Reading so many posts on year-end reflections and listening to the news about floods, drownings and aeroplanes lost at sea, I am drawn to making some connections.
Sometimes an insight knocks you off your feet so hard that it takes a while to articulate it. Making the connections intuitively doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready to share it with the outside world. Sometimes a revelation needs to be nurtured in the dark womb of your own imagination before you’re ready to introduce it to the glare of public scrutiny.
And like a small child this truth has been gently offered to one, then two, then a few more people, until now, when I’m confident enough to share it publicly. So here goes.
The rhythm is hypnotic. Feet come down in unison, scoring the sand, kicking up dust. Seed husks rattle and hiss around calves wiry and dry. On the periphery, silhouettes clap, keeping the beat for the dancers. A figure tosses buchu on the fire blasting mossy aromas into sweat-scented air.
We’re on Poison Mountain and the night before us is long.
There are times in life when a seemingly insignificant experience lives with you long after the event. This ‘thing’ takes on a life of its own and sits on your shoulder tapping away asking for recognition. It happened to me not so long ago.
A visit to an unique rock art site, called Driekopseiland, revealed a level of spirituality in the First People of Africa that I don’t believe has been appreciated before. What follows is a testimony.
It’s hard not to feel the power of the place when you first step on the smooth bed of the Riet River. And when you start to discover the etchings – 3500 of them concentrated over a hundred square metres – you realise that this was one very important location to the people who scratched at the rock 1300 years ago.
As one discovery leads you onto another and another you get drawn into its mystery as surely as if you were in the curve of its vortex.