Without Exclamation
It’s the middle of July in the holy land (and likely in the rest of the world too). The highveld is that very specific highveld winter tan. The sky is that very specific highveld winter blue. Looking at the horizon, it’s impossible not to feel a tug at my heart for this landscape, despite it being so very different from my birth village landscape. Over the past twenty (very) odd years I have developed an abiding love for the stark beauty of the highveld and in particular for its winter landscapes. The city based views are good, still very green with patches of winter but the classic landscape only gets better the further you go away from the mine dump village. And while I’ve been committed to this highveld winter by a devious sleight of hand dealt by Fate and delivered by her bumbling human assistant, I’ve accepted the cards handed to me for the winter in the year of our (Christian) lord 2024.
Okay; let me admit — the acceptance of this hand of a winter in the mine dump village over a winter on the wild coast of the Indian Ocean has not been easy. When I first realised that Fate had used an insubstantial human to deliver this fate I was as peeved at the choice of human as much as the fate itself. Surely Fate had a plethora of options amongst humans to deliver such a harsh blow and still she chose this one. It stung to have the delicately arranged wild coast winter by the sea replaced with a highveld winter in the mine dump village. In the intervening weeks since this chilling fate; I have maintained a calm, peaceful facade. While raging at the injustice of it in my inside voice. And now much later in word. For posterity maybe, as a reflection maybe. As a note to self about gratitude, about choice, about freedom, about growth. Maybe even a little about peace. Maybe choosing to write about this fate is a way to take a dull knife to the underside of a stone kitchen counter. Renewing the edge while slowly changing it.
I share these reflections with the Dervish over a long call with many interruptions. The interruptions on her side are enlivened by the shrieks, gurgles and a general sonic bombardment from her little human. On my side by having to attend the human who comes by the current billet to charge his phone, take a shower and stuff the refuse bin full of dead leaves. He renders a stellar performance of being the ‘garden guy.’ In return, I imagine the owners render an equally good performance of paying him. It’s a win-win situation. Except for the dead leaves of course. They are relegated to an eternal hell of not being able to move to the next level of their existence as compost or even topsoil, trapped as they are in a plastic bag in a plastic wheelie bin. ‘Garden Guy’ also uses some of his precious time to knock on the window every now and then. Once I get down there, he generally has a list of questions I am unable to comprehend and I gently respond with my most incomprehensible nods, smiles and offers of oranges and apples. It’s a wonderfully enriching experience each time and I am grateful for the opportunity to have and hold such sublime exchanges while the toddler of the Dervish shouts out on speaker from above. Maybe this is what it was like for Moses when he got the Word — it might also explain the existence of a mere ten commandments and no more.
The Dervish erupts into laughter about the toddler being the voice of the big guy to the Abrahamic Mo on Sinai. Not to be confused with the Islamic Mo on Twitter. I remain unmoved. Except for her laughter of course, which has all the textural richness of a Danie Malan tinta barroca.
The first time I saw my papa sharpen a knife on the underside of a suspended stone counter, I was amazed. And I still am every time I remember to do it myself. There’s just something to the action that plugs directly into my being. Thank you for the reminder, I’ll make a show of sharpening all the knives later. But let me touch you on your Highveld winter first.
It’s my turn to laugh. Though I imagine my laughter has only all the textural quality of my scrofula neighbours germs and of recent, too many roll-ups.
She adds; If I recall, it was just about a year ago when you described growing out of the highveld mine dump village (as you refer to it). Headed towards new growth you said.
Two-years ago I say.
Yikes. She exclaims.
But without the exclamation mark I interject.
There’s the briefest pause before the Dervish cracks up. You’re the cheesiest human I know she adds. We meander into Murakami’s epic work for a bit and eventually return to the thread we’d been twirling.
In two short years, you have gone from departing to returning. As irrevocably as you left, so have you been returned. If I were being dramatic, I’d daresay this might be your ground zero for growth. Maybe it’s the place you use as an internal locus to measure your growth by. Given your path thus far and the significance of the heights and depths you’ve touched in this space, it has become your very own ‘el dorado’. She giggles and a moment later I join her.
Yeah, sure and I’m the cheesiest, I say.
There’s a long silence.
She eventually chimes in; consider that the messiest pathways to growth often lead to the clearest reflections and if that’s not your box of chocolates, then try ‘growth is as growth does.’
Without Exclamation is a note about dashed hopes, the faithless, people who read and their cheesy insider jokes.
© Jesh Baker for Oppi Stoep 2024, All Rights Reserved
