhausted most of our resources. And not enough time has passed, not enough has been recovered and cultivated, to replenish those non-existent reserves, to nurture our resilience back into shape. We are somehow still getting on with it, but the smallest hurdle can derail us. There is nothing else left to draw on in order to overcome. This is not a safe space.

When the hurdle is not small, our world collapses around us. And it’s nearly impossible to explain why. (Please don’t ask.)

I still manage to get up in the morning, to get on with some things – although everything, absolutely everything, is a challenge right now. All I really want is to lie down and rest for a very, very long time. I don’t know how else to heal.

My Mom gave me a new summer dress. I love wearing it.

A war-torn, flooded landscape of desolation. Ruins, no signposts, a weak moon rising on the horizon. A lone figure at an unmarked grave. Too numb to weep.

I know who lies buried here in the country of my soul. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. But I have no words to explain. (Please don’t ask.) It is a time of mourning.

I cut my lockdown hair.

Everything and nothing has changed.

(Or: everything and nothing have changed?)

It has been a numbing week. But I don’t want to talk about it.

There was Oudrif.

And kittens who need a kind home.

And light.

The season is changing, the house is cooling down, as is the water in the pool. But the days are still sunny and warm, and if I sit in the sun for a while after lunch, I can jump into the pool and enjoy an icy swim before the rest of the work day unfolds. I try to do it daily, because my walking routine refuses to return to normal and I do need the movement.

I am enjoying the return to group activities even if many people are ignoring the mask and numbers rules. My love and I went to the theatre again – the magical Firefly, which captures the essence of stage magic, at the Baxter; we went to FYN for another birthday celebration and realised that by pure chance this was the last restaurant we went to before lockdown, and the first after; I attended a highly successful book launch – Liz McGregor’s Unforgiven at Wordsworth Sea Point – and had dinner with authors and friends afterwards; on Saturday, I was at the first post-lockdown Women Zone CT Book Club meeting; and I was invited to a 70th birthday party, where the person celebrating is connected to me in strange, literary ways, and even though we hardly know each other, we are literary family. I registered for one online event: the Tongues Book Club with Alexander Matthews and Alistair Mackay. It was great, but I hope live versions of the gatherings will follow. And I can’t wait to read It Doesn’t Have to Be this Way. (Indeed, it doesn’t.)

Work has continued, but in a vague manner. I stare more than I write or edit. My thoughts have been elsewhere since my Mom walked herself into an emergency room because she thought that she was having a heart attack (she wasn’t, but the symptoms were similar and she was frightened for her life) and has been in the hospital ever since. She is stable and there is no threat to her life, but the doctors are still doing more tests to determine what had happened. We message a lot and meet on Skype during visiting hours when it is all right to talk. These are the moments when I hate living ten thousands kilometres away from her.

The only thing I am truly enjoying right now is reading. I have started Finuala Dowling’s The Man Who Loved Crocodile Tamers and am simply loving it.

Think a peaceful writerly thought, I told myself. I imagined that I was a medieval woman who had chosen to enter a convent, taking her fortune with her. The simple yet comfortable room I’d have, the silence. No phone. No email. I could write a book without interruptions, except for occasional prayers I suppose. Constant kneeling would be a drawback. On the plus side, if someone wanted to complain, they’d have a long ride to Rupertsberg. And even if they got there, I’m sure there’d be a drawbridge. A home improvement every writer should invest in. Could I order boiling oil to be poured over an approaching complainant? No, an abbess shouldn’t do that. Hildegard, Hildegard, watch over me.

The Man Who Loved Crocodile Tamers

I am working on my drawbridge.