Loss of enchantment: an exercise in self-editing (in real time)

On 3rd August, I hiked up Muizenberg Peak on the Cape Peninsula, in the company of my son and his friend. The period of deluges in that part of the country had given way to a splendid sunny day and there were several other people about, who had had the same idea. 

This included a number of people who had not come to hike, but who, once reaching a chosen altitude or particular spot on the mountain, prayed aloud in a language I do not understand, nor did I, for discretion's sake, pay any attention to them or to what they might be saying. They had not grouped together, but were separately absorbed, at distances to one another. 

Water was running plentifully down the mountain, whose slopes still partially bore traces of some of the ravages of the previous summer's hectic fires. From the heights of a perfectly blue sky, sunrays pierced and lit the tanniny brown hue that is typical of water in fynbos regions, turning it to gold. All in all, the scene, and all the physical activity in it, conspired to enchant me utterly and, in that state, I created this poem:

Going up Muizenberg Peak

We see prayerful Xhosas,

dotted alongside the stream

that's hurrying down

the mountain slope.

Between, and upon, rocks,

beside the tannin-gilded brook,

they sit or crouch or sway, 

eyes closed, worshipping aloud,

at distances from one another.

One man, at a far off cliff,

holding onto a ledge,

bends and straightens his knees rhythmically,

vocalising passionate pleas

that echo across the valley.

Another, higher up, close to us,

immerses himself

under a small, golden waterfall's fresh, icy water,

and his lean body shivers gladly in the sun,

as his friend holds up a hand in greeting,

and we three step

further up the superbly chiselled path,

built by unknown ancestors, 

Italian prisoners, perhaps.

While these select people claim the body

of the earth and its waters,

chanting it into their bones, 

and into mine.

- Silke Heiss, 4th August 2024 

A few days later, I met a friend and told her of my experience and she educated me: things may not have been as they seemed. I had to face the fact that, as Robert Frost put it so memorably in his poem: Nothing Gold Can Stay. I realised that I was obliged to revisit my enchanted poem, which I had allowed to gush out of me in a state of ignorance, which I now felt shamed me. I spent a few days rearranging my disenchantment. This is the result:

Firebreak poem

Going up Muizenberg Peak revisited

 

i. My friend says

 

My friend says, the worshippers on the mountain

are likely not locals. She says, as a part of their rituals,

they’re sometimes known to make fires,

which they don’t always fully extinguish.

She says, she’s not saying they weren’t Xhosas,

or that these particular people made fires,

but she’s heard there are Malawians,

who practise religious rites above St James,

and on other slopes of the Table Mountain Chain.

 

But, she adds, there are also many homeless people,

living in the mountains, who make fires,

who use the buchus and heathers and proteas,

sometimes forgetting to kill the coals.

She says she’s come across little, glimmering hearths

she’s had to put out herself, to protect the mountain,

its plants and animals and people’s houses,

because a single gust can fan a blaze,

as we know.

 

ii. Incendiary property

 

And I think how dangerous a little knowledge is,

how lethal it can be: not to know.

What did I know, what do I know,

about the folk whose voices touched my soul the other day?

Do they – Xhosas or Malawians or the homeless –

know the incendiary property of fynbos in the Cape winds?

 

iii. Next door neighbours

 

And I think about the ‘homeless’,

whose shelter is the mountain,

whose roofs are rock overhangs,

whose stoves and heaters are fuelled

by the vegetation they are helping themselves to

indiscriminately – without knowing.

Whose beds are enclaves of soft bush and dry sand,

whose showers are waterfalls,

whose society are dassies, caracal, snakes and tortoises,

and other small wildlife, which we value (unlike the homeless)

as our next door neighbours.

 

iv. Consideration

 

And I think, who are we? Who is we?

I buckle, language buckles, crackles.

Language, too, fans fires

in people’s hearts and minds.

 

Look at yourself, reading these lines, and ask:

Where’s my heated mind leaping,

what glowering feelings

are fuelled by these dry twigs of grammar,

what burning thought does this brush of questing words feed?

 

Ask, ask, and perhaps we (who is we?) can find

a little golden water, some sunlit pool of calm,

along this rough attempt at a firebreak poem

 

– in consideration of all

we (who?) don’t know.

 

– Silke Heiss, 6^th – 9^th August 2024

There is one overarching aspect that brings these two poems together of necessity, and that is the somewhat painful self-editing process, requiring a degree of honesty that is not at all pleasant to the ego. My main cringe is that I could not even identify the language, which the praying people were speaking. While it is true that I 'switched off', and did not tune into either their faces or voices, because I feared to intrude on them with my conscious interest, I judge that timidity or fear, in hindsight, to have been a deliberate stupidification I committed on myself.

The second poem, however, allows me to redeem myself in my own eyes, in that I dive into that place I feel I know best: the English language, using it to affirm one of my dearest values: Know Thyself.

One's self is, after all, perhaps the only phenomenon that is vaguely knowable in this life.

Stand up, out of the blue

Eight or nine days ago, one of my lovely nieces messaged me out of that place of mystery we intelligently call 'the blue'.

"I hope you are doing well!" she wrote, adding, "I had been possessed by a memory of you recently."

Naturally, I replied to her questions, but I was not going to let niceties get in the way of the real (true-blue) stuff. 

"I would love to know what memory it is that possessed you," I said.

She then sent me a voiceclip with two stories. The first was one I'd as good as forgotten. I thank her for granting me permission to share it on my blog.

She was in Grade 6 - that would have made her roughly 11 years old at the time. She went to a party, safe and supervised and so on. A boy approached her, spoke disrespectfully - "rudely, very rude". He was "disgusting", and also flashed her.

She hit and kicked him, kicked him.

Back home, she told her parents, everything. 

Her father was upset - with: everything. The boy, her, just everything. Her mother was worried about her impulsiveness, the risk she'd taken by her spontaneous, violent self-defence. It was an unresolved issue in the home, and in her self.

A week later, I visited with my family. We were told the story. Apparently - I remember it, now that she's re-told it all - among all the adults present, I got up and went to her in the playroom, where she was watching tv or playing a video game, and I gave her a thumbs-up.

"You did good," I told her, "you gave that boy exactly what he deserved."

I remember feeling that it was important to let her know I trusted and approved of her body's spontaneous response to the disrespect, which had injured her spirit and person.

She said that I was the only person, until that point, completely to support what she had done. Coming from her aunt, it was clear: "It was okay for me to stand up for myself as a girl."

Photo by Sam Schooler on Unsplash

The second memory is gentler. It belongs in a separate blog, which will arrive in time, out of the blue.

Ushered

I reflected last week on the sacred nature of words, and related this to the language of the heart - that is to say, to that organ, which essentially wants as many happy feelings as can be packed into its lifetime.

Inasmuch as it is associated with consecration, the word 'sacred' is loaded with reverence, which can be risky to joy. If there is an excess of respect, barriers of fear pop up like so many mean little picket fences everywhere, and intelligently happy feelings flee forthwith. 

Of all the instruments we have at our disposal to create happy feelings, language is surely one that immediately takes pride of place. Peruse, for example, these acrobatics from one of the most beautiful clowns the English language ever had - 

"In the beginning God created heaven and earth with, it would appear, Irish labour. It took the Lord six days, and on the seventh he rested, during which time speculative builders put up Kilburn. Kilburn High Street runs three miles, that's why it looks 'shagged out'. A walk through Kilburn has left an indelible blank on my mind. The British, it is said, are made up of four races, the best of these are the Derby and the Oaks.

Kilburn was a melting pot, occasionally stirred by the National Front, an extreme political organisation whose election manifesto was 'I'll punch yer fuckin' 'ead in'. The leaders were any of them that could count up to ten without having to sit down." - from 'The Looney' by Spike Milligan

It just keeps getting hilariouser and hilariouser - so, yes: you'll have to get the book.

My point is that there is room in heaven for the Jabberwocky and all the hobbits' riddles, and even the worst limericks (okay, those might be kept under celestial shadecloth, just in case).

Whenever Christ appears to me, He does so playfully, dancingly, full of youthful sparkle, definitely bringing undiluted happy feelings. (Speaking for myself, I've had to admit that my heart simply can't cope with the crucifixion. I am one of those 'sensitive viewers' who only manage repeatedly to weep over that horror story.) 

Yes, language is sacred, but it is not nailed to a cross. It is free to dance and sing all manner of paths it finds to please human hearts in uncountable ways.

Sure, it can be misled. A writer or speaker can be enticed up all kinds of garden paths, including those in Gethsemane. But that is likely to be the subject of another blog. For now, consider yourselves ushered. Towards reading whatever gives your heart real joy.

 

 

Sacred vessels

It's a while now that I've not been attending to this blog as regularly as would fulfil me.

When the blogsite was kindly set up for me, it was announced on my website as

a space where Silke dreams her dreams, speaks her mind, shares her journey and sometimes disappears from - a sign that she's enjoying her solitude.

A lovely disclaimer, "enjoying her solitude".

But my infrequent blogs these months have not been due either to enjoyment or solitude; they have been due to a heavy heart that will not speak.

Way back (nearly forty years ago), a fellow at my old school gave me a note, on which was written:

To understand people, you have to be able to hear what they are not saying. What, perhaps, they will never be able to say.

I did not understand why he gave me the note and I don't remember him telling me why he did. At the time I assumed he was sharing something of his own, painful silence, but now I wonder whether he sensed something about me instead?

There is much focus, in this time, on truth, exposure of lies, on revelations, clearing blockages and festering obstacles on all kinds of levels - economic, political, social, racial, spiritual and psychological.

All through this time now, my heart feels strained, broken, aching, sometimes panicky.

A heart is a place of very few, choice words.

Perhaps the only words that can be at home in a heart are 'I love you', and variations thereon.

Those words and their variations fulfil the purpose of words as cups of mystery, cups filled with the elixir of a kind of pure existence: I am, you are, we be, and how strange and lovely is that.

It may be age, it may be the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune - whatever it is, there is great, urgent, profound and uncompromising need, in the heart writing this, to retreat. To be a leaf, melting gradually into its own ungreening.

Writing these words give ease. The metaphor conveys me into the foliage my soul needs.

I am no longer strong enough for any other kind of habitat, other kinds of words.

Living in peace is possible (for me) only when words are respected for the sacred vessels they are.

Painted papyrus by Eva van Belle

 

The Vulnerability of the Ear - Nugget No.2