My sword

The banking consultant said, “I overheard your request when you were explaining it to my colleague. I saw you were burdened when you came up the stairs. But you still smiled when you greeted.”

He proceeded to tackle my request and, in the process, revealed that other consultants had (presumably unwittingly) blocked progress on the matter for three years, by giving me incorrect information. The consultant frankly expressed dismay and sadness over the fact that I had been given different stories, which effectively translated into loss of not insubstantial sums of money, with the bank benefiting on the side. Possibly the other consultants had not been adequately trained, or, due to innate lack of curiosity or interest, were simply inadequately motivated to assist.

The consultant had a mean wound on his forehead, which I was tempted to ask him about – had he been bitten by a dog? It was healing well, but it must have been a shocking and painful incident. Nothing in his manner, however, showed that the wound meant anything to him at all and it occurred to me that it might be intrusive of me to ask him about its origin, as it evidently did not cause him pain anymore and he had probably forgotten all about it. Indeed, he was giving all his attention to my finance-related instruction.

While he was working to resolve my situation, a little orange and black bug appeared out of nowhere on the camouflage trousers I was wearing. He was agitated, as bugs tend to be: busy feelering his way through a mission that was a mystery to me. I offered him my finger, which he climbed, scurrying up towards my wrist. I looked around.

“Is there a plant somewhere here?” I asked, but saw only non-living materials: comfortable chairs, sleek desks and counters, laptops, windowed cubicles, and numbered lockers in the space.

“Oh,” exclaimed the consultant, as his gaze moved away from the screen and fell upon the little creature exploring my hand, “I’ve never seen one like it!”

“Would you mind,” I queried, “if I run downstairs quickly and release it outside?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

I hurried past other clients, waiting in huge settees, who might have raised eyebrows, imagining that their patience was being tasked by the needs of a little orange and black bug, had they not also been surprised by the unlikely miniature adventure taking place before them. It was mizzling outside and I set the lithe little beetle into one of the trees that lined the village centre’s parking lot. It would be able to quench any thirst it might have, by sipping a watery droplet, and hopefully be able to make a new life for itself here. I jumped back up the stairs two at a time, aware that my body wasn’t quite acting its age, I am a woman nearing sixty, who has to watch her back. I slowed down enough to retain both health and dignity.

The consultant was still waiting for another department to answer his call and so, I, as well as the people seated around, were obliged to wait. The banker’s gentle presence exuded such patient peace that I felt moved to continue working on a poem that had come to me a couple of days before. I opened my notebook and quietly edited the lines. To my joy, they took on a shape I could not have predicted, a beautiful and profound shape I felt extremely pleased with. In that moment I realised that I must dedicate the poem to the banking consultant. It was a strange experience – an experience I have had over and over, without its ever being the same – of doing something I had never done before. I must set aside self-consciousness, all fear of embarrassment or doubt and judgment, and obey the impulse.

I wrote the poem out in full and dedicated it to the name displayed on the consultant’s tag. When he was done on his side, he gave me all the details of my case, explaining that, since it was a Saturday, my instruction would only be processed on Monday. I expressed my gratitude: he had helped me finally to shed a three-year financial burden. Then I told him what I had been busy doing in the meantime.

“You might have heard the expression that the pen is mightier than the sword,” I said, adding, “I am a poet and had been mulling over an unfinished poem. Your kind presence helped me edit it to a state I am very happy with. So I have dedicated it to you.”

I read the poem aloud and gave it to him. It's a few lines describing the shape and colour of a leaf, showing how it resembles a sword's blade and has its 'hilt' attached to the twig that joins it to the whole tree. The consultant's presence allowed me to understand the lines expanding their meaning to include the Tree of Life, upon which the poem is a small, green leaf, reflecting both the power of the word as well as the connectedness between living beings.

My sword

For Bradley Barnado

Sun through leaf:

bright blade

of green. Red at the hilt:

attached to twig, the holy place,

where sap flows from the tree

into your being.

“Thank you so much,” he said emphatically, “that is so beautiful! I will treasure it!”

He folded the piece of paper and added, “I am so glad I met you!”

“I feel the same,” I replied, “your attentiveness and kindness have made my experience in the bank this morning very special.”

“Thank you! Would you mind saying these things to my manager, emailing her?”

“Not at all, what is her email address?”

“Please also speak to her directly?”

He took me down to her cubicle, but she was not there. I promised to wait for her a few minutes and we said good bye.

When the manager arrived, I told her, “This young man is a gem,” and related what had transpired. She was delighted and asked me please to email her my feedback, something I have yet to do. I will certainly include the link to this blogpost.

A banking consultant who has time for a bug to be freed, and to hear a poem he feels privileged to treasure – he is a man of the new earth in deed. And the old earth, I’ve no doubt, agrees. Wounds do heal, mistakes can be corrected, and a mere leaf can tell us more than we might imagine about the Tree of Life.

– Silke Heiss, 3rd December 2023

The cross

It was at one of John Homewood's talks that I first encountered the figure of the cross as a living articulation between our breath and time itself. 

The timeline of our lives creates the horizontal axis of the cross, made up – if you jot down the events of your life – of the buzz and chaos, with its joys and trials, of every human’s count of days on earth. 

When I inspect my own timeline, I have to admit that it’s a pretty ragged thread of sorrows and misfortunes. Until recently, I was embarrassed by the fact that, in terms of actual incidents, my life seems to be peppered by what most of us would, I guess, call misfortune, bad luck and sorrow. I’ve lost that embarrassment as a result of chronologically listing the basic events of my circumstances, and then reflecting on what endures, as follows. 

During a materially comfortable childhood, I witnessed harsh human dissent and loss of self-control as a given.

My family moved to South Africa, where we lived literally on the edge of a military zone called Voortrekkerhoogte (now Thaba Tshwane). The State at that time promoted and defended racist practices by policy, causing my father to declare that he would be quite content if my sisters and I failed Afrikaans at school – that seemed to be the way he felt he could best contribute to the anti-Apartheid struggle. Friends and boyfriends were conscripted and suffered abuse and violence on all levels.

I left home, and experienced armed soldiers searching my room, friends being sjambokked by police, a pregnant lecturer imprisoned without trial. I taught in violent townships, and in tiny sanctuary spaces offered to township children. I lost my sanity, benefited from the balm of therapy.

Mandela was released and the New South Africa came into being.

I married and experienced the gift of motherhood. My husband and I were economically on the margins, however, to save money I did not eat properly, suffered from overwork, broke down and succumbed again to mental illness, from which, again, I managed to recover. My husband was unwilling to continue the marriage and eventually we divorced.

My second marriage gave me deep spiritual fulfilment, my husband and I published many poetry books together, but he was frail, his failing health was ever a shadow over us. Economic pressure was a constant, he carried much debt.

Then my fit, nimble mother suffered a stroke and was consigned to total physical helplessness. My sister lost her sanity, and my beloved husband died.

I published two poetry books solo.

I was required to sell my late husband's house and leave the village that had become my home. At the same time, Trump was making headlines with his tweets.

I was lucky in love and did not have to move alone. Within weeks of our move, Covid and hard lockdown razed human lives and economies. I lost work and marketing opportunities for my new book. Friends and family fell ill.

My father’s memory began to fail and he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, requiring me to run my parents’ household and take responsibility for their daily needs and overall care.

War continued to ruin the beauty of the Middle East.

My sister is currently in a mental institution and I am praying constantly for her. My Beloved’s heart has urged him to leave me for crucial time to himself – whether temporarily or forever is uncertain.

Russia has invaded Ukraine and I hear alternatingly tragic and hopeful details of the victims from friends who have connections there.

So much for the horizontal axis of my personal cross in a broad sweep – living such a timeline is great training in patience, I’ll say that much. And patience – please consider this carefully – does not mean simply waiting for undesirable situations to pass. Patience is the active (gracious) carrying of an unwanted load towards its end. It’s notable that, except for love and marriage, motherhood, the recovery from my illnesses, and the activities of teaching and poetry publishing, none of the other events on my timeline were chosen by me! I couldn’t have asked for a better, or harder, school than this life to teach me a little graciousness.

I wonder, if you were to make a list of events on YOUR timeline, what the ratio of chosen to unchosen would be. How would you rate YOUR ability to carry unwanted burdens?

♥

Now for the vertical axis – the one, which, I recall John Homewood observing, you plumb when you stop focusing on the “school”, that milling chaos called ‘the wheel of life’. I tried to outline it in poem form –

The vertical axis of my cross

is prayer, my heart –

vessel of joy,

 

my pen standing up

for me in spite of trouble,

noting my small noticings –

 

fine sword of God, ensuring anchorage

in places

of peace.

 

Thus, I write

of deer, of dew, of weather and birds –

they are my breath,

 

preserving me, wrapped

in Christ’s playful smile,

on my cross.

 ♥

The loveliest insight, for me, which the above reflections yield is that my chosen, voluntary WORK – my writing (published and unpublished) and my visual art – by and large expresses not the vicissitudes of my timeline, but the spiritual anchor of my self in the vertical axis. I realise that my life’s work, mainly my artistic output, has never not been first and foremost a spiritual path and practice.

All of what I have done and continue to do is subordinate to the naked flame that has steadily been alchemising my soul beyond the edge of time. 

♥ 

As for you – I’d be curious to hear where you feel the ‘vertical axis’ on your cross breathes most freely.

 ♥

Articulating chaos

There are times when the chaos is overwhelming, the tasks too physically demanding, the tangles of relationships too complicated, the past too heavy.

At such times, your hands may not dance over the keyboard. They are diverted from the pen. The notebook, the journal, social media pages, your blogsite - all venues for reflection are pushed aside by the crisis. You are in emergency mode.

Moving house is always a crisis. Moving from the house of your late husband, who lived in it for thirty years, is unspeakable. Truths reside here, which hurt beyond words. You carry them as you must.

You are in a state of permanent shock. Day after day your hands sort, toss, choose, wrap, pack, tape, label, stack.

You are not alone. You have been sent a Beloved, whose kind words and jokes, whose strong arms and able hands you depend on utterly.
You are grateful.
You rise in the night to make order on the page, but your poems are a jumble.
You forgive yourself, are patient.

You pray for the boomslang in the creeper on the chimney. May his life be spared when the pest eradicators come to gas the borer beetles.
Your heart is slow and vulnerable as a slug.

 

First reader feedback

I had the privilege the other day of receiving my first reader feedback for the first half of Greater Matter. So many questions now to tackle! Is my natural bent for occasional 'archaic' usage and, indeed, behaviour - which I tend towards in moments of intimacy and/ or crisis, and which is therefore never publicly seen ... unless glimpsed now and then, through these poems - something to be true to or something to censor, that is to say, alter, in the service of what readers expect of or can relate to in a 'contemporary' woman - such as I, in my heart of hearts, am not?

The feeling of soul straddling eternity, but body bound to one here and now ... and yet even that, not. Mind in this body is capable of so much movement between places and times. Is it that my poems simply don't adequately yet convey this?

Is 'unnatural' (Germanic/ Old English) syntax such as I spoke in my most extreme moments to God as well as to Norman in crisis something to share with readers, or will it simply cause them bewilderment?

What IS quality writing? WHOSE standards do I apply?

How can this record of my journey best help the greatest number of people in need of such help?

And I thought I could complete this manuscript by March this year! :-D