Writing by Students of the Write Co – Columns

Psyho – Synchronicity

Christine Weston

I noticed that the dogs have fleas. I removed a tick from the cat’s ear. My kids came home from school last week with head lice. And to top it all, I found weevils in the flour.

“My life is awash with free-loaders,” I moaned to a friend over a glass of wine a couple of weeks ago.

“Sounds like synchronicity to me,” she replied.

Synchronicities are meaningful coincidences. People, places or events that you attract into your life to help you evolve or place emphasis on something going on in your life.  The more ‘consciously aware’ you become, the higher your frequency oscillates and the faster your soul manifests. I consider myself an intuitive person but not once had I considered the likelihood of messages from the collective conscious winging their way to me on a plague of minute, blood sucking, infestations.

“There are no accidents,” she said.

The conversation moved on.  We ordered another bottle of wine. The first ‘corked’ bottle I’ve ever encountered. The waiter hurried to replace it and I pondered what caused the wine to sour and why I’d attracted it to our table.

Maybe Ann was right.

The following day, feeling the effects of the second bottle, I bent to cut roses from my garden and noticed the little blighters.  They’d moved in over night.  I swear they weren’t there the day before.  Was I just more ‘aware’ today?  Either way, aphids infested my roses and it was all getting a bit spooky.  Back inside, I trawled the internet for information on synchronicity.  Deepak Chopra is big on it, coining the word synchrodestiny; “an awareness of a developing pattern in the events of our lives.” Carl Jung is a synchronicity legend. I was engrossed.  Embracing the concept of meaningful coincidence and anticipating an attack from the latest worm virus, I promptly switched off my computer.

I went out that night.  On the way home, someone smashed my car window and stole my handbag.   I should be angry with him, furious at the invasion, loss and inconvenience.  And, I am.  I’m also angry with myself for not being more ‘consciously aware’.  If I was more in tune with my universe, oscillating at a higher frequency so to speak, I may have avoided it.  In light of the fleas, ticks, lice, weevils and aphids, you’d think I would have recognised another parasite coming my way before it was too late.

The Ritual

Elspeth Flatau

It’s a Sunday ritual.  The early morning dog walk.   We have all become acquaintances.  Some have become sniffing, licking friends – and others we flee from as they bare and gnash their teeth in the dance of dog supremacy.

It starts in the garage, with whimpers of excitement and dances of doggy joy as I slip on the harness and lead.  And into the car, and to the park.

The first people we meet are the ladies who never greet.  Their dogs, two rottweilers, a ridgeback and a ball of fluff all bare teeth at mine.   The owners refuse to smile – but glare with disgust at the black Staffordshire pair, quivering at my heels.  I know staffies as a breed are fighters – mine don’t know and cower behind my ankles.

I call the next group Guinevere and the knights.  She always wears a long, elegant dress, walks at speed with a pack of indiscriminate pavement specials.  She waves – the spaniel type noses up to us and trundles into the dawning mist off the dam.

And on to the fisher folk.  A quick snuffle to see if there are any fish to be stolen, and a chase to the waters edge to catch an Egyptian goose – which chases back, leaving an ego damaged staffie quivering under my heel again.

The great Danes are out this morning – taking their frail owner for a walk.  He runs behind them, his cap pulled low on his forehead.  He lost it one morning – watching him trying to turn the dogs back for it was wondrous.    He shouts,


He can’t wave.  The dogs won’t let him.

A Kiewit flies, broken winged ahead of us and my feet swish, wet, through the grass.   Across the dam wall and take the long path to avoid the Jack Russell coming up the steps, bristles crew cut in the first show of strength.  He knows he’s a fighting breed.

My elder dog is tiring now, legs trembling in the exertion of trying to keep up with the pup.  He’s glad to be back on the lead.  The youngest as always, coming back reluctantly to heel, head hanging, tongue out and eyes begging –

“Must it really be so?”

A wave to the gate guard, the last leg lift on the post, and home for tea, toast and a bone.

It’s a Sunday ritual.

Secret Spirits

Sue Adams

There is a secret hid away in the north-western part of South Africa and I am tempted to tell you no more in case the whole world descends on it.

I recently stood on a flat-topped mountain surrounded by incredible rock formations and watched a grey, green, greasy Limpopo River snaking past.  The soft wind whispered of a great trading kingdom that once existed here in the twelfth century.  All that is left is a precious little gold rhino that sits in a museum amongst other gold artefacts, and a scattering of glass and ostrich shell beads in the old stone foundations.  But the spirits and ancestors still haunt the area.

Mapungubwe is the South African part of a Trans-frontier park that stretches across the Limpopo to Tuli in Botswana and to the bush in Zimbabwe.  White people only discovered this precious archaeological site in 1936 but the locals have known it for hundreds of years as a strange and sacred place.  It was an important part of the Indian Ocean trading network and a conduit for gold and ivory in return for exotic goods from the Arab and Indian countries.  In its time it competed with Great Zimbabwe and people came from far to pay homage to the king.

The National Parks reserve itself is beautiful bushveld with wonderful rocks that turn gold in the evening light. The park staff have used a sensitivity in developing the facilities that delighted me.  The winding treetop walk amongst the figs and fever trees on the floodplain, is unmatched in our country.  We had sundowners on one of the secluded decks on the cliff edge and we could have been the only people in Africa.  There is warmth in the rocks and stones but it is also found in the people.  The guides and rangers love this place and were generous with their smiles and willingness to share.

I left my soul there playing the ancient game of bao in the holes carved in the rock.  If you love Africa, this is where you will find it.  I have to return before I feel whole again.


One Response

  1. All three were good starts, although Sue’s was the only one that grabbed me. Of all the exerts, I would more than likely want to read Sue’s. Her style is fluid, and her imagery excellent. The other two were a little jaded, and the fluid nature of the English language a little absent.

    All in all a nice set of reading.

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