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.