[A post I wrote for SoulSeekers]
In the last moments before our annual sunset, I can’t help myself but sit in the warm glow of dusk and reflect on what’s been. Numerologically, 2017 was the first year of a new cycle. It broke anew from the rough — and for many, painful, torturous — end-of-cycle that was 2016. It was like that for me; a rebirth on so many fronts and in a lot of wonderful ways.
2018 is going to be the year of living each day for that day’s sake. This is not necessarily in the numbers, but it is in my heart and in my resolve. That means I’m going to untether myself from all of the lovely things I’ve just finished gathering, raise my eyes to the horizon and walk, as bold-footed as I’m able, towards the next thing.
I feel like I’ve always speed-dated my way through life’s archetypal adventures. Continue reading
Once upon a time there was a farm in the southern round of Africa. This farm lay in a dusty stretch that became known as the Platteland because of its flat horizon. At first this region was overlooked by settlers and pioneers—Voortrekkers—because it didn’t have a bustling port or a roaring river or the promise of gold. It was inland, plain, boring. Eventually, though, government officials of the Zuid Afrikaansche Republiek drew lines across hand-sketched maps and sliced the land into sellable pieces. Then weary representatives reluctantly traveled from Pretoria and spiked a number of sharp metal stakes into the soil. It took them five days on horseback to get there. They carved out farms from the endless savannah and christened them with names like Graslaagte and Zoetmelkvallei and Rietfontein¹. During the frequent droughts that swept the region, these names became airless jokes. During wet years, however, the farms bloomed into their namesakes and were attractive alternatives to the fevered and overpopulated Witwatersrand, where Johannesburg was being built with bricks of newly-discovered gold and mortar made from the rot of chewing tobacco. Continue reading