The stars twinkled as I looked up at the clear night sky. As I lay on the makeshift bed, layers of blankets and sheets, neatly squared up on the mat, my eyes were closing. The stars beckoned, seemingly so close, it felt like I could stretch out my arm and touch them. As if saying good night, they were warm and welcoming.
I was a stranger in this house. Lying outside, on top of the flat mud finish roof, thoughts of the planned outing to the Dogon escarpment swirled as I drifted into slumber. My hosts had generously offered me the best bed in the house. I graciously declined. The air inside, at 45 degrees in the evening, stood still - much like time in this ancient land. I opted for the roof. As we mounted the Y shaped tree bark ladder, the air instantly became thinner. I wasn’t alone. Most of the neighbours were outside too.
We were in Dogon land. The Dogon people of Mali, renowned for their mysticism proudly share their land with all who are drawn to the ochre plains.
My guide Badara came to fetch me at the crack of dawn. As I sipped sweet milky tea, I had no idea what lay ahead. We set off through the village, the desert sand slithering under our feet. Badara’s friend, also a guide was joining us on what I soon realized was a trek.
As soon as Malik joined us, he smiled and pointed to my shoes. Clearly ill equipped and not prepared, my Birkenstocks were soon replaced with his more practical mountain sandals. We set off again. Walking slowly, there was no rush but it would be a few kilometers before we reached our milestone.
With no signposts, no cell signal and limited language capacity, I soon disappeared into my head and followed my two chaperones. I couldn’t look up. Navigating the shifting terrain took serious concentration. Not yet six AM and the sun leisurely announced its intention to bake all who dared expose themselves for too long. Soon, the sand underfoot became pebble like rocks. We had started to ascend. It was a gentle rise.
Deceptively so; the pebbles grew to become foot sized rocks that trembled as we stepped forward. After a few ginger steps, I realized that softly-does-it would not work. Badara and his companion patiently guided me to the flattest and more stable rocks. As we zig-zagged up the slope, the balancing act became one of trust. When I quelled my angst of twisted ankles and stepped forward confidently the rocks moved less.
I gratefully received the first lesson offered by the Dogon mountains. We had reached a mountain peak. Sizing up the expansive horizon in my camera lens, Badara told me to look down to my left. So taken with the grandeur of what lay around me, I hadn’t stopped to look down.Halfway down, I saw what looked like stick people etched into the almost vertical mountain wall. I saw more rocks, getting bigger and bigger and a path, barely visible, snaking its way down to the village at the bottom.
We set off, the sun moving up higher and our water reserves lower. Determined to get to the bottom, we were soon halted in our tracks. It was market day. We had to make way for trails of livestock, men and women going into the village where I had slept to trade their wares. I marveled at how the goats, nimbly plotted their path up the steep mountain. We waited.
Women, wearing long indigo boubous, came with large calabash on their heads. Inside, fresh milk covered with a circular straw cover. They paused, when they saw our travelling party now perched on some rockstools as we waited for the market trail to pass. The women paused and spoke in high-pitched tongues. Badara and Allassane laughed. Apparently, the women were worried about our expedition. Going down was fine but what about coming up.
Smiling with appreciation for their concern, I searched for the kola nuts we had brought the day before. They were an offering for the elders who were to greet us at the foot of the mountain.Soon enough, we were there. In a cave like structure about a metre high and two metres wide, there sat the elders. The cave was cool and dark. Their browny white cotton apparel was topped off with conical hats and most of them gnawed at chewing sticks.
Sentinel guard at the mouth of the village, their rheumy eyes greeted us in silence. Badara reminded me to take out the kola nuts and place them on the cave floor. I hastily responded wondering what came next. They asked where I came from and what brought me here. Badara told them all they needed know and we passed through with a toothless smile from the elder closest to me.
Parched and exhausted, we quickly found a spot under a tree. As I looked at the circular structures propped up on rocks around me, I mistakenly thought they were huts. These were not dwellings they were mini grain houses, set up for times of drought and hardship. As we sat drinking dark, warm fizzy drinks out of red cans, we prepared to exit.
I remember I couldn’t wait to come here. I’d read so much about the strength and dignity of the Dogon people. Soon it was time to leave. There was only one way out. Up. I couldn’t wait to get to the top. Overawed, I was going to have to wait. As I channeled adrenalin and will into my stiffening calf muscles, the more difficult it became. I remembered the trick for navigating the wobbling rocks on the way down. It took one step at a time.
I was going to have to wait. I swiftly decided to stay in each moment and do just that – take one step at a time knowing I would reach the top of the Dogon escarpment once more. I did. Mountainous, still, majestic, the Dogon hills were breathtaking.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Scent Society
“If you burn this in your house, your husband will never leave you!” she insisted, thrusting a pungent decorated glass jar in my face.
Sokhna Anta Diop, the grand dame of incense was seated opposite me on an oversized day bed. I had spent an afternoon sitting with at her fragrance shrine; one of Goree’s Island’s best kept secrets.
For those in the know, Sokhna Anta as she was affectionately called held the keys to undisputed marital bliss and female power. Well heeled high society Dakar women regularly took the ferry ride to Sokhna Anta’s shrine. The well marketed designer fragrances kept in city boutiques had nothing on what they would find in the warm, embryonic den.
Here, she kept a glorious variety of wood shavings, seedlings and resins neatly lined up in carved wooden boxes. Above the boxes, rows of glass bottles, filled with aromatic oils, (some from as far as the Middle East, she boasted), were the tools of her trade. Sokhna Anta took great pride and joy in creating incense that once experienced, became highly sought after.
Sokhna Anta’s prowess in blending perfume essence to enhance a woman’s natural scent was legendary. Hers was an intuitive gift balanced by an expert sense of smell which she had inherited from her grandmother. I watched customers come and go. Time was a pre-requisite. This process, an intertwining of scent, soul and spirit could not be rushed. Expertly mixing oils and wood , she told stories in a languid pose.
No matter which day you sat with Sokhna Anta, and no matter which story you heard, her mission was clear. Her quest was to create incense which punctuates each day with an unforgettable fragrance memory spelling your name - a priceless gift of self to the world.
Before I left the shrine that day Monday, she invited me, winking lasciviously, to join her a few days later at the tour. They told me it was a women’s only gathering. The only man permitted was the DJ who was discreetly (but respectfully) positioned on the verandah outside the room where 25 women had gathered for their monthly tour.
In the community centre perched on top of the hill, women gathered in celebration of self. It was their time. A special time together, when music, dancing, lace underskirts, edible delicacies and raucous laughter was the order of the night.
I was there by special invitation; Sokhna Anta’s guest, unwittingly lured into a secret society that would change my life forever.
Women, dressed to the nines, coiffed with high gloss and heady scents streamed into the room. A spirit of lascivious freedom to be was palpable.
The DJ was warming up. His laidback selections, melodious love songs eased us into what was to become a hi-octane evening of festivity.
Incense, smoking on coals in a huge open-mouthed clay pot hidden in the corner of the room thickened the air. In the cavernous room, nestling high on the hill, hidden from the ferry-loads of Goree tourists, the tour took place religiously every first Thursday of each month.
Women of Goree, the tiny island, two miles across the waters from Senegal’s bustling capital, Dakar proudly held the first Thursday sacrosanct. My presence was honorary. Not to be taken for granted, participation was obligatory. No bashful onlookers allowed. The tour was a space for unbridled self-expression and spirit affirmation.
No men, no children, and no girls under 18 were allowed to come close to the hilltop – it was an unwritten culturally-coded understanding amongst the close-knit community.
Those who were barred never questioned why. Prepubescent girl-children gazed in awe as their mothers dressed in ceremonial preparation for the tour. Teenagers, almost 18 spoke in hushed tones about what they imagined the women would do at the tour. Their turn would soon come but until then, they were content with being hand-maidens in the time-honoured preparation that came days, even months before the tour itself.
The aroma from the incense grew more intense as the smoke thickened. Almost breathless, I drew deep breaths searching for O₂. The temperature was rising the atmosphere was incredibly close.
Suddenly, a svelte, long limbed woman arresting in her gilt edged silky boubou, jumped in front of me. Jolting me out of my smoky reverie, she lifted the layers of gold shimmer and flashed her crochet lace petit pagne as a symbolic invitation to dance. The DJ, invisible but locked into the triumphant vibe had moved from easy to intense mbalax rhythms.
Deeply rooted in traditional drum patterns with pop overtones, the mbalax music reverberated around the walls and through the glassless window frames. Things got heated. Legs and arms flew high into the air, as skirts, ornate head wraps and veils spun like flamboyantly dressed spinning tops. Other women clapped each other into the centre of the ring to in a competitive display of dance, theatre and posturing.
As each woman showcased her style of unique beauty, personality and charm through her dancing circle, it was clear that this was no lightweight party fun. The tour was a ritual which called on each woman to, through time-honoured practices ranging from incense making to stringing waist beads, reveal their singular, unmistakable identity stamp.
The celebration was a masked ball where in exuberant mood; each came to honour the individual. There in the corner, between the heaving bodies, I spied Sokhna Anta Diop, regal as ever, as she stoked the incense urn. Dripping with shiny beads topped with a taffeta twirled head dress, she was as deep and mysterious as the fragrant smoke itself. Though we spoke different languages, no translation was necessary. I had been here before.
Sokhna Anta Diop, the grand dame of incense was seated opposite me on an oversized day bed. I had spent an afternoon sitting with at her fragrance shrine; one of Goree’s Island’s best kept secrets.
For those in the know, Sokhna Anta as she was affectionately called held the keys to undisputed marital bliss and female power. Well heeled high society Dakar women regularly took the ferry ride to Sokhna Anta’s shrine. The well marketed designer fragrances kept in city boutiques had nothing on what they would find in the warm, embryonic den.
Here, she kept a glorious variety of wood shavings, seedlings and resins neatly lined up in carved wooden boxes. Above the boxes, rows of glass bottles, filled with aromatic oils, (some from as far as the Middle East, she boasted), were the tools of her trade. Sokhna Anta took great pride and joy in creating incense that once experienced, became highly sought after.
Sokhna Anta’s prowess in blending perfume essence to enhance a woman’s natural scent was legendary. Hers was an intuitive gift balanced by an expert sense of smell which she had inherited from her grandmother. I watched customers come and go. Time was a pre-requisite. This process, an intertwining of scent, soul and spirit could not be rushed. Expertly mixing oils and wood , she told stories in a languid pose.
No matter which day you sat with Sokhna Anta, and no matter which story you heard, her mission was clear. Her quest was to create incense which punctuates each day with an unforgettable fragrance memory spelling your name - a priceless gift of self to the world.
Before I left the shrine that day Monday, she invited me, winking lasciviously, to join her a few days later at the tour. They told me it was a women’s only gathering. The only man permitted was the DJ who was discreetly (but respectfully) positioned on the verandah outside the room where 25 women had gathered for their monthly tour.
In the community centre perched on top of the hill, women gathered in celebration of self. It was their time. A special time together, when music, dancing, lace underskirts, edible delicacies and raucous laughter was the order of the night.
I was there by special invitation; Sokhna Anta’s guest, unwittingly lured into a secret society that would change my life forever.
Women, dressed to the nines, coiffed with high gloss and heady scents streamed into the room. A spirit of lascivious freedom to be was palpable.
The DJ was warming up. His laidback selections, melodious love songs eased us into what was to become a hi-octane evening of festivity.
Incense, smoking on coals in a huge open-mouthed clay pot hidden in the corner of the room thickened the air. In the cavernous room, nestling high on the hill, hidden from the ferry-loads of Goree tourists, the tour took place religiously every first Thursday of each month.
Women of Goree, the tiny island, two miles across the waters from Senegal’s bustling capital, Dakar proudly held the first Thursday sacrosanct. My presence was honorary. Not to be taken for granted, participation was obligatory. No bashful onlookers allowed. The tour was a space for unbridled self-expression and spirit affirmation.
No men, no children, and no girls under 18 were allowed to come close to the hilltop – it was an unwritten culturally-coded understanding amongst the close-knit community.
Those who were barred never questioned why. Prepubescent girl-children gazed in awe as their mothers dressed in ceremonial preparation for the tour. Teenagers, almost 18 spoke in hushed tones about what they imagined the women would do at the tour. Their turn would soon come but until then, they were content with being hand-maidens in the time-honoured preparation that came days, even months before the tour itself.
The aroma from the incense grew more intense as the smoke thickened. Almost breathless, I drew deep breaths searching for O₂. The temperature was rising the atmosphere was incredibly close.
Suddenly, a svelte, long limbed woman arresting in her gilt edged silky boubou, jumped in front of me. Jolting me out of my smoky reverie, she lifted the layers of gold shimmer and flashed her crochet lace petit pagne as a symbolic invitation to dance. The DJ, invisible but locked into the triumphant vibe had moved from easy to intense mbalax rhythms.
Deeply rooted in traditional drum patterns with pop overtones, the mbalax music reverberated around the walls and through the glassless window frames. Things got heated. Legs and arms flew high into the air, as skirts, ornate head wraps and veils spun like flamboyantly dressed spinning tops. Other women clapped each other into the centre of the ring to in a competitive display of dance, theatre and posturing.
As each woman showcased her style of unique beauty, personality and charm through her dancing circle, it was clear that this was no lightweight party fun. The tour was a ritual which called on each woman to, through time-honoured practices ranging from incense making to stringing waist beads, reveal their singular, unmistakable identity stamp.
The celebration was a masked ball where in exuberant mood; each came to honour the individual. There in the corner, between the heaving bodies, I spied Sokhna Anta Diop, regal as ever, as she stoked the incense urn. Dripping with shiny beads topped with a taffeta twirled head dress, she was as deep and mysterious as the fragrant smoke itself. Though we spoke different languages, no translation was necessary. I had been here before.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
African (Tea) Time
‘’It’s all about the mousse!’’, he told me as he poured the syrupy black liquid into four tiny glasses on a tray. His knees tucked neatly under his ample cotton boubou, I could see, he took matters of the mousse seriously.
It was almost a meditation. Arm lifted high, the spout of the diminutive enamel teapot expertly aimed at the tea glass almost a metre below, he focused intently as he poured, lifting his arm up and down to build up the bubbly layer of mousse. Once all the glasses had been filled, he promptly took each one and poured it back into the tea pot. He went on to do this twice more, then looked up and smiled.
Now satisfied that the mousse, a frothy layer of foam, was thick enough, he was ready to serve. It was a parched, 40 degrees plus, Tuesday afternoon. At 4pm, the sun was at last, abating preparing to usher dusk into the dusty town of Djenne in Mali.
My travel companion, Idrissa, had suggested we stop at the tea spot for a much needed rest after haggling the day away at the Djenne market since dawn. Idrissa’s favourite tea maker, Abdou, was renowned for his tea-making acumen, authenticated by the layer of mousse that he meticulously created in his tea ritual.
We had come at the right time. The Chinese gunpowder green tea leaves had been bubbling slowly on the gas flame for at least 15 minutes before we got there. We arrived in time to see Abdou perform round one of a tea ceremony - his ritual offering of liquid relief in the scorched desert sands of the Sahel. Abdou did nothing else from morning till sunset.
His tea house, rustic, minimalist and enigmatically cool, was an oasis of calm in the bustling Djenne marketplace. Abdou’s tea was as a famous as the mystical stories he shared with market traders and shoppers alike as they trailed through the tea house all day, every day.
We were hot, the tea was hot and it was good and incredibly refreshing! The mousse, an avant-gout to the dark, sweet heady tea- Abdou style - was still in the glass after the two swift sips it took to drink. Real mousse always stays behind. A quick rinse of the glasses, a little more water added to the bubbling pot and round two was on its way! Abdou raised his arm and poured, building the mousse, filling each glass and pouring it back into the pot again and again. We stayed till round three (le troisième), each time the tea was lighter, less sweet and even more refreshing.
Tradition has it that unless you really have to run, it is proper to stay and drink till the third round. This way, the tea will sate your thirst and you will bless the tea maker and the house in return for the blessings bestowed on you through the ritual.
Idrissa was a tea connoisseur and master tea maker. As we drove to his home in a Djenne suburb a few kilometres away, I heard how his father, now late, had taught him the art of making a good cup of tea. Tea was a daily evening ritual in the communal homestead of three generations of Idrissa’s lineage. Much more than a choreographed series of elegant arm movements, the art of the tea is bound up in the tea maker’s intent to bring peace to the drinkers, to nurture the spirit through good conversation and to create an atmosphere for soul connections. African time at its best!
The tea ceremony at Idrissa’s family home came after supper. This was a time when, after a hearty meal, the family, kids and adults alike, kicked back on the low-living mattress-loungers that lined three sides of the living room.
Idrissa took pleasure in making tea most nights. It was his way of relaxing and connecting with the family. Friends often came, and the hours flew by as stories, laughter and polity went on way into the early hours. No-one would never dream of leaving until they had the troisième. It was never mentioned, just understood.
Taking up the baton after his father passed, Idrissa prepared his tea spot in the corner of the room with measure. Incense burning, he sat on a low stool, tucked his legs under his boubou, much like Abdou, and placed the pot on coals. An uncle, visiting from a neighbouring town sparked the conversation and as if summoned, he began to talk about his brother, Idrissa’s father’s love for tea. Badara, the family griot animated the room with anecdotes of family history and songs that were family favourites.
A delicious sense of calm enveloped the room as the potent smell of incense grew stronger and the atmosphere palpably balmy as the evening drew on.In the corner of my eye, I saw Idrissa angling the teapot above the row of glasses, and just like Adbou had done earlier, but with a touch more dramatic flair begin to build the mousse that would later stay in the glass.
As he passed the tray around for the troisième, I had journeyed to other lands, laughed with ancestors and visioned the perfect future. A space in time where African (tea) time was practiced as ritual affirmation of the sacred time that we need to simply be.
It was almost a meditation. Arm lifted high, the spout of the diminutive enamel teapot expertly aimed at the tea glass almost a metre below, he focused intently as he poured, lifting his arm up and down to build up the bubbly layer of mousse. Once all the glasses had been filled, he promptly took each one and poured it back into the tea pot. He went on to do this twice more, then looked up and smiled.
Now satisfied that the mousse, a frothy layer of foam, was thick enough, he was ready to serve. It was a parched, 40 degrees plus, Tuesday afternoon. At 4pm, the sun was at last, abating preparing to usher dusk into the dusty town of Djenne in Mali.
My travel companion, Idrissa, had suggested we stop at the tea spot for a much needed rest after haggling the day away at the Djenne market since dawn. Idrissa’s favourite tea maker, Abdou, was renowned for his tea-making acumen, authenticated by the layer of mousse that he meticulously created in his tea ritual.
We had come at the right time. The Chinese gunpowder green tea leaves had been bubbling slowly on the gas flame for at least 15 minutes before we got there. We arrived in time to see Abdou perform round one of a tea ceremony - his ritual offering of liquid relief in the scorched desert sands of the Sahel. Abdou did nothing else from morning till sunset.
His tea house, rustic, minimalist and enigmatically cool, was an oasis of calm in the bustling Djenne marketplace. Abdou’s tea was as a famous as the mystical stories he shared with market traders and shoppers alike as they trailed through the tea house all day, every day.
We were hot, the tea was hot and it was good and incredibly refreshing! The mousse, an avant-gout to the dark, sweet heady tea- Abdou style - was still in the glass after the two swift sips it took to drink. Real mousse always stays behind. A quick rinse of the glasses, a little more water added to the bubbling pot and round two was on its way! Abdou raised his arm and poured, building the mousse, filling each glass and pouring it back into the pot again and again. We stayed till round three (le troisième), each time the tea was lighter, less sweet and even more refreshing.
Tradition has it that unless you really have to run, it is proper to stay and drink till the third round. This way, the tea will sate your thirst and you will bless the tea maker and the house in return for the blessings bestowed on you through the ritual.
Idrissa was a tea connoisseur and master tea maker. As we drove to his home in a Djenne suburb a few kilometres away, I heard how his father, now late, had taught him the art of making a good cup of tea. Tea was a daily evening ritual in the communal homestead of three generations of Idrissa’s lineage. Much more than a choreographed series of elegant arm movements, the art of the tea is bound up in the tea maker’s intent to bring peace to the drinkers, to nurture the spirit through good conversation and to create an atmosphere for soul connections. African time at its best!
The tea ceremony at Idrissa’s family home came after supper. This was a time when, after a hearty meal, the family, kids and adults alike, kicked back on the low-living mattress-loungers that lined three sides of the living room.
Idrissa took pleasure in making tea most nights. It was his way of relaxing and connecting with the family. Friends often came, and the hours flew by as stories, laughter and polity went on way into the early hours. No-one would never dream of leaving until they had the troisième. It was never mentioned, just understood.
Taking up the baton after his father passed, Idrissa prepared his tea spot in the corner of the room with measure. Incense burning, he sat on a low stool, tucked his legs under his boubou, much like Abdou, and placed the pot on coals. An uncle, visiting from a neighbouring town sparked the conversation and as if summoned, he began to talk about his brother, Idrissa’s father’s love for tea. Badara, the family griot animated the room with anecdotes of family history and songs that were family favourites.
A delicious sense of calm enveloped the room as the potent smell of incense grew stronger and the atmosphere palpably balmy as the evening drew on.In the corner of my eye, I saw Idrissa angling the teapot above the row of glasses, and just like Adbou had done earlier, but with a touch more dramatic flair begin to build the mousse that would later stay in the glass.
As he passed the tray around for the troisième, I had journeyed to other lands, laughed with ancestors and visioned the perfect future. A space in time where African (tea) time was practiced as ritual affirmation of the sacred time that we need to simply be.
RITUAL ECSTACY
The escalating rise of issue-driven people movements is cause for celebration. Though many movements have existed over the past century, the past couple of years have seen a groundswell of everyday people who yearn to belong to something with a conscience.
From slow food and slow thought to Big O’s, clearly, the intensely human need to experience the bond of community, shared values and common identity is mounting in the wake of the global energy shift.
As we heed the call to wear authentic hearts on our sleeves, the common threads that unite humanity are woven through joyous giving. What better way ignite a renewed sense of purpose and to build our new earth?
Let’s give kudos to the pioneers who lead by creating the space for others to grow as they tread softly in the brave new world. Willing to play their part with quiet tenacity, they’re banking on the prospect of creating a bliss-filled world – the ultimate luxury.
I’m excited by the endless possibilities that arise when I claim joy as a mantra.
As I look around, I see many people who are always so serious. Sure, life throws a curved ball now and then but where has all the laughter gone? Between swine flu paranoia and talk of the last days, it’s easy to ride on somber smiles and get lost in a world where big old belly laughs are sadly, a rarity.
Recently, I was unwittingly thrown into a laughter zone when an old university friend flew through Joburg for a weekend. Over 48 hours, with little sleep in-between, we retraced steps, rekindled old memories and celebrated life’s milestones.
In the six years since we last met, life has brought joy, love, pain, sacrifice and measures of accomplishment that we used to dream about. Undoubtedly, we’re both stronger and well, more textured human beings for it. Now, on the verge of our 40s, we made a pact to recapture and live by the carefree bliss that governed our lives two decades ago.
Back then, it was Jazzi B’s Soul II Soul movement that rocked our world. On Thursday nights at a cavernous club called The Fridge in Brixton, London, we danced till we literally dropped; spirits high on bottled water, good music and fidelity to a philosophy of unity of purpose, love and peace. Our Thursday night ritual at The Fridge was an expression of pure ecstasy.
As dusk fell softly that Sunday evening, I had reclaimed that high. The laughter and the memories had nourished my soul. It was cleansing, healing and restorative.
I can see why the laughter movement is gaining momentum all over the globe. A short decade ago, who could have imagined paying someone to coach us in doing what is probably the most natural thing in the world – laugh? Laughter clinics are workshops designed to help us regain a sense of self and life balance.
Last year, as far afield as Jamaica, I picked up a book called Free & Laughing by Marguerite Orane. Written just ahead of the laughter workshop boom, her book is a series of anecdotes of everyday happenings. Her perspective invites a Free & Laughing world view seen through the spiritual insights in everyday moments.
No surprises to learn that her workshops are a hit across the water in L.A., Miami and other parts of the US. But it is surprising to learn that even in sunny Jamaica, where the cool breeze rustles palm trees on pristine sands, Orane is in demand for her quirky approach to making sense of life.
Her life philosophy is a salve part of what is evidently a global thirst for joyful living. Raise the bar from joy to bliss and we’re in headrush zone. What then of creating natural ecstatic highs on a regular basis?
In some spaces, ecstacy conjures up salacious winks or visions of blue pills. Scratch below the surface and we see how we’ve inadvertently co-created an anti-ecstatic culture where we are compelled to make decisions about deciding to be ecstatic as a collective meditation.
A couple of notches up from happy, bliss or ecstasy is a tall order. Luxury purchases and holidays can be blissful no doubt! But bonafide ecstatic living calls for a deeper commitment to ritual, hi-frequency life choices. It takes work!
June this year saw The Big O Day, a day dedicated to ‘uniting the world in pleasure’. Delete visions of mass orgies and returns to free-love hedonism. The Big O Day comes from another movement created to reawaken the divine feminine energy in the earth by inviting its followers to consciously engage in at least 15 minutes of pleasure every day. Though sex is not ruled out, the intention is to recognize and evoke the joy that comes from simple pleasures in life. It’s about bliss. In short, ecstasy!
In a perfect world, ecstatic living will move past buzzword status to being an integral, deeply ingrained part of our soul tapestry nurtured from inside to full blast expression on the outside. Ritual is the key.
From slow food and slow thought to Big O’s, clearly, the intensely human need to experience the bond of community, shared values and common identity is mounting in the wake of the global energy shift.
As we heed the call to wear authentic hearts on our sleeves, the common threads that unite humanity are woven through joyous giving. What better way ignite a renewed sense of purpose and to build our new earth?
Let’s give kudos to the pioneers who lead by creating the space for others to grow as they tread softly in the brave new world. Willing to play their part with quiet tenacity, they’re banking on the prospect of creating a bliss-filled world – the ultimate luxury.
I’m excited by the endless possibilities that arise when I claim joy as a mantra.
As I look around, I see many people who are always so serious. Sure, life throws a curved ball now and then but where has all the laughter gone? Between swine flu paranoia and talk of the last days, it’s easy to ride on somber smiles and get lost in a world where big old belly laughs are sadly, a rarity.
Recently, I was unwittingly thrown into a laughter zone when an old university friend flew through Joburg for a weekend. Over 48 hours, with little sleep in-between, we retraced steps, rekindled old memories and celebrated life’s milestones.
In the six years since we last met, life has brought joy, love, pain, sacrifice and measures of accomplishment that we used to dream about. Undoubtedly, we’re both stronger and well, more textured human beings for it. Now, on the verge of our 40s, we made a pact to recapture and live by the carefree bliss that governed our lives two decades ago.
Back then, it was Jazzi B’s Soul II Soul movement that rocked our world. On Thursday nights at a cavernous club called The Fridge in Brixton, London, we danced till we literally dropped; spirits high on bottled water, good music and fidelity to a philosophy of unity of purpose, love and peace. Our Thursday night ritual at The Fridge was an expression of pure ecstasy.
As dusk fell softly that Sunday evening, I had reclaimed that high. The laughter and the memories had nourished my soul. It was cleansing, healing and restorative.
I can see why the laughter movement is gaining momentum all over the globe. A short decade ago, who could have imagined paying someone to coach us in doing what is probably the most natural thing in the world – laugh? Laughter clinics are workshops designed to help us regain a sense of self and life balance.
Last year, as far afield as Jamaica, I picked up a book called Free & Laughing by Marguerite Orane. Written just ahead of the laughter workshop boom, her book is a series of anecdotes of everyday happenings. Her perspective invites a Free & Laughing world view seen through the spiritual insights in everyday moments.
No surprises to learn that her workshops are a hit across the water in L.A., Miami and other parts of the US. But it is surprising to learn that even in sunny Jamaica, where the cool breeze rustles palm trees on pristine sands, Orane is in demand for her quirky approach to making sense of life.
Her life philosophy is a salve part of what is evidently a global thirst for joyful living. Raise the bar from joy to bliss and we’re in headrush zone. What then of creating natural ecstatic highs on a regular basis?
In some spaces, ecstacy conjures up salacious winks or visions of blue pills. Scratch below the surface and we see how we’ve inadvertently co-created an anti-ecstatic culture where we are compelled to make decisions about deciding to be ecstatic as a collective meditation.
A couple of notches up from happy, bliss or ecstasy is a tall order. Luxury purchases and holidays can be blissful no doubt! But bonafide ecstatic living calls for a deeper commitment to ritual, hi-frequency life choices. It takes work!
June this year saw The Big O Day, a day dedicated to ‘uniting the world in pleasure’. Delete visions of mass orgies and returns to free-love hedonism. The Big O Day comes from another movement created to reawaken the divine feminine energy in the earth by inviting its followers to consciously engage in at least 15 minutes of pleasure every day. Though sex is not ruled out, the intention is to recognize and evoke the joy that comes from simple pleasures in life. It’s about bliss. In short, ecstasy!
In a perfect world, ecstatic living will move past buzzword status to being an integral, deeply ingrained part of our soul tapestry nurtured from inside to full blast expression on the outside. Ritual is the key.
All Hail the Dyrianke!
Senegal, the West African country that I call my spiritual home, always conjures up a certain type of magic deep within.
Whether I’m travelling, shopping or in R & R mode with family, there’s a certain word that constantly crops up, almost following me where ever I go. The word dyrianke (pronounced di-ri-an-kay), rings in my ears from the minute I land.
Seemingly a compliment, possibly an overture, I hear it everywhere. It’s almost as if the word dyrianke instantly replaces my name.
Bewildered at first, I wondered whether this was a thinly veiled sales pitch – as those who most vehemently insisted on calling me dyrianke were market traders.
Unbridled joy oozed through their aura as their lips curled, smiling, as they pulled up a chair for the dyrianke, they ordered drinks and snacks to my hearts desire. As I pondered over the array of fabulous indigo fabrics, beautifully tie-dyed to deep intensity, I learnt they were ‘over-dyed’ so as to leave a shiny hue of inky blue against the skin on first wear.
This was typical and appropriate for a dyrianke I heard. Better yet, I was offered ‘premiere qualite’ galila. An even more richly dyed and highly starched cotton, not so easy on the pocket and sure-fire gorgeous. Of course, I was assured, just perfect for a dyrianke. I left nearly an hour later, with meters of fabric in hand, a much lighter purse and a deep seated smile.
A little later the same day, I was drinking tea amongst a group of women friends, I heard it again. As they dug into the history of my nomad past, they hummed as they tried to place me, locate me within their framework of womanhood. Ostensibly, the only place appropriate was in the league of the dyrianke.
I came to learn it was a heavy title to carry. It is bestowed upon you. You don’t learn how to become a dyrianke, either you have it or you don’t.
The dyrianke is a woman, mystical in her charm and the epitome of femininity. A self-actualised, alluring, expressive and generous spirit who leaves people – men and women - gaping in her wake. Now that’s power! They told me again, it’s not something you can buy, it’s something you are. It’s within you.
Mesmerised at this engaging approach to beauty from the inside, I wanted to know more. She boasts a corpulent figure – a real dyrianke needs flesh on those bones – her clothes, waves of beautiful cloth, adorned in BIG accessories (bling ain’t got nothing on her!), wafting in ambrosia scent, she invests time, money and love in herself. Those lucky enough to be within her inner circle will experience the erotic power of the dyrianke. Not commercialised eros, hers is an erotica that is honed on ecstatic living realised through a jealously guarded cachet of secret artillery (waist beads, bespoke incense....it goes on).
The plot thickened as I heard about how bonafide dyriankes walk with an unmistakable gait. The rhythm illustrated in the very word, dhirri (Wolof for drag) means she would never rush. Not only is it not becoming but it’s because she has everything under control.
Highly likely, those more accomplished and mature dyri’s, would probably have hand maidens at her side. Not as some form of indentured labour but by as young apprentices eager to learn the deeply cultured ways of the dyrianke. Look at it as skills transfer and ultimately, empowerment!
It all started to make sense to me; the market vendors had picked up on my love for all things textured and luxurious. Fair enough, so there probably was a little sales talk there. But what my tea drinking companions didn’t realise was that they had opened up a door into new dimensions of femininity that were eons away from my multi-cultural experience of women and womanhood.
Things got a little heady. These were women celebrating other women. They desired and upheld notions of femininity that were far away from the issues driven (Western) feminist agenda of gender equity.
Possibly it is Senegal’s matrilineal heritage that enables such a seemingly natural aptitude to grooming, beauty, eroticism and ultimately power. The notion of the dyrianke, real deal or imagined, offers a headspace where women dare to explore and unashamedly express, the often repressed authority which is innate.
It would be naïve to think that gender inequity is not an issue in any country across the world – not least in Senegal. However, it seems clear to me that such issues can be more effectively dealt with when women themselves come with a sense of dignity and affirmation that is intact.
As we celebrate women’s month in South Africa, I wonder where our sense of womanhood sits in a country where rape, battery and violence against women is all pervasive. There may be much to celebrate in terms of legislation. However, seems to me that a few lessons in self-affirmation from the dyrianke sisters in Senegal may pave the way for real celebration this month. Bayete! Dyrianke!
Whether I’m travelling, shopping or in R & R mode with family, there’s a certain word that constantly crops up, almost following me where ever I go. The word dyrianke (pronounced di-ri-an-kay), rings in my ears from the minute I land.
Seemingly a compliment, possibly an overture, I hear it everywhere. It’s almost as if the word dyrianke instantly replaces my name.
Bewildered at first, I wondered whether this was a thinly veiled sales pitch – as those who most vehemently insisted on calling me dyrianke were market traders.
Unbridled joy oozed through their aura as their lips curled, smiling, as they pulled up a chair for the dyrianke, they ordered drinks and snacks to my hearts desire. As I pondered over the array of fabulous indigo fabrics, beautifully tie-dyed to deep intensity, I learnt they were ‘over-dyed’ so as to leave a shiny hue of inky blue against the skin on first wear.
This was typical and appropriate for a dyrianke I heard. Better yet, I was offered ‘premiere qualite’ galila. An even more richly dyed and highly starched cotton, not so easy on the pocket and sure-fire gorgeous. Of course, I was assured, just perfect for a dyrianke. I left nearly an hour later, with meters of fabric in hand, a much lighter purse and a deep seated smile.
A little later the same day, I was drinking tea amongst a group of women friends, I heard it again. As they dug into the history of my nomad past, they hummed as they tried to place me, locate me within their framework of womanhood. Ostensibly, the only place appropriate was in the league of the dyrianke.
I came to learn it was a heavy title to carry. It is bestowed upon you. You don’t learn how to become a dyrianke, either you have it or you don’t.
The dyrianke is a woman, mystical in her charm and the epitome of femininity. A self-actualised, alluring, expressive and generous spirit who leaves people – men and women - gaping in her wake. Now that’s power! They told me again, it’s not something you can buy, it’s something you are. It’s within you.
Mesmerised at this engaging approach to beauty from the inside, I wanted to know more. She boasts a corpulent figure – a real dyrianke needs flesh on those bones – her clothes, waves of beautiful cloth, adorned in BIG accessories (bling ain’t got nothing on her!), wafting in ambrosia scent, she invests time, money and love in herself. Those lucky enough to be within her inner circle will experience the erotic power of the dyrianke. Not commercialised eros, hers is an erotica that is honed on ecstatic living realised through a jealously guarded cachet of secret artillery (waist beads, bespoke incense....it goes on).
The plot thickened as I heard about how bonafide dyriankes walk with an unmistakable gait. The rhythm illustrated in the very word, dhirri (Wolof for drag) means she would never rush. Not only is it not becoming but it’s because she has everything under control.
Highly likely, those more accomplished and mature dyri’s, would probably have hand maidens at her side. Not as some form of indentured labour but by as young apprentices eager to learn the deeply cultured ways of the dyrianke. Look at it as skills transfer and ultimately, empowerment!
It all started to make sense to me; the market vendors had picked up on my love for all things textured and luxurious. Fair enough, so there probably was a little sales talk there. But what my tea drinking companions didn’t realise was that they had opened up a door into new dimensions of femininity that were eons away from my multi-cultural experience of women and womanhood.
Things got a little heady. These were women celebrating other women. They desired and upheld notions of femininity that were far away from the issues driven (Western) feminist agenda of gender equity.
Possibly it is Senegal’s matrilineal heritage that enables such a seemingly natural aptitude to grooming, beauty, eroticism and ultimately power. The notion of the dyrianke, real deal or imagined, offers a headspace where women dare to explore and unashamedly express, the often repressed authority which is innate.
It would be naïve to think that gender inequity is not an issue in any country across the world – not least in Senegal. However, it seems clear to me that such issues can be more effectively dealt with when women themselves come with a sense of dignity and affirmation that is intact.
As we celebrate women’s month in South Africa, I wonder where our sense of womanhood sits in a country where rape, battery and violence against women is all pervasive. There may be much to celebrate in terms of legislation. However, seems to me that a few lessons in self-affirmation from the dyrianke sisters in Senegal may pave the way for real celebration this month. Bayete! Dyrianke!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)