Spinach Soup for the Walls

Lynne Harkes

Description

The author has lived in wonderful places, from Nigeria to South America, Oman to the Gabon jungle.She describes the hospitality and resilience of the natives and the magnificence of landscape and animals. But Lynne was unhappy and isolated.This is the story of how she rediscovered her spirituality.We must "recognise the remarkable in the ordinary".

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• África
• Mind
• Body
• Africa
• Spirit

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 03 janvier 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781907203565
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page
SPINACH SOUP FOR THE WALLS
Finding My Spirit in Africa
Lynne Harkes



Publisher Information
First Published in 2012 by Local Legend
www.local-legend.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© 2012 Lynne Harkes
All rights reserved
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without the prior permission of the publisher.
A record of this publication is available from the British Library.
Cover design by Titanium Design Ltd www.titaniumdesign.co.uk
Cover photo by the author
Disclaimer: Any references to people mentioned are not intended to represent specific individuals, but are composites of many characters encountered in several countries.



Dedication
To my extraordinary family, Neil, Olly and Joe.
It is my privilege to be part of your team,
to grow and to learn together.



Quote
“When you stand and share your story in an empowering way, your story will heal you and your story will heal somebody else.”
- Iyanla Vanzant



Acknowledgments
With infinite thanks to my lovely dad, Alex Harkes, to my mum and sisters and to the realms of angels, for never giving up on me; also to Steph, a wise and literary head on young shoulders whose unwavering support has helped me to move mountains, and to Pam for an enduring friendship that has spanned continents.
My gratitude also to Nichola, Jen, Shirley, Maddy, Calista, Rowala, Dawn, Lesley, Jacqui, Barbara, Aileen, Nicola, Zoe, Karen, Catriona and Paula for being who you are and helping me to see the bigger picture whatever the drama unfolding.
Special thanks to Nigel Peace of Local Legend for his generous help and support with this book.



About the Author
Lynne was born in Edinburgh where she now lives and works as an artist. Her paintings are vibrant and colourful, expressing the true beauty of nature that we often miss in our everyday world.
She has travelled extensively due to her husband’s work, which saw the couple relocate every few years. In her writing she conveys powerfully the highs and lows of such a travelling life from Nigeria to South America, from Oman to the jungle of Gabon.
But despite the privileges of this nomadic life, it can also be tough and challenging. Lynne frankly describes her personal struggles and her transformation from despair to a spiritual path and a new way of living.
“To know ourselves,” she says, “we do not have to walk through blazing fires...” Rather, it is through seeing the simplicity and beauty of nature and of everyday life. A new lightness has emerged in her mind and in her painting. In both her writing and her art, she inspires us to “see the remarkable in the ordinary”.


www.lynneharkes.com



Chapter 1
Leaving Oman
A sprig of basil, washed, disinfected and given a new lease of life from its former grubby home and elephant dung fertiliser, was now beginning to spread its bruised wings and sprout roots in a recycled tomato tin on the patio. Only close inspection revealed the army of ants that were also now setting up residence, traipsing through the lumpy soil on a mission to turn the leaves into a delicate, nibbled piece of green, aromatic lace. Even at this early stage, it was completely unfit for human consumption. Perhaps it was telling me something. Everything familiar to me was going to be entirely challenged in this place.
Gabon, West Africa and 144 days under the belt. I’m trying hard to tone down my obsession for liking things in meticulous and controlled order. I need to embrace the wonders of this jungle around me and continue with the job of improvisation. Many days I struggle. I’ve even begun to resent the dog’s little grey water dish, transformed now to a makeshift penholder. It is filled with a handful of felt and biro pens and sits incongruously beside a historic looking company-issue telephone on a thickly over-varnished windowsill, looking silly.
A few weeks earlier, when I placed it there, I’d been so thrilled at my ingenuity. All the childhood years of watching Blue Peter had paid off. Surely someone not privy to this training would have overlooked the possibility of transforming a dog’s drinking vessel into a stationery item. I’d once been lucky enough to receive a Blue Peter badge, in recognition of a pencil sketch of John Knox I’d entered into a competition, comprising small strokes and moody shading. I remember it had flowed from my hands with unexpected ease. I never missed the art section and had soaked up the skills that were now so invaluable in this empty jungle house with such limited resources. I’d had a good training for the life here. My husband had been transferred to this strange jungle enclave as an engineer for a large energy company and the plan was that we would settle ourselves into the unusual life and whatever Yenzi Camp living presented for the duration of the four-year posting.
This was our tenth relocation over the years, six of them having us leave Britain for foreign shores with freight containers bulging and varying levels of enthusiasm and trepidation. For much of our nomadic life, a solid friendship and respect for each other had eased us through the stress and the challenge presented to us by this chaotic lifestyle. At this point, however, relations had become strained and awkward, with both of us becoming emotionally withdrawn from each other. Occupied fully with the preparation for Gabon, we’d partially pushed aside our differences. Only time would tell whether, in this jungle setting, we’d be able to recapture the essence of love and happiness that our marriage had lost.
I had admiration for the pens in the ex-doggy water dish, bearing so well the humiliation of being placed in such an inappropriate container. They were doing a better job than me, struggling to overcome my awkwardness and resistance to my environment. They stood proudly erect, queuing patiently for action, plastic warriors waiting in eager anticipation, knowing that only a message of the highest frivolity would require the services of the green and red and, more than likely, the trusty black with its head furry from over-use would again be enlisted for duty. This was not a time for frivolity, after all. If only there was something to write on and some news, any news, of our 40 ft container and belongings arriving.
Months earlier we’d left Muscat, Marmul Street and home for the last five years, with our Jack Russell Travis in tow and the little grey water dish filled to a safe aeroplane take-off level. I’d watched Travis in his cage ascend a steeply inclined conveyor belt into the belly of the luggage compartment and had been relieved we’d not been too generous with his in-flight drinking ration. My husband and I had been living in Muscat, our second spell of residency in the delightful Sultanate of Oman and location number six of his career. This posting had arrived on the tails of one of life’s tumultuous periods and, with emotions fragile, we had both kept our hands firmly by our sides, unable or unwilling to reach out freely to forging new friendships amongst our fellow camp dwellers.
This posting in Oman had passed as a somewhat sugar-coated shell bereft of filling and had been almost unrecognisable socially and emotion-ally to our previous stay there, surrounded by friends and our tribes of small, excited children. The fresh young couple who had headed off twelve years previously with two toddlers to embark on their first overseas post had been replaced by jaded and somewhat more cynical versions. At times during our stay, it had been a battle for me to muster up a smile, from a sea of internal tears resembling anything even half convincing.
However, the show had to go on and we had once more climbed to the top of the company’s transfer list. Firstly, we were bound for a couple of luxury days in Paris, before heading south to Africa and Yenzi, a little camp in the middle of the Gabonese jungle. Our new home. For several weeks now, we’d lived with the aromas of cardboard and had already experienced a taste of how life might change, with things as we knew them being packed up, with every sickening scream of the parcel tape stretching over gaping boxes. I knew how that tape felt. I was screaming too.
“You’ll love it,” they’d all said reassuringly. “The company’s best kept secret.” Surely they couldn’t all be wrong?
***
As a creature of habit I always strive to keep things familiar and in order. From the day of unpacking, five years previously, not one thing had moved in the Marmul Street house. I always had the feeling, rightly or wrongly, that there could be no better combination of walls and furnishings than that already achieved. Working on the sort of Olympic adrenalin that kicks in when a 40 ft container’s contents are deposited in your home, I knew that together my husband and I had optimised the space and there was no room for improvement. We had developed into a good team as far as emptying bursting freight containers and injecting style into mediocre company housing goes. A palpable sigh of relief when our job was done. Boxes and parcel tape could be banished for an indefinite period and life ‘settled’ for the next few years. We could get on with the job of living, whatever that was to entail.
Amidst the flurry of packing, the first victims to be eliminated from our Middle Eastern home and bound for the Africa container were the luxury touches: the silk cushions that perfectly united the muddy brown of the sofa with the softer shades of the rug and encompassed, so well, the rich tan shade of the armoire in the