Lee Mayimele

Time seems to have collapsed.

It folds over itself, pulling the past into the present
and the present into something sacred. Moments from fifteen years ago feel like yesterday. Little things slip by before I can even name them.

A family my daughter loves loses their dad. 💔
Rain finally comes to our dry front lawn.
There are celebrations of every kind.
Videos of my three-year-old learning Dutch
feel like they were filmed just the other day.
Old opportunities keep cropping up everywhere.

I do flowers for a funeral.
I do flowers for celebrations.
A ceasefire.
Meetings. Work. Unmet deadlines.

I take a golf lesson that brings fresh air, comedy and humility.
A Hare Krishna dance party leaves me ecstatic.
A moms’ night out fills my heart and my veins with tequila.

The road trips.
The cloak and dagger games.
A real-life bully to deal with too.

I watch the fiery Lauryn Hill live,
have dinner with Lira,
and listen as she speaks bravely about her stroke,
her voice rising through the ache with grace.
The piano flows through our rooms from my brave boy,
anchoring our mornings and softening the nights.
Sound finds the cracks
and mends them gently.

My brave, kind teen watches a second friend lose a parent,
a mom this time.
No words help.
Just witnessing.
Just holding space.

And then she has a celebration of her own.
Her whole future flashing in front of me
while her friends shower her in love and laughter.
I stand quietly on the side, heart full,
watching the light fall on her face,
grateful for her strength, her joy, her becoming.

Saint Levant’s Kalamantina 🍊 plays on repeat.
Water issues. Lucid dreams. Intuition on fire.
I pick spinach, tomatoes, mint for days.
School politics.
I give gifts. Receive more gifts.

And all of it happens in one week,
like time giving everyone the middle finger.

Morning coffees from my love. ☕️
Time with my dad, listening to his stories
about Elvis, about loves and losses.
My brothers, my husband, my son beside him,
three generations linked by rhythm, memory, and laughter.
A single afternoon that glows like an answered prayer.

There are magical moments,
chance encounters that feel like whispers from the universe,
unexpected windfalls, small breakthroughs,
and conversations that crack something open inside me.

Tinder chats with single friends.
Laughs about menopause.
And hearing the term Grey Divorce from Oprah for the first time.

Too much garlic.
Too much laughter.

And a desperate need to ground.
To centre.
To keep looking for the rainbows,
like I promised I would. 🌈

The Compass

In the swirl of it all, I’ve needed something steady.
A compass.

For me, this time, it’s been Prayer Walking . A simple, sacred practice that blends movement, breath, and awareness.

Science says walking resets the nervous system.
It regulates cortisol, opens creativity, and lowers anxiety.
Spirit says it brings you back to yourself.

In Prayer Walking, I find my rhythm again.
I ground, release, centre, sometimes cry.
I walk slowly enough to notice the light shifting,
to hear the hadedas overhead,
to feel the cool air brush against my skin.

And Johannesburg, oh, Johannesburg is showing off lately!
The mornings smell of wild blooms and damp earth.
Jasmine perfumes the evenings.
And after the rain…the smell!
That hopeful, electric scent that makes you pause, breathe, and remember that you are part of it all.

For those few moments, I am not mother, strategist, writer, coach, fixer, or friend.
I am a woman walking.
Feeling the ground beneath my feet.
Letting life move through.

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The Reminder

We all need a compass.
Something to return to when time collapses and the noise grows loud.
It might be Prayer Walking, journaling, gardening, dancing, or simply watching the sky.
It might be a Gratitude Note tucked in a box, a love letter to a fleeting moment.

Whatever it is, hold onto it.
Because it reminds you that you are still here.
Still becoming.
Still guided. Always on time.

I see YOU

xoxo Lee