We are in Chimanimani and it feels like the end of the world. Land of mountains, rocks, icy pools and waterfalls. People come here, from all over the world, to hike, get away into nature and enjoy the beauty and I can see why; but I am here because friends said, “Let’s go together!” The astounding magnificence of the area is one thing, but the people I walk with and sit around the table with are even more of a wonder to behold. Complicated, gifted, unusual and exquisite – each one.
Affirmative responses to parties, weekend getaways, coffee dates and runs in the rain all say, ‘You are worth it and I want to be with you.” When we keep failing to pitch up we speak volumes without even using our words. We all said yes and we drove a huge distance to share in this time together. Sometimes I think holidays require so much effort and I wonder if we will need another getaway to recover. All the planning, preparing and packing required leave me wound up like a spring, unable to remember how to relax even once we have arrived at our destination. Every time we take the opportunities that present themselves, though, we are so thankful that we did. The effort and upheaval of packing up and leaving home is a small price to pay for the treasures that are only discovered when we actually get away.
So here we are in a farmhouse in the mountains. It only took one night to get into chill mode so I needn’t have gotten myself worked up. We are too large a group for everyone to have a bed in the house and so the boys have all pitched tents in the garden-come-farmyard. Everyone is happy as can be. There is an outdoor shower that sends steam into the cool, night air and I am dreaming of having a window like the one above the kitchen sink. It’s a wooden-framed one with one of those wrought iron things with the curled end to close and lock it. Roosters crow hours before the sun is up and cows produce milk that becomes cream, butter and cheese. Horses graze in the paddock, tails swishing lazily. Sheep bleat and whenever our toddler screams we know the pack of geese have chased him again for a laugh.
Yesterday the heat was intense and we swam in three different natural pools. Tessa’s Pool to begin with, swimming with Tessa herself, who has been swimming there all her life. Our group, including 17 children, marched downwards in a line and then climbed upwards to get from pool to pool. The fit, no-nonsense granny in the front kept stopping and calling back to check that each person could see the people coming up behind them. People get lost in these mountains. It feels good not to travel alone. Safety in numbers, remember. And anyway, to enjoy nature, alone, is one thing; to enjoy it with others is to see the reflection of your own wonder in their eyes. What is shared is actually multiplied.
As I write, one friend is trying to write and paint in her journal out here on the typical colonial verandah. Two little girls with freshly braided hair have come bustling in with their guinea pigs held like newborns against their chests. They have not considered that this aunty might need quiet and they have perched themselves up on the half wall in front of her. Her view is gone and, along with it, her peace and quiet. What she has now is a whimsical circus act right in her space. The girls have lost a guinea pig into the bushes below and are going through their own little mini drama to get it back. The cat is curled up like a furry ball beside me so, all’s well, that little piggy is safe until they find him. My friend gets up and digs in the dripping ferns until she finds the poor sopping creature. Lost and found saga over, she gives up on her own writing and painting and lets the children paint, instead. They are not even her children, I might add, but you couldn’t be sure if you didn’t know. One knocks the water over everything just as they begin and their noses need blowing and I think to myself I should probably do something, but her response cuts to the heart of how we live and how we want to live more and more: “It’s okay! I love our life.”
The mist and drizzle has rolled in this morning. One group has gone running in spite of the grey dampness and the rest of us are going slow with our hot drinks and rusks, wrapped in the embrace of this stable, unpretentious, welcoming abode. I can’t see them right now because of the weather, but majestic mountains are out there towering around us and it’s good to feel small again in the world. I lift up my eyes to the mountains – where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth. Psalm 121v1&2.
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