Mooi, mooi 26

Hierdie kuns en woorde van Jan Richardson het my sprakeloos gelaat.


If you’re betwixt, if you’re between, if you’re in the midst and the middle, if you’ve left something behind and can’t yet see the way ahead, this is for you.


When you come
to the place between.

When you have left
what you held
most dear.

When you are traveling
toward the life
you know not.

When you arrive
at the hardest ground.

May it become
for you
a place to rest.

May it become
for you
a place to dream.

May the pain
that has pressed itself
into you
give way
to vision,
to knowing.

May the morning
make of it
an altar,
a path,
a place to begin

—Jan Richardson
from The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief

Image: “Between Heaven and Earth”
© Jan Richardson

[Inspired by Jacob’s dream of the ladder of angels in Genesis 28.]

Dinkgoed, doengoed


Loop die wyse redenasie op die Vuisboek raak. Stop die in jou pyp en rook dit. Herkou daaraan. Kapow. Oor hantering van depressie, verandering en sommer ‘n rits goete:

“So you mustn’t be frightened,if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you?  Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better. In you,so much is happening now; you must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident like some one who is recovering; for perhaps you are both. And more: you are also the doctor, who has to watch over himself. But in every sickness there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And that is what you, insofar as you are your own doctor, must now do, more than anything else.”

Rainer Maria Rilke.

Painting: Julio Reyes.


Lukraak lekkerte

Ek laaik om so lukraak goed raak te lees of te sien. Soos hierdie mooi van ‘n skilder wie ek nog nie voorheen raakgeloop het nie. Wat ‘n lekker ontdekking!

Die skildery laat my gedagtes oral heen galop:

Ek sien ouer ekke wat vir jonger ekke vertel ons het oukei uitgedraai. Dat kleintyd se seer net groeipyne was…

Dan as weer so kyk, sien ek vriendinne wat saam die pad loop.

Dan weer, my wonderlike verhouding wat ek en my skoonma Biebs gehad het. Ek aan flarde oor my selfmoord-ma, en sy, ma van vier seuns. Ons het saam geloop, en was geseën soos Naomi en Rut.

Dan weer, sien ek my Bab wie se hand styf in myne bly. Soms as ek swaar dae het, lei sy my, dan weer ander dae is ek die leier en sy volg…

Die skildery getiteld ‘Mystical Conversation’ circa1896 praat met my binneste. Die skilder is Odilon Redon.

Ek het hieronder ‘n stuk oor sy werke gespoeg en geplak van die Wikipedia. Die skilder het die wens uitgespreek dat sy werk moes toon dat lig oor donker seëvier.

As ene wat Bloubekruip alewig ‘n ruk aan sy wurgketting moet gee, en dit goed leer doen het, reken ek dis hoekom dié kuns met my praat.

Kyk saam…

Odilon Redon

“Those were the pictures bearing the signature: Odilon Redon. They held, between their gold-edged frames of unpolished pearwood, undreamed-of images: a Merovingian-type head, resting upon a cup; a bearded man, reminiscent both of a Buddhist priest and a public orator, touching an enormous cannon-ball with his finger; a spider with a human face lodged in the centre of its body. Then there were charcoal sketches which delved even deeper into the terrors of fever-ridden dreams. Here, on an enormous die, a melancholy eyelid winked; over there stretched dry and arid landscapes, calcinated plains, heaving and quaking ground, where volcanos erupted into rebellious clouds, under foul and murky skies; sometimes the subjects seemed to have been taken from the nightmarish dreams of science, and hark back to prehistoric times; monstrous flora bloomed on the rocks; everywhere, in among the erratic blocks and glacial mud, were figures whose simian appearance—heavy jawbone, protruding brows, receding forehead, and flattened skull top—recalled the ancestral head, the head of the first Quaternary Period, the head of man when he was still fructivorous and without speech, the contemporary of the mammoth, of the rhinoceros with septate nostrils, and of the giant bear. These drawings defied classification; unheeding, for the most part, of the limitations of painting, they ushered in a very special type of the fantastic, one born of sickness and delirium.”[15]

The art historian Michael Gibson says that Redon began to want his works, even the ones darker in color and subject matter, to portray “the triumph of light over darkness.[16]

Redon described his work as ambiguous and undefinable: “My drawings inspire, and are not to be defined. They place us, as does music, in the ambiguous realm of the undetermined.”[17]

Mooi, mooi 17

As jy al ooit depressief en soekend gevoel het, sal jy weet wat hierdie digter beskryf.



As jy voel Richard Burton lees te vinnig – onthou dis ‘n brak wat weghol, soos ons soms van God weghol….

Lees hier terwyl jy luister:

Francis Thompson
1 I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
2 I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
3 I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
4 Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
5 I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
6 Up vistaed hopes I sped;
7 And shot, precipitated,
8 Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
9 From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
10 But with unhurrying chase,
11 And unperturbèd pace,
12 Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
13 They beat—and a Voice beat
14 More instant than the Feet—
15 ‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’
16 I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
17 By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
18 Trellised with intertwining charities;
19 (For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
20 Yet was I sore adread
21 Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).
22 But, if one little casement parted wide,
23 The gust of His approach would clash it to.
24 Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
25 Across the margent of the world I fled,
26 And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
27 Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;
28 Fretted to dulcet jars
29 And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
30 I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
31 With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
32 From this tremendous Lover—
33 Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
34 I tempted all His servitors, but to find
35 My own betrayal in their constancy,
36 In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
37 Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
38 To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
39 Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
40 But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
41 The long savannahs of the blue;
42 Or whether, Thunder-driven,
43 They clanged his chariot ‘thwart a heaven,
44 Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
45 Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
46 Still with unhurrying chase,
47 And unperturbèd pace,
48 Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
49 Came on the following Feet,
50 And a Voice above their beat—
51 ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’
52 I sought no more that after which I strayed
53 In face of man or maid;
54 But still within the little children’s eyes
55 Seems something, something that replies,
56 They at least are for me, surely for me!
57 I turned me to them very wistfully;
58 But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
59 With dawning answers there,
60 Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
61 ‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share
62 With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship;
63 Let me greet you lip to lip,
64 Let me twine with you caresses,
65 Wantoning
66 With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,
67 Banqueting
68 With her in her wind-walled palace,
69 Underneath her azured daïs,
70 Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
71 From a chalice
72 Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’
73 So it was done:
74 I in their delicate fellowship was one—
75 Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.
76 I knew all the swift importings
77 On the wilful face of skies;
78 I knew how the clouds arise
79 Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
80 All that’s born or dies
81 Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
82 Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
83 With them joyed and was bereaven.
84 I was heavy with the even,
85 When she lit her glimmering tapers
86 Round the day’s dead sanctities.
87 I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
88 I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
89 Heaven and I wept together,
90 And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
91 Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
92 I laid my own to beat,
93 And share commingling heat;
94 But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
95 In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.
96 For ah! we know not what each other says,
97 These things and I; in sound I speak—
98 Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
99 Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
100 Let her, if she would owe me,
101 Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
102 The breasts o’ her tenderness:
103 Never did any milk of hers once bless
104 My thirsting mouth.
105 Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
106 With unperturbèd pace,
107 Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
108 And past those noisèd Feet
109 A voice comes yet more fleet—
110 ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me.’
111 Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!
112 My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
113 And smitten me to my knee;
114 I am defenceless utterly.
115 I slept, methinks, and woke,
116 And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
117 In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
118 I shook the pillaring hours
119 And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
120 I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—
121 My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
122 My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
123 Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
124 Yea, faileth now even dream
125 The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
126 Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
127 I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
128 Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
129 For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
130 Ah! is Thy love indeed
131 A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
132 Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
133 Ah! must—
134 Designer infinite!—
135 Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
136 My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust;
137 And now my heart is as a broken fount,
138 Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
139 From the dank thoughts that shiver
140 Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
141 Such is; what is to be?
142 The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
143 I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
144 Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
145 From the hid battlements of Eternity;
146 Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
147 Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again.
148 But not ere him who summoneth
149 I first have seen, enwound
150 With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
151 His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
152 Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields
153 Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
154 Be dunged with rotten death?
155 Now of that long pursuit
156 Comes on at hand the bruit;
157 That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
158 ‘And is thy earth so marred,
159 Shattered in shard on shard?
160 Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
161 Strange, piteous, futile thing!
162 Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
163 Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said),
164 ‘And human love needs human meriting:
165 How hast thou merited—
166 Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
167 Alack, thou knowest not
168 How little worthy of any love thou art!
169 Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
170 Save Me, save only Me?
171 All which I took from thee I did but take,
172 Not for thy harms,
173 But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
174 All which thy child’s mistake
175 Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
176 Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’
177 Halts by me that footfall:
178 Is my gloom, after all,
179 Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
180 ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
181 I am He Whom thou seekest!
182 Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

O, f.., hier kom die koekiemonster

Dié relaas is Storieklong  en my Rots se skuld.

Storieklong het met sy vroegoggend bloginskrywing die tuinhekkie vroegdag oopgemaak, en Rots het my die tuinpaadjie af gelei, en nou moet ek die piekerery in my binneste uitskryf…

Rots deel ‘n gesprek met ‘n mede-entrepreneur in dieselle ouderdomsgroep as ons, so terwyl ons werk toe ry.

Hulle gesprek het begin met swak dienslewering op mislikepale vlak, soos kragtoevoer wat masjienerie laat blaas, waterrekeninge wat slegs met konneksies gesorteer kan raak, roekelose wetteloosheid by robotte en op paaie, stront wat innie pad afloop, belasting en so aan ensovoorts.

Die praat vorder tot by die gevoel dat hulle miskien moes bly vasbyt het en eerder hulle ja-baas-nee-baas-lewe tot pensioendag moes kies. Maar ons mede-swaartrekker sê ewe wys “liewer hierdie onsekerheid, as om glad nie te leef nie.”


Hy is reg.

Liewer bang, bedonnerd vir jou eie oorlewing as om nog ‘n ander te moet verryk.

Ding is: die belasting, die swak ekonomie, die politiekery wat so boelierig voel – kry mens op ‘n plek waar jy hartstogtelik wens om of die Lotto te wen of om maar liewer helemlhuiswaarts te keer.

Ek sit so en kou verder aan Storieklong se skrywe en Rots se mededeling en kom af op  die gemmerkoekmannetjie en die koekiemonster se weergawe van “The Scream” van Edvard Munch.

Die grap is nie so grappig nie.

Die f…. koekiemonster loer vir ons almal – ons lewensangs, ons vrese, ons onsekerheid oor klomp dinge. Soveel van ons het goete om te verwerk, te deurwerk. Die koekiemonster is massief en kan ons oorweldig.

Edvard Munch het self oor sy skildery in 1895 soos volg geskryf:

“I was walking down the road with two friends when the sun set; suddenly, the sky turned as red as blood. I stopped and leaned against the fence, feeling unspeakably tired. Tongues of fire and blood stretched over the bluish black fjord. My friends went on walking, while I lagged behind, shivering with fear. Then I heard the enormous infinite scream of nature.” 

Scream Meaning: Meaning of The Scream (1893) Painting by Edvard Munch: Art Analysis

Ek pieker so voort en ons boekevat uit Galasiërs 5  heelweek kom by my op. Ons het gelukkig die Gees wat ons lei, wat vir ons bid as daar nie woorde is nie, as die skreeu geluidloos kom, as ons vergeet ons glo.

Dis al opiaat wat werk, skryf Stephan Joubert.

Ek bid stil om vergifnis oor my lelike byvoeglike naamwoord vir die koekiemonster.

En net so om ‘n kroon op al die simpel aardse denke te sit, lees ek wysheid van Roger Wolsey, progressiewe Christen, predikant en skrywer van die inspirerende “Kissing Fish.”

Ons moet ophou leef as tydelike besoekers hier op die ondermaanse – ons beroof onsself met sulke denke. Ons moet ophou leef asof ons huis elders is, ons moet sielvol binne ons menslywe in die hier en nou leef. Dit klink teenstellend, maar ook nie.

Lees self:

You have heard it said, “We are not humans having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” And, “We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.“And, “You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.”*
but I tell you,
“Humans are embodied, spiritual beings who are having an embodied, spiritual experience. That’s what a human experience is. We are human souls. We are human-spiritual beings.
I share this in response to the dualistic – gnosticism that has been so unhelpful over the years. We seem to like/need to think of ourselves as primarily “spiritual” beings who are only accidentally and temporarily earthlings.
… Such views, while no doubt well intended (they do seem to be a morale boost), have resulted in humans thinking that “our real home is in heaven” and thus, we can disregard the earth, abuse its resources, loathe the material world; and even oppress certain fellow humans, and minimize our physicality.
I think Christians are at our best when we focus on salvation/wholeness here and now and not think of ourselves as “just passing through.” We’re incarnate (“enfleshed”) – our bodies are essential to us – and that’s a good thing.  Our spiritual experiences are natural. We experience Spirit as natural beings (enfleshed spiritual beings/souls) can and do.
What do you think? – and by you I mean the beautifully strong, vulnerable, perfectly imperfect embodied spiritual human being who you are.
(* – commonly, but falsely, attributed to CS Lewis. He would never have said that.)
xx – Roger
Rev. Roger Wolsey is an ordained United Methodist pastor who directs the Wesley Foundation at the University of Colorado at Boulder, and is author of Kissing Fish: christianity for people who don’t like christianity



So binne die konteks verstaan ek as ons kwaad en bang en moedeloos raak. Dis deel van die belewenis as mens-siele hier in ons lywe, aardgebonde, smagtend na ons Vaderhuis.

Dis oukei as die koekiemonster jou laat skrik, gil net in die regte rigting.

Ons Vader luister en wag met oop arms, altyd.




Oor eie skoenveters en geloof



Ek kyk die Boekklub. Mal oor die reeks. Die toneel onlangs waar twee jongmense koffie drink en hulle seer met mekaar deel, laat Gemoedsbekak se laai in die onthouboks oopvlieg.

Die gemoedsbekakking het my lewe deur so wegkruip, wegkruip, net so waar ek nie mooi kon sien nie, agter my aangesleep en nader gekruip. “Sy is ‘n boekwurm, sy is bederf, sy is….” Soveel maniere om my te beskryf.  Niemand het gesien hoe skeiding van van my ouers en koshuis toe, stadig diep binne my die bekruiper help om sy lê kom kry nie. Ek ook nie. Ek het maar so Hushpuppy hanghond gesig, en is maar ernstig van geaardheid, so die swaar in my borskas het ek metterwyl gewoond geraak.

Met my pa se skielike dood, ons drie vroumense se oppak om weg te trek terug na ons wortels, my weggaan uit Ouma se huis Tukkies toe,  my ma se tweede huwelik, my afstudeer aan my graad, ma se selfmoord, my Sus nog op skool, my eerste huwelik, my wegtrek van my familie, die daaropvolgende egkskeiding – die vorteks waarin ek  my bevind het, was kragtig en alles in sewe jaar geprop. Tyd vir jammerkry en bedruk voel was daar nie. Oorlewing. Een voet voor die ander. Meganies deur elke dag. Konstant in veg modus, vlug kan jy nie.

Saam in die seer gat wat my ouers se dood gelos het, wikkel ou Gemoedsbekak sy donker lyf nog lekkerder in die middel van my wese in. Knus maak hy en Seer elke hoekie van my borskas vol. Ek voel nou nog daardie onrus van hulle skommelry in my binnekant. Ek leer swaar sug, jy weet, daai sug wat as hy op die grond val, sal gras nooit weer daar groei nie. So erg.

Ek skrik my boeglam toe Rots my lewe instap. Ek moes meestal maar self sorg, en hier kom hy, en is lief vir my en my donker binnekant. Ek en Gemoedsbekak skrik ons in Denmar in. Daar, met terapie en Prozac, leer ek dat jy kan oorleef as jy wil. Gemoedsbekak mag nie lêplek in my binneste kry nie. Ek kry hom weer so half sluipend agter my, maar sy asem bly blaas agter in my nek, net so waar ek hom nie kan bykom nie.

Ek ervaar egter ‘n ander monster. Afstomping. Die Prozac het van my ‘n plastiekmens gemaak. Niks het my gepla nie. Daar was nie hartseer of vreugde nie. Ek het gepraat soos ‘n mens, gelyk soos ‘n mens, maar daar binne was niks. As ek vandag terugkyk, weet ek nie hoe my man en kind met my saamgeleef het nie.

In werk het ek ongelooflik presteer. My arme liefies moes maar oorleef en saamleef. Dit was asof iets my permanent gedryf het. Ek moes die beste wees, moes alles in oortreffende trap regkry. In die middel van die gehol na niks, besluit ek om die Prozac te los. Sjoe, wat ‘n fout. Ek  beland in die hospitaal vir drie dae. Ek word aan die slaap gehou. Psigiater toe, lank preek oor hoe mens nie net goed los nie. Die tweede vorteks suig vir my tot in my murg uit.

Ek bedank my werk, en gaan sit by die huis. Nie dat ons dit kan bekostig nie. Stadig maar seker lap ek my hart en gemoed reg. Ek probeer wel een oggend onder die stort staan met my mond wawyd oop, miskien versuip ek so. Ja, wel. Jy mag maar lag soos ons almal vir Griet gelag het toe sy haar kop in die oond druk en die kokkerot daar kry. Dit was so ‘n oomblik.

In al hierdie chaos was daar vir my konstantes. My gesin en my kinderlike geloof. Hierdie is nie hoe ek veronderstel was om te wees nie. Dis nie wat my lewe moet wees nie. Ek het medikasie as ‘n hulpmiddel gesien, en besef daar moet binne my ‘n rede vir leef wees. Daar is binnewerk wat net ek kon doen. Ek het besef uit die gat kom ek slegs uit as ek myself aan my eie skoenveters ophys -moeilik, maar met ‘n helse lot wilskrag, sal jy kan!

En so, moedig veg ek voort. Bereik weer sukses. My liefies oorleef met ‘n reuse liefhê geduld. Tot my middeljare en my dierbare skoonmoeder se heengaan die derde vorteks ontketen.

Ek gooi alles wat ek het in my ma se versorging. Ry haar op en af, toe sy bitterlik siek word, en die koors haar ylend en in die war het, belowe ek vir haar, nes Rut vir Noami belowe het: “Waar jy gaan, sal ek saam gaan”.  My arme gesin en die skonies – broers en susters – kry nie asemhaalkans nie. Ek bestuur ma se probleme en siekte soos ‘n masjien. En toe sy dood is, sit ek met niks, en ‘n eksistensiële krisis.

Om dinge verder te kompliseer oorleef ons ‘n bye aanval net-net. Ek kom agter dat ek weer in ‘n konstante veg- of vlug staat verkeer. My maag is hol, my kopvel tintel. Ek is moerig verby. My gesin paai, en troos en raas.

Ek land befoeterd-betraand by die psigiater. Sy is moedeloos en bestel ‘n toets – ja, daai een wat ek julle al van vertel het wat by ongevalle toegedien moet word ingeval die kortisol jou ‘n hartaanval gee. Ek het daar die lekkerste slaap geslaap en die storm het met die hulp van Serdep oor tyd bedaar. Maar weer, daai selfwerk, alleen, net jy en God, dis daai werk wat die storms werklik laat bedaar.

Vandag kyk ek terug en my bek hang oop. Daar lê die antwoord – binnewerk, sielewerk. Die besef dat jy in die vorteks geplaas word om verder te groei. Jy word geboetseer, geslyp, geskaaf, geskuur. Tot een oggend waar jy stil wag vir die son wat saggies oor die kim kom loer, en die hemel oesterskulp ligpienk en oranje en blou kom inkleur, en God jou so binne in jou hart die koesterendste drukkie gee. Die warmte van leef en dankbaar en vol ootmoed.

Lewensreise is vol opdraand en afdraand. Sommiges kan jy nie veel beplanning doen nie. Hulle gebeur, en jy moet gaan. Die lewe is so. Ons moet maar stap. In vertroue en geloof.

Glo jy is uniek, hier om ‘n rede. Om ‘n verskil te maak en ook te leer van jouself. Dat jou siel saak maak tot in ewigheid.  En as jy nou ‘n pilletjie nodig het, of terapie, dit maak nie saak nie. Dieselfde Skepper wat jou bedraad het, en jou hare op jou kop ken, Hy het ook daai slim dokter of medisynemaker net so lief. Dink so daaraan en vat al die hulp wat jy kan kry.

Onthou ook net dis jou gemoedsbekak – jy en hy moet ook leer saamleef.  As julle so saam loop hou tog styf aan God se Vaderhand vas. Hy sal jou teen daai skoenveter uit die gat help en Gemoedsbekak op sy plek sit. Hy  is goed so.







Vroeg in 1990 kry ek gemoedsbekakking.

Van die jy-moet-Denmar-toe-soort.

My arme man en kind kyk soekend na die afwesige weergawe van my. Hulle oë vra waar is ons besige, hardlopende, laggende geliefde?

Ek wil ook weet, en ek wil ook nie weet nie.

Ek word een Saterdagoggend in Maart by die inrigting afgelaai. My gesin kan nie verder as ontvangs kom nie. Hulle groet en die suster aan diens maak my leêr oop.

My Rots het alles ingevul.

Die mediesefonds het reeds my verblyf goedgekeur.

Die huisdokter het al reeds laat weet dat die graad van bekakking erg is.

Ek wonder of hy vertel het dat ek sommer van die huis af weggery in die middel van die nag. Hulle het my eers twee dae later opgespoor. Ek het my man gebel en hom en ‘n vriend onder ‘n bloekomboom in die Long Tompas ingewag. So ewe.

Gevlug en omgedraai. Dankie tog vir omdraai.

Ek word na ‘n sesbedkamer geneem. Vier paar oë kyk belangeloos op as ek my tas neersit by die bed – wat vir die volgende weke my hawe sou word. My kamermaats, sielsiekgenote.

Ek is nog besig om uit te pak, toe ek kom haal word. “Jou dokter wil jou sien.”

Hulle vat nie nonsens nie. Ek stap ‘n lang gang af, uit in die sonskyn en deur ‘n tuin met ‘n reuse Jakarandaboom wat sy skadu kol-kol oor die grasperk gooi. Die mooi ontglip my.

Die dokter is rustig, en hy gesels, en trek vraag vir vraag goed uit my uit.

Na baie ure en dae praat ek naderhand self.

Die Prozac het so na tien dae ingeskop, en ek het verlore slaap ingehaal.

My gelukkige kinderjare, my pa se hartaanval, my ma se selfmoord, my egskeiding, my loopbaan, my huwelik met my Rots en my pragtige dogtertjie – alles word op die tafel tussen ons uitgepak.

Wat jaag my in hierdie swart donker grot in?

Wat maak dat ek van die lig wegdraai?

Wat, wat?

Die dokter skryf een middag op my notaboek, onder my inkopielysie (Watte en Pienk Pears aanrol), wat ek die naweek vir Rots wil gee:

“The moving Finger writes,

And having writ, moves on –

Not all your piety, nor wit

shall lure it back to cancel half a line” – Rubayat

Op ‘n rare middag uit, gaan soek ek en my vriendin, Gouwsblom, Exclusive Books deur. Die dun bundel is die Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Met ons volgende afspraak stoot ek die pers sagtebandboek oor die dokter se tafel. “Ek het dit gekry,” vertel ek trots.  Die dokter skryf voor in: “We are not what we think we are, but what we think, we are! – Onbekend.”

Die bundel is al donkieoor gelees, sy rug al voos van blaai en blaai en lees en lees. Woorde waaran ek vashou wanneer die blouhond met die gisters wat verby is aangehardloop kom en my nooi om om te draai en te kyk. Dan kan ek braaf vir hom vertel: “‘Skuus Bloubekruip, daai is als verby, en ek kan niks doen om dit te verander nie. Waai nou maar. Voertsek.”

Ek loop die lewenspad met die brak, Bloubekruip, immer agter my aan. Baie dae is ek net bewus van hom, soms sien ek sy skaduwee. My gesin weet waarom ek soms skielik alleen by die huis wil bly, weggekeer van alles en die son. Daai tye sit hy stip vir my en kyk en lok my uit.

Dan maak ek tee en sit op die stoep en lees op die erdeplaat teen die muur:“The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety, nor Wit shall lure it back to cancel half a Line. Nor  all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

Bloubekruip draai dan dikbek om en wyk uit na ‘n donker hoekie.  Ek hoor die visvanger roep, en ek voel die son op my tone en kyk hoe die Barbertonse madeliefies met hulle koppe na die son hulle geel en rooi en pienk uitsing. En ek weet ek sal aangaan.

Dis in my lewensritme ingebou, en ek het geleer om dit te aanvaar. My geliefdes leef saam met my en die spook van ou Bloubekruip en al sy wat-asse en gisters. Hulle is lief vir my nes ek is, en ek vir hulle.

Die nuwerwetse gemoedsbekakkingmoetie werk gelukkig baie beter as daardie jare se afstomper van emosies. Bloubekruip hou nie hiervan nie en is meestal net ‘n glimmer.

Ek voel so jammer vir die sielkundige wat my aan Omar Khayyam se dertiendeeeuse wysheid en Prozac en terapie voorgestel het.

Hy het ‘n paar jaar gelede selfmoord gepleeg.