It’s tiring to hear that word, often overused, to mean so many different things, such as an alternative to ‘excuse me’ to pass by somebody in a crowded public area, to asking forgiveness for messing up when there’s been some minor damage done to someone else’s life.

‘I’m sorry’ could be words uttered without sincerity, although it’s better than saying nothing at all. With minor demeanours, you might not even feel a slight twinge of conscience about the wrongdoing. Just pass it over with:

‘Sorry!’

However, when your conscience bothers you about something you’ve done that has really hurt a loved one or a friend, apologizing takes on a whole different meaning.

Conscience demands more from you than a casual apology.

If you’re serious about salvaging a damaged relationship, then take steps to talk it over with the one you’ve hurt. Not to justify what you’ve done, but to be the humble one, asking for forgiveness.

When unkind words threaten to damage or even destroy a relationship, finding the courage to repair the relationship is fraught with doubt and fear.

Doubt and fear can be overwhelming when facing somebody who is nursing hurt feelings. We doubt we’re doing the right thing by taking the initiative, fearing outright rejection.

You’ll always feel the victim will view you through jaundiced eyes.

The relationship might end or be compromised in some way at the very least, but you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you did your best to right the wrong.

The internal voice that sent you on a guilt trip will calm down and eventually whisper that you did the right thing.

You’ll also be better equipped to handle any future crisis of a similar nature.

But, best of all, you’ll restore and fortify your boundaries to avoid getting into these uncomfortable situations in the first place.

It’s not worth the energy it takes to deal with unnecessary negative damage control.

Energy that might better be channelled into more productive activities.

The next time you feel the need to get involved with other people’s stuff, take a deep breath, say nothing, and save your energy for something more rewarding than wasting your precious time on damage control, like having to say:

‘I’m sorry!’

My father was an angry man whose temper flared up without provocation. There was a lot of shouting and screaming when I was a kid.

His anger was levelled at me. I was not the ideal son, too soft. I didn’t do sports and athletics. Nothing daring or extreme.

When he got angry, I became a target. He said I was useless. I grew up believing that. I believed I wasn’t enough, doing nothing to prove him wrong, just shielding myself from the stinging criticism that still hurts at times when I’m at a low ebb.

I went through life in much the same fashion as I was treated by a parent who failed to see anything good in me. I was angry and resentful, and saw nothing good in myself, either.

Solitude was all I needed. And books.

Then there was the restless wandering, trying to exhaust myself physically. Somehow, that did help to numb the pain.

When you’re in that frame of mind, anxiety and depression are overwhelming, and you often become offended by other people. Close relationships were to be avoided.

Then, decades later, an incident occurred that led to deep reflection and a change of attitude towards my father.

I had to go abroad for a couple of months. I explained to my father that I wouldn’t be able to come home should anything ‘go wrong!’ He knew what I meant. He was dying.

The callousness of my decision didn’t affect me then. It did hit me when I got home and saw the relief on his face that I had come home before he passed away. That did happen a month later. Afterwards, my mother told me he had asked about me every day.

My conscience beat me up then, but it was too late….!

After the funeral, I had a hard conversation with my aunt, Dad’s sister.

It was a revelation like finding the missing piece to a puzzle. It led to a better understanding of a father who needed nurturing as much as I did. He had suffered as a child for whatever reason and couldn’t give me what he didn’t have himself.

I found comfort knowing that his anger wasn’t about me. It was about him and his own childhood needs that were never met.

The resentment gave way to empathy. In turn, with empathy, I was able to replace other negative feelings I had toward others.

I now see hurt friends and family trying to cope as best they can with their own problems. They aren’t out to hurt me at all, just grappling with their own issues. We are all in the same boat. Suffering from similar compounded childhood traumas and the nonsense life dishes up along the way.

Forgiveness has relieved me of a crushing burden. The weight of resentment is as heavy to carry as a 10-kilogram sack of potatoes.

My mental health has improved along with my relationships with friends and family.

We’re all imperfect and will hurt each other from time to time. It’s inevitable but seldom intentional.

The principle: Practice forgiving others as much as you can. It’s a superlative act of love.

Nothing prepares you for the death of a loved one. Not even the doctor’s prognosis that death is imminent.

At the time of my mother’s passing, I was living with her. Now, I was all alone in life, except for my sisters, who had their own families and lives to lead.

I was nearly 60 years old, mourning the death of the person who had meant more than a mother to me. She had been my best friend.

Grief is nasty; it overwhelms and suffocates! Why did she have to leave now? I needed her.

The anger I felt was confusing. Was I angry with her for leaving?

That couldn’t be. It wasn’t her fault. Death took her away against her will.

Maybe I was angry with myself for not doing more for her when I had the opportunity?

When a close friend or relative dies, the feelings you have suffer a violent battering, much like a tree that loses a primary branch in a windstorm. The tree needs to be pruned and nurtured to grow again. Like that tree, your love needs to be restored and nurtured to make you whole again.

The love will recover when you learn to practice one of the greatest expressions of love. Forgiveness. That word carries the basic meaning of ‘letting go’ of something. Letting go of anger, phasing it out of your life as you heal from grieving.

Forgive yourself for what you perceive to be the lack of love you showed your departed loved one.

In essence, it’s the love you still have within you that you can no longer attach to the deceased loved one. It’s love seeking another attachment.

The thing about true forgiveness is that it is a gift you give yourself.

When the mourning period has run its natural course and with restored love in your heart, you’ll discover you’re more in control of your emotions.

There will come a day when you can sit back to appreciate how far you’ve come.

The cathartic effect of grieving is that it teaches you a whole lot about yourself that you were unaware of before.

About endurance, resilience, and courage.

Endurance: The ability to endure the pain of grief.

Resilience: To become tough enough to cope with the challenges grief brings, without falling apart completely.

Courage: To be brave enough to find the strength to turn your life around. To move ahead with renewed strength and vigour.

The death of a loved one will change your life forever. It depends on whether you heed the lessons grief teaches you.

To be humble is often caricatured as a poor, undesirable character, such as the fictional Uriah Heep in David Copperfield. His fake, sycophantic humility seems to be bound up with the very meaning of the word.

It’s the 21st Century, and the pendulum has swung to the present period, when egotism is the new normal.

This is not about a natural ego common to all humans. Self-love is healthy, and pride in ourselves when we reach our goals in life. We’re comparing ourselves to ourselves. Nothing wrong with that!

Today, however, it’s all about the individual without regard for anyone else.

So, there are plenty of vacancies in the Department of Humilities.

Here are some work requirements and benefits:

See other people as superior to you. There will always be someone who can do something you can’t do. Knows something you don’t know. Excels at art, music, or sports. Or has a stronger character than yours.

These are the people you want to befriend. Put your pride and envy in your pocket and learn from these people. They’re going to take you places you’ve never been to before. Places you can only get to when you apply their way of doing things in your own life.

Job description: Eternal student.

Benefit: Learning prevents brain atrophy.

Be the lesser one when it comes to manifesting love and kindness. When things go wrong in any relationship, be the first to seek forgiveness.

Be patient and merciful. Treat others like you want to be treated.

Job description: Being altruistic. Put others first.

Benefit: Inner joy and contentment.

Develop the ability to let something come from the other person.

It’s almost like putting a thought in their heads that you want them to verbalize on your behalf.

Make them feel special in this way of communication.

Take up the line of thought and run with it. Their advice is worth following.

Give them feedback when you next see them.

Job description: Psychology of sorts. Reverse psychology, even.

Benefits: You feel good about making the other person feel special.

Finally, never brag or make yourself look good or special in any way. It’s always about the other person.

Let praise always come from others, and when it does, accept it humbly.

Humble people have inner strength and resilience. Inner peace and calm.

They aren’t in competition with anybody and are content with who they are and what they‘ve got.

No matter the curveballs life throws at them, humble people have nothing to lose because they have the most important quality of all.

Joie de vivre.

Authentic, recorded history, and local storytelling are two different things.

Some facts about Georgia’s exclusive culture:

As a nation, Georgia has never invaded any other country.

They have been conquered by the Ottomans, Persians, Mongols, and Soviets, to boot.

There were defenders such as King Vakhtang, King David the Builder, and Queen Tamar, but little is known of their heroic deeds outside Georgia.

But then in modern times, one man did more to change the course of history than anybody else who came before him.

That man was Joseph Stalin.

He was born Josef Jughashvili in the central Georgian town of Gori. He changed his name to Stalin (Man of Steel) to align himself more closely with his Russian revolutionary counterparts. His name is hardly ever mentioned among Georgians or any of the other former Soviet satellite countries. Here in Gori, there is a small group of his townsmen who do still give him honour. They even commemorate his birthday, although the numbers are dwindling.( Stalin’s hometown in Georgia celebrated his 143rd birth anniversary)

I was here in his hometown to see for myself what I might glean from the Stalin Museum about the man. The incorrigible psychopath. Was he born that way, or when did the crossover from sanity to insanity take place?

Our local tour guide was all apologetic. He acknowledged that there is recorded proof of the atrocities committed by the dictator, and that whatever opinion individuals have of him is the right one.

But here I was at the museum to his honor. I was all in.

It turned out to be a ballroom-sized picture gallery of poster-sized photographs of Stalin at various stages of his life.

All of them had been photoshopped except for the last photograph in the gallery, which showed his facial scars (He had contracted smallpox as a child). Another photograph showed his withered left hand.

There was a photograph of Stalin during the period of collectivization, a photograph of a woman driving a tractor.

There was another small section dedicated to his family, a picture of his first and second wives, and photos of his children.

Then there was the room displaying a golden death mask of Stalin.

In the last room, a collection of all the gifts given to Stalin as birthday presents was displayed along with a reconstruction of his conference room, where he met with his cabinet. All the furniture was original.

After viewing a model of a Siberian prison cell where Stalin had been incarcerated during his revolutionary years, the museum tour ended.

Throughout the tour, there was no mention of all the mass murders committed at Stalin’s orders against his own people. Or the millions who died during the Stalin-induced famine in Russia and Ukraine. There was a brief reference to the purging of his generals, though.

We went outside, bypassing the tiny cottage in which Stalin had been born. It was off-limits due to renovation.

Finally, the tour ended at the green, bulletproof train carriage used by Stalin for travelling. He had a phobia of flying and only travelled by train.

Our tour guide invited questions. There were none. We seemed like a group numbed into silence. It wasn’t what we expected, but it spoke volumes about how, given the time and place, history can be retold. It all depends on the one telling the narrative. It doesn’t matter. A museum cannot change the facts of history.

The Stalin Museum visit told me something about the people of Gori that I would never have known had I not gone on tour that day.

It’s good for business. From the museum staff to the vendors and shops selling Stalin memorabilia. To the wine shops selling his favorite red wine blend (Khvanchkara) and the thriving eateries all cashing in on the tourists, Joseph Stalin is doing more good for his townsmen in death than he ever did for them during his lifetime.

The parking lot in front of the museum was packed with tourist buses. Gori is on the tourist radar.

Back in Tbilisi, I found the Underground Printing House Museum. It was the secret house where Stalin printed his revolutionary (anti-Tsarist literature) pamphlets between 1903 and 1906. I’ll think about a future tour of Soviet history.

For now, it’s enough to compare history with the local storytelling.

Authentic, recorded history, and local storytelling are two different things.

Some facts about Georgia’s exclusive culture:

As a nation, Georgia has never invaded any other country.

They have been conquered by the Ottomans, Persians, Mongols, and Soviets, to boot.

There were defenders such as King Vakhtang, King David the Builder, and Queen Tamar, but little is known of their heroic deeds outside Georgia.

But then in modern times, one man did more to change the course of history than anybody else who came before him.

That man was Joseph Stalin.

He was born Josef Jughashvili in the central Georgian town of Gori. He changed his name to Stalin (Man of Steel) to align himself more closely with his Russian revolutionary counterparts. His name is hardly ever mentioned among Georgians or any of the other former Soviet satellite countries. Here in Gori, there is a small group of his townsmen who do still give him honour. They even commemorate his birthday, although the numbers are dwindling.( Stalin’s hometown in Georgia celebrated his 143rd birth anniversary)

I was here in his hometown to see for myself what I might glean from the Stalin Museum about the man. The incorrigible psychopath. Was he born that way, or when did the crossover from sanity to insanity take place?

Our local tour guide was all apologetic. He acknowledged that there is recorded proof of the atrocities committed by the dictator, and that whatever opinion individuals have of him is the right one.

But here I was at the museum to his honor. I was all in.

It turned out to be a ballroom-sized picture gallery of poster-sized photographs of Stalin at various stages of his life.

All of them had been photoshopped except for the last photograph in the gallery, which showed his facial scars (He had contracted smallpox as a child). Another photograph showed his withered left hand.

There was a photograph of Stalin during the period of collectivization, a photograph of a woman driving a tractor.

There was another small section dedicated to his family, a picture of his first and second wives, and photos of his children.

Then there was the room displaying a golden death mask of Stalin.

In the last room, a collection of all the gifts given to Stalin as birthday presents was displayed along with a reconstruction of his conference room, where he met with his cabinet. All the furniture was original.

After viewing a model of a Siberian prison cell where Stalin had been incarcerated during his revolutionary years, the museum tour ended.

Throughout the tour, there was no mention of all the mass murders committed at Stalin’s orders against his own people. Or the millions who died during the Stalin-induced famine in Russia and Ukraine. There was a brief reference to the purging of his generals, though.

We went outside, bypassing the tiny cottage in which Stalin had been born. It was off-limits due to renovation.

Finally, the tour ended at the green, bulletproof train carriage used by Stalin for travelling. He had a phobia of flying and only travelled by train.

Our tour guide invited questions. There were none. We seemed like a group numbed into silence. It wasn’t what we expected, but it spoke volumes about how, given the time and place, history can be retold. It all depends on the one telling the narrative. It doesn’t matter. A museum cannot change the facts of history.

The Stalin Museum visit told me something about the people of Gori that I would never have known had I not gone on tour that day.

It’s good for business. From the museum staff to the vendors and shops selling Stalin memorabilia. To the wine shops selling his favorite red wine blend (Khvanchkara) and the thriving eateries all cashing in on the tourists, Joseph Stalin is doing more good for his townsmen in death than he ever did for them during his lifetime.

The parking lot in front of the museum was packed with tourist buses. Gori is on the tourist radar.

Back in Tbilisi, I found the Underground Printing House Museum. It was the secret house where Stalin printed his revolutionary (anti-Tsarist literature) pamphlets between 1903 and 1906. I’ll think about a future tour of Soviet history.

For now, it’s enough to compare history with the local storytelling.

Authentic, recorded history, and local storytelling are two different things.

Some facts about Georgia’s exclusive culture:

As a nation, Georgia has never invaded any other country.

They have been conquered by the Ottomans, Persians, Mongols, and Soviets, to boot.

There were defenders such as King Vakhtang, King David the Builder, and Queen Tamar, but little is known of their heroic deeds outside Georgia.

But then in modern times, one man did more to change the course of history than anybody else who came before him.

That man was Joseph Stalin.

He was born Josef Jughashvili in the central Georgian town of Gori. He changed his name to Stalin (Man of Steel) to align himself more closely with his Russian revolutionary counterparts. His name is hardly ever mentioned among Georgians or any of the other former Soviet satellite countries. Here in Gori, there is a small group of his townsmen who do still give him honour. They even commemorate his birthday, although the numbers are dwindling.( Stalin’s hometown in Georgia celebrated his 143rd birth anniversary)

I was here in his hometown to see for myself what I might glean from the Stalin Museum about the man. The incorrigible psychopath. Was he born that way, or when did the crossover from sanity to insanity take place?

Our local tour guide was all apologetic. He acknowledged that there is recorded proof of the atrocities committed by the dictator, and that whatever opinion individuals have of him is the right one.

But here I was at the museum to his honor. I was all in.

It turned out to be a ballroom-sized picture gallery of poster-sized photographs of Stalin at various stages of his life.

All of them had been photoshopped except for the last photograph in the gallery, which showed his facial scars (He had contracted smallpox as a child). Another photograph showed his withered left hand.

There was a photograph of Stalin during the period of collectivization, a photograph of a woman driving a tractor.

There was another small section dedicated to his family, a picture of his first and second wives, and photos of his children.

Then there was the room displaying a golden death mask of Stalin.

In the last room, a collection of all the gifts given to Stalin as birthday presents was displayed along with a reconstruction of his conference room, where he met with his cabinet. All the furniture was original.

After viewing a model of a Siberian prison cell where Stalin had been incarcerated during his revolutionary years, the museum tour ended.

Throughout the tour, there was no mention of all the mass murders committed at Stalin’s orders against his own people. Or the millions who died during the Stalin-induced famine in Russia and Ukraine. There was a brief reference to the purging of his generals, though.

We went outside, bypassing the tiny cottage in which Stalin had been born. It was off-limits due to renovation.

Finally, the tour ended at the green, bulletproof train carriage used by Stalin for travelling. He had a phobia of flying and only travelled by train.

Our tour guide invited questions. There were none. We seemed like a group numbed into silence. It wasn’t what we expected, but it spoke volumes about how, given the time and place, history can be retold. It all depends on the one telling the narrative. It doesn’t matter. A museum cannot change the facts of history.

The Stalin Museum visit told me something about the people of Gori that I would never have known had I not gone on tour that day.

It’s good for business. From the museum staff to the vendors and shops selling Stalin memorabilia. To the wine shops selling his favorite red wine blend (Khvanchkara) and the thriving eateries all cashing in on the tourists, Joseph Stalin is doing more good for his townsmen in death than he ever did for them during his lifetime.

The parking lot in front of the museum was packed with tourist buses. Gori is on the tourist radar.

Back in Tbilisi, I found the Underground Printing House Museum. It was the secret house where Stalin printed his revolutionary (anti-Tsarist literature) pamphlets between 1903 and 1906. I’ll think about a future tour of Soviet history.

For now, it’s enough to compare history with the local storytelling.

Nostalgia can become indulgent, like an Instagram story of happy events replayed each year. It’s nothing more than a moment in time.

The older I get, the more I reminisce about my childhood. I grew up in a village nestling between a beach and a lagoon, in full view of panoramic Table Mountain.

Those were carefree days of endless wandering along the beach and swimming in the quiet waters of the lagoon estuary, when responsible adults were around to watch over us kids.

Those were the 1960s when The Beatles revolutionized music and Twiggy donned a miniskirt, becoming a fashion icon.

The pivotal date of November 22, 1963, lives with me forever — the assassination of JFK.

I was eight years old at the time. All the adults were glued to their ‘wirelesses’, listening in horror as events unfolded.

The reality of life at home was just as disturbing, not as carefree and idyllic as nostalgia would have it.

I was in turmoil. Misunderstood by my father, but with a sympathetic mother. School was a nightmare I faced each day with a knot in my stomach because I couldn’t make head or tail of math and arithmetic. Overwhelmed with social anxieties and wandering around for hours on end, looking for solitude. I would soon fall headlong into clinical depression and fail twice at passing my final grade at school.

However, the hard times you go through define you as a person, and you survive. Thrive even.

Throughout the different stages of adulthood, it becomes easier to adapt to new challenges and circumstances.

Then you reach a pivotal time in your life when the years suggest you’ve reached your old age.

It’s that crucial stage when you are faced with the question of what you’re going to do with the remaining years of your life.

This is a good time to have a coffee break with Nostalgia, like she’s a wise old auntie, and listen to what she is kindly saying to you. Could she be telling you to reverse your thinking process? To project those happy memories into your future.

There’s no need to sit in an armchair and sigh about a bygone era.

Reinvent your life. Start today. Create a future that will be creative, bringing joy and meaning to your life.

It doesn’t have to be something radical, like wandering around from country to country with nothing but a suitcase and a laptop in tow. That works rather well for me, though.

It could be something simple and cost you very little, like becoming the most altruistic person you’ll ever find. The friend other people want to make memories with.

That’s true love!

Aging is the ultimate paradox. We feel it creeping up on us, yet the brain is slow to catch up. In some cases, our biological age is younger than our chronological age.

It all depends on how you perceive the aging process and what you’re telling yourself about your age.

It comes as a shock to be called out as an old man. It leaves you feeling vulnerable and insecure when friends and family start making innuendos about what you should be doing with your life now that you’re in your mid-sixties.

Not that they weren’t acting in my best interests, of course. There I was, unmarried with no romantic relationship to my credit and no close friendships to boot. Coming across as depressed and wandering around with no purpose in life.

There was only one exceptional relationship. My friendship with my mother. Her love was unconditional. But she had passed away, and I have never stopped grieving.

The grief isolated me even further from other friends, in fear that they would also abandon me. Now that she was gone, there was nobody else to live for.

What gets to you is that nobody finds it in their heart to ask how you’re getting along! If everything’s okay?

I felt a certain detachment taking place. I was becoming unseen and left behind, like an old lion that’s abandoned when it cannot keep up with the pack any longer.

They were right about one thing. I was an intrepid wanderer.

Old Walkabout, some called me. Hiking trails, walking about the city, and long beach walks helped to clear my mind calm my restless spirit.

However, there came a crucial moment when I finally came to my senses. It was a suggestion from a friend about checking out a few old-age homes. To find one where I felt comfortable and where the palliative care option would be available if I needed it in the future.

If he hadn’t been so direct about it, I might have thought nothing of it. It sounded so much like an insult that I knew he didn’t care about me or if I had any other plans for my future.

It was then that I knew I had to take back control of my life and make my own decisions.

Without a word, I sold up, packed a suitcase with a laptop in my carry-on bag, and announced, quite casually, to my two bewildered sisters, that I would be going abroad indefinitely and had no idea when I’d be back, if ever!

I did no planning at all. A nomadic, wandering lifestyle doesn’t need it!

Adventurers don’t take notice of geographical borders. You go wherever you want within the constraints of your passport requirements.

On October 7, 2019, I flew out of Cape Town, never to return to live in South Africa again. Since then, I have lived in three countries, including Georgia, where I currently reside.

I have no regrets!

I live from day to day. Each day is a new adventure. I make it happen that way!

It was a moment of great relief to reclaim my life. To be the one making my own decisions.

Something akin to a coup d’etat

Here’s how I rekindled my zest for life!

That’s me in Tbilisi, December 2025.

Aging is the ultimate paradox. We feel it creeping up on us, yet the brain is slow to catch up. In some cases, our biological age is younger than our chronological age.

It all depends on how you perceive the aging process and what you’re telling yourself about your age.

It comes as a shock to be called out as an old man. It leaves you feeling vulnerable and insecure when friends and family start making innuendos about what you should be doing with your life now that you’re in your mid-sixties.

Not that they weren’t acting in my best interests, of course. There I was, unmarried with no romantic relationship to my credit and no close friendships to boot. Coming across as depressed and wandering around with no purpose in life.

There was only one exceptional relationship. My friendship with my mother. Her love was unconditional. But she had passed away, and I have never stopped grieving.

The grief isolated me even further from other friends, in fear that they would also abandon me. Now that she was gone, there was nobody else to live for.

What gets to you is that nobody finds it in their heart to ask how you’re getting along! If everything’s okay?

I felt a certain detachment taking place. I was becoming unseen and left behind, like an old lion that’s abandoned when it cannot keep up with the pack any longer.

They were right about one thing. I was an intrepid wanderer.

Old Walkabout, some called me. Hiking trails, walking about the city, and long beach walks helped to clear my mind calm my restless spirit.

However, there came a crucial moment when I finally came to my senses. It was a suggestion from a friend about checking out a few old-age homes. To find one where I felt comfortable and where the palliative care option would be available if I needed it in the future.

If he hadn’t been so direct about it, I might have thought nothing of it. It sounded so much like an insult that I knew he didn’t care about me or if I had any other plans for my future.

It was then that I knew I had to take back control of my life and make my own decisions.

Without a word, I sold up, packed a suitcase with a laptop in my carry-on bag, and announced, quite casually, to my two bewildered sisters, that I would be going abroad indefinitely and had no idea when I’d be back, if ever!

I did no planning at all. A nomadic, wandering lifestyle doesn’t need it!

Adventurers don’t take notice of geographical borders. You go wherever you want within the constraints of your passport requirements.

On October 7, 2019, I flew out of Cape Town, never to return to live in South Africa again. Since then, I have lived in three countries, including Georgia, where I currently reside.

I have no regrets!

I live from day to day. Each day is a new adventure. I make it happen that way!

It was a moment of great relief to reclaim my life. To be the one making my own decisions.

Something akin to a coup d’etat