As the years have passed me by, and the crows have walked across the corners of my eyes with their heavy feet, I have learnt a lot about life, and loss, and about how immeasurably tough it can be to hold on to hope in times of trouble.

I met up by accident recently with friends of mine from my post-Matric days.  We jumped up with excitement when we saw each other, and what surprised me the most was how little we all seemed to have changed.  We made a plan to meet up for dinner the following week, exchanged numbers which after twenty-odd years had changed, and moved on to our respective dinners. Seven sleeps later, we found ourselves sitting around a table together, reminiscing about our salad days, and shrieking with laughter as we recalled our fun, mad and completely care-free evenings of yester-decade.

One of my friends had his parents there, who were up from the coast for the weekend, and who were able to join us.  One of the many benefits of hitting forty is in knowing that it is not going to adversely affect your reputation to be seen with your parents, or those of your friends.  And indeed, it was this particular father who made me laugh the most that evening.  We were on (about) bottle number two, talking about how we used to park our cars in Rosebank and walk to all our respective favourite bars (oh, the freedom!), and how we used to light Sambuca and attach the tot glasses to various parts of our bodies (oh, the maturity!), when this dad said loudly at the table, “you know Philippa, I will never forget meeting you for the first time!”  Unsurprisingly, I did not recall this particular encounter, so I had to enquire as to the details.  Mr. Moore proceeded to tell me how he was in Johannesburg on business, some twenty one years ago, and how he had telephoned his son to find out his whereabouts, only to be pointed in the direction of a local bar.

Mr. Moore recounted to the table how he had walked into this establishment and seen his son, and three other young men all huddled around a bar top, drinks in hand, listening intently to one lone nubile lass, who was talking loudly and telling jokes, wine glass in hand, to these four then fixated lads, who were apparently completely taken in by the story of the minute… Mr. Moore’s exact words were, “and there you were Philippa, drinking with the boys and telling jokes!”

The entire social congregation erupted with laughter, including myself, as I could just picture that scene, and nothing surprised me less… twenty one years have passed, and so many things have changed, but to be frank, that scenario could be happening right now, in this decade, with different lads, but the same, more weathered-looking lass – in fact, truth be told – this is a sort-of regular occurrence.

The evening progressed, and the stories grew more and more risqué as the minutes marched on.  We then got onto the serious discussions, and the chatter died down as the tone grew more serious.  I was asked what had happened in my life in the past two decades, and I found that the honesty bubbled out of my glossed lips much like an over boiled pasta pot.  As I recounted one story after another, my friend’s eyes grew wider and wider, and the sauvignon blanc got better and better. 

Mr. Moore was of course the most fascinated by all the life events, and he offered by far the most profound advice of the evening.  He said, very simply, “Philippa, as long as you don’t lose hope… promise me, you will never lose hope.”  Of course I promised; sauvignon makes me promise all sorts of things, and we moved on from the evening happily and with old memories now freshly recounted.

Some days went by, and quite by chance, I read the following quote which took me instantly back to that sentence of Mr. Moore’s.  It read as follows:-

Faith is a bird that feels dawn breaking and sings while it is still dark.
    – Rabindranath Tagore

This truly hit home for me.  We are all older now, and we have all been battered and somewhat bruised by life events along the way.  There have been some absolutely incredible moments of elation, and yet also, some absolute moments of deep despair.  I believe the trick, however, is to keep the faith.  Like the bird that sings knowing that the sun is yet to rise, so do I, as the somewhat plump grey pigeon, need to feel the dawn breaking, the tide turning, the sun rising… and sing (not literally) in the dark, knowing that the best, is yet to come.