My ancestors

This is the second day I work on my book. As I sat here writing earlier on I started experiencing a very empty feeling in my stomach. It can't be hunger, I thought, I'd just eaten something. Then I started to feel giddy and really spaced out. My feet started aching. An uncomfortable feeling over my navel. What was going on? Ah, it came to me that this was the doing of my ancestors. They talk to me, not in audible words or in visions. In fact I find it rather difficult to explain. It is a profound knowing, as if my ancestors are in my head and in my body. It is not a feeling of possession rather a feeling of presence. Sometimes the presence is outside of me in a particular space, as if someone is actually there. These ancestors are not just those from whom I descend. These beings are also relatives and close friends who have passed on. They always guide me when I make herbal preparations. They are the ones who have set me on my path as a healer. I never feel like I'm on my own but often feel alone. It is seldom now that I meet anyone who shares the same experiences. I still suffer with the illness of calling yet; I seem unable to finish my Sangoma training. Mostly, this is due to lack of finance. Ceremonies need large amounts of money. I was once fortunate to have someone sponsor one of my ceremonies. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever graduate. Usually the family of a twasa will assist with the costs involved. I have no such support. The illness of calling is driving me crazy.

I am writing a book about my Sangoma experiences

Today I have begun to write my story about the first time I met Sangomas. I am in my little house in Muizenberg, South Africa. The birdsong in the courtyard is for me. It is spring and a grey, blustery day. My kitchen door stands a quarter ajar. This morning a bird flew in at the door, through my kitchen and into my room. It hovered over my portal for a bit, then flew out again.

“Come, get out of bed” it said. “Come out of the winter and into the spring. You have what you need to sit down and write. Remember the crow.”

The crow has visited the pine tree next to me. Calling and calling my name until I'd come out to greet. This happened again the following day. Tidings of a friend lost and friends gained. The new life as writer begins.

As I write I hear the pigeons wroo wroo-ing, the same sounds I heard in Mautse, Place of the Ancestors. I start to remember.

The Devas guide me again. I've been given wings.