I’ve been living a lie for as long as I can remember. Having spent half my life trying to figure out how to inspire people to find joy in nature or dancing or friendship or meditation or music, I admit to myself that sometimes I am in the presence of all these wonderful things in the most disengaged and disagreeable manner.
In truth, the single thing that inspires me and fills me with hope in our bone-weary world, is the source of divinity that finds expression as a prayer flowing through the cells of my body and out into the trees, rocks, and grasses. When I search for it, its tendrils unfurl into the veld I’m walking in, towards friends I’m laughing amongst, amongst sadnesses we have shared, or into the tenderness I feel towards a towards a leek flower in my garden as I drink tea on my stoep. It flows from all these places back into me in a fusion of spirit, soul and earthly delight and it gives me reason for being alive.
At four thirty in the morning, a cock crows in the valley, calling me home to the softly vulnerable place within me that ignites a genuine love of life.