Mine

Summer fading.
Winter creeping.
I feel each death a personal dying.
The grey sky, my sadly feathered nest.

All smells more poignant
as if to remind: enjoy us now, as we will pass you by, your lifeblood has limits, your hourglass has been turned, your life is uncertain, your fragility a guarantee.
Not unkindly they remind of days long gone,
times passed under the bridge like water never to return to us again.

A child birthed
A promise broken
A love lost
A meaningful encounter
An unknown piece of earth explored
Nevermore will these be as they were before.

They slip out of view as the passing seasons.
Leaving us longing for just one second,
just one more breath
in that space and time.

Where we once so confidently held on to the hourglass saying:
This is mine.

On Truth - Shantaram

How true this is:

There's a truth deeper than experience. It's beyond what we see, or even what we feel. It's an order of truth that separates the profound from the merely clever, and the reality from the perception. We're helpless, usually, in the face of it; and the cost of knowing it, like the cost of knowing love, is sometimes greater than any heart would willingly pay. It doesn't always help us to love the world, but it does prevent us from hating the world. And the only way to know that truth is to share it, from heart to heart, just as Prabhakar told it to me, just as I'm telling it to you now.

Karla - Shantaram

Some loves are like that. Most loves are like that, from what I can see. Your heart starts to feel like an overcrowded lifeboat. You throw your pride out to keep it afloat, and your self-respect and your independence. After a while you start throwing people out—your friends, everyone you used to know. And it’s still not enough. The lifeboat is still sinking, and you know it’s going to take you down with it.

Avett Brothers -

"Wouldn't it be fine to stand behind the words we say in the best of times?"

Ode aan Edward

Ek bel die aand agt uur vir Edward. Ons moet trek. Alleen trek. Een volwassene en een vierjarige genaamd A. Verraai, verdwaal, vertrek.  

‘Hi, Edward.  Dis Cindy.  Kan jy more kom?’

‘Ja, mies.’

‘Baie dankie. Dit reën baie. Die gras is lank en hier is ‘n muur wat ons moet verf.’

‘Dis reg mies.’

‘Okei Edward, sien jou more.  Mooi bly.’

‘Dis reg mies.’

Edward daag 8 uur die oggend op. Half krom van die ouderdom.

A hardloop in die gang af, al skreeuende: ‘Oom Edeeeeward, oom Edeeeward.’

‘Hallo Kleintjie. Hoe is die skool?’

‘Goed. Wat doen jy? Kan ek jou help? Waar kry jy jou sak? Wat is daarin?, stort A sy gewone vloed van vrae op ons uit.

Edward kyk die spul bokse in die motorhuis uitdrukkingloos aan.  ‘Ons gaan trek,’sê ek nodeloos.  Edward vra waarheen en ek gee rigtings en name.

Ek voel onverwags groot klonte hartseer in my keel vassteek.  ‘Ek gaan jou mis, Edward.’

‘Dis reg mies.’

A skree al die pad skool toe: ‘Ek wil oom Edeeward help.’

Verdwaalde trane rol so nou en dan oor my wange.

Ek onthou hoe my pad met Edward begin het. Ek het altyd die bure se pragtige gesnyde gras met bewondering beny.  My vervreemde man het een week kante gesny en een week gras, wat in die somer vir ‘n armlastige prentjie gesorg het. Hy het geweier om hulp te kry en ook geweier om ‘n behoorlike poging aan te wend – selfs te midde van die feit dat hy vir maande werkloos was en bleikbaar sy tyd spandeer het om vir hom iemand te soek om ‘n verhouding mee te hê in sy tyd by die huis.  Hierdie is nie sy storie nie.

Na hy die huis verlaat het, het ek Edward hangkop gaan opsoek.  Edward was eers maar suur en onvriendelik. Hy het egter ingestem om my elke Dinsdag te kom help. Met rooi oë het ek menigte oggend die motorhuis se afstandbeheer oorhandig. Die gras het egter geblom.

Edward het stadig maar seker sy hart vir my oopgemaak. Ek het begin merk dat iemand vir my die vuilgoedblik uitstoot en terugbring wanneer ek vergeet. Die blomme het ook water gekry by ‘n geheime engel, op die dae wat hy by die bure gewerk het.

Terug by die huis wys Edward vir my die wheat eater se kabel en sê ek moet baie gaan koop want hy gebruik die bure s’n by my en gaan dit moet terugsit. Ek ry deur die strate en kyk na al die landmerke waarby ek elke dag vir die laaste jaar verby gery het.  It was the best of times it was the worst of times.  Ek dink aan iets wat Friedrich Nietzsche  gesê het – van hoe mense wat werklik karakter het met tragedie en uitdagings in hulle lewens speel as eksperiment en kyk wat hulle kan word daardeur. Ek wonder of ek een van hulle is. Hierdie is nie my storie nie.

Edward bedank my vir die kabel en laat my weet daar is geen swartsakke nie. Ek ry glimlaggend terug na die supermark, vertroos deur hierdie gemaklike roetine tussen ons.

Edward verander die gras vir oulaas in iets gelyk aan ‘n golfbaan. Hy verf ‘n muur en maak ‘n paar gate toe.

Toe hy begin regmaak om te gaan, staan ek beteurterd rond. Iets tussen ons is net nie afgehandel nie. ‘Hierdie huis is te groot vir my, Edward. Ek en A moet na iets kleiner kyk. Hier trek ander mense in. Ek het vir hulle gesê van jou en ek dink hulle sal ook wil hê jy moet vir hulle werk. Ek het sommer gesê wat ek jou betaal ook.’

‘Dis reg mies. Is hulle goeie mense?’

‘Dit weet ek nie, Edward. Ek weet regtig nie.’

 

No coward soul is mine - Emily Brontë

Charlotte Brontë notes, "The following are the last lines my sister Emily ever wrote."

No coward soul is mine No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere I see Heaven's glories shine And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear     0 God within my breast Almighty ever-present Deity Life, that in me hast rest As I Undying Life, have power in Thee!     Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds Or idlest froth amid the boundless main     To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thy infinity So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of Immortality     With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears     Though Earth and moon were gone And suns and universes ceased to be And thou wert left alone Every Existence would exist in thee     There is not room for Death Nor atom that his might could render void Since thou art Being and Breath And what thou art may never be destroyed.

Risk - Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,

when the risk

to remain tight

in a bud

was more painful

than the risk
it took
to Blossom.