ubuntuboetie

travels in the global village. journeys internal and through time. integrating constantly. distilled into stories.

Reflections, old and new

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Midwinter’s day, the inflection point of the seasons.

Tomorrow we will turn toward the sun again, and wheel another spiral of our life’s dance. continues

Item Number Three

This morning there was a missed call and message from Detective Malatji at Sandton Police Station: “Please call me back, Mr Hobson.” Queasy adrenalin rush – that I guess might be familiar to other goodie-goodie law abiders like me. Mind racing. Had my conscientious objection to e-tolls finally caught up with me? Read more…

Fog Patches Along the Escarpment: a national anthem

You may have heard these words – fog patches along the escarpment – if you have ever followed the radio weather forecast in South Africa. As a child, our farming family would pause and hush in mid-conversation at least three times a day while the forecast was comfortingly intoned. And for me, the Escarpment was a mysterious, foggy, and far-away place, talked of only in this daily ritual.  continues

Snowflakes, Seven Billion Sexual Orientations, and Caster Semenya

I am a Knowledge Junkie. I had to travel all the way to San Francisco, book myself into a conference on gamification, and attend a 4 o’clock afternoon session to finally hear my condition summarised so neatly, beautifully and precisely into those two words: knowledge junkie. Thank you for that, Andrea Kuszewski! continues

The Listener Speaks

The Listener is about to speak. Dim the lights. Clear the stage. Hush the crowd and take your seats.
Into the glow of expectation steps the Listener now. See him through and through. continues

The End, The Beginning, a poem by Mike Lacey-Smith

So this chapter draws to a close
With a bang, with a whisper
With tears of sadness and of joy.

The little boy lies waiting
For the man within to reclaim what always was
For the victim to become the victor
For the man within to run. continues

Morning Gratitude

Words, spoken,
seem somehow inappropriate
so I will sing a song
that feels like this:

stillness

wholeness

exquisite beauty

and, mostly,
gratitude.

The Journey, a poem by David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again continues

The Journey, a poem by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice,
though the whole house began to tremble
and you felt the old tug at your ankles. continues

I confess that I, too, am a racist

Racism is all the rage in South Africa right now: Gwede Mantashe and the ANC are using racism for their election-year defence of the indefensible; the opposition are using racism to attempt to topple Jimmy Manyi; Trevor Manuel is using racism, though I’m not sure of his game there?

And amongst this noise, I have been following, and have been deeply moved by, the work of human transformation that Jonathan Jansen has initiated at the University of the Orange Free State (UOFS). continues

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