I realise about halfway into my morning walk that I am muttering “Fuck off, fuck off!” as I stomp along.
It’s the flies.
I wouldn’t mind if they landed on the islands of me: shoulder blade, thigh, even the top of my head. But they are landing in the gullies and furrows: the corners of my eyes, between my lips, on the sweat in the crease of my elbow.
I surprise even myself with my capacity for f-bombs and vociferous discontent.
It might also have something to do with the oppressive heat… and it is only 6 am. Or the fact that I am already ratty from a sleepless night, thanks to the oppressive heat. We are coming to the end of a long and intense summer: soaring temperatures, heavy humidity, flashing thunderstorms. There have been days when I sweat just from brushing my teeth; days when it is best to do less (if possible).
The birds are open-beaked even in the shade, the impalas are dazed, the young baboons play in slow motion.
Or it might be the fact that a client has paid me late and half my bills have bounced, and the fact that the bank has charged me for the bills that have bounced. Or the pile of worries that I feel too damn tired to sort today; you know, the usual sorts of things that you and I face bravely all the time.
But it could also be something in the air (aside from the flies, of course). Or something about this particular coming together of blazing moments, or something wild and ferocious in—and beyond—me that I don’t yet understand.
Oh, I walk a whole lot of fuck-offs today! And I am enlivened by this allowing of and reckoning with rage. It will pass, it will settle, but only when I have felt it out.
I release deep, theatrical sighs (in that annoying way a sibling or partner might do). I clench my fists, fight-ready: Who dares to take me on?! And then I look around at the quiet, pockmarked marula trees, and stretch my fingers up and wide, catching a momentary breeze.
Later, I will explore what rises beneath.
The flies. But also not the flies.
This is part of a series of reflections on small things, big moments, and all the living that happens in between—with the bushveld as my companion. I share them selectively for now, and hope they’ll bring a smile.
PHOTO: George Bekker/Pexels
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