wye draaie loop

August – skipped writing

September – skipped writing

October – skipped writing

skipped writing: a note to myself, to stay connected.

I’ve been giving here this writing a wide berth – wye draaie geloop.  I write the words skipped writing as a reminder – a note to myself, to stay connected, and to keep the relationship. A superficial part of the self condemns the blank dates, hisses failure, and splatters shame. The note to myself is a conscious call from deep – calling me to awareness (i have not written anything in 3 months) and calling me to action (i’m writing now). And how wonderworking the life that arises from this deep otherness being – it is as if I’ve not missed a moment of writing.

Always we begin again: it must be true.








teaching the dead bird to sing


the title of a book. it called me. i’m into birds lately. so it seems.

” … to perch on a lonely sill, with only myself for companionship… perhaps to be discovered by One capable of teaching me to sing an untimely song in an unlikely place …

… the life most of us live is a lonely one … wandering through our own wildernesses, eager to find a traveling companion with whom we can be vulnerable together.”


extracts. elixirs.


It is a cold day nearing Autumn’s end. My mom is 76 today. Over the phone I heard the tinkle of cups and conversations, the deep whir of my dad’s voice, and I felt peace pulsing  across the ether … six days gone we honored my dad’s 80th birthday … goodness and mercy follow us. I sit on my sill (in reality a doughnut shaped cushion), apron strings hugging my body. Wafts of early morn’s baked bread still hovering (not puffing the struggle with a cold sourdough starter). I listen to the sound of woodwork tools. Timber and trestle, shavings and sawdust – young adult hands dovetailing old wood into new dreams. A self figuring out another self – jigsawing pieces together.

And here I am, seesawing – 27 years older than the young working on his life’s puzzle, and 27 years younger than a lived-life of 80. Perched and cold.

… and rigid fingers start typing, pressing words into a blank space … for some One to read and see, for i remember another’s written words –  for me, to see

…. to break the bread of our lives with one another through any form of sharing is prayer…








a trilogy of poems

a reflection on Edward Hirsch’s I am going to start living like a mystic


Poem the first

I am going to start living like a monk

Today I am wearing a tunic, a cowl, stockings and shoes
and walking to the church of this world’s flock.

The benches wait like emptied wooden arms about to brace
each body’s always we begin again –  solid, welcoming.

Stained fragments of gospels lighting the timeless presence
are the greeters of the veiled, the entering streets.

I will look at my neighbours as longing for answers
and search in mask worn faces, mirrors of mine.

Some will light in the way of thousands before a candle
and beat upon their breasts beyond the pain for mercy.

The light shall search the souls for cracks
as if the brokenness were consecrated by the cries.

I will unfold the cloak with my tunic bare,
a worker of the field, adorn with the apron of jugum Christi.

Poem the second

I am going to start living like an artist

Today I am coming out of the hiding place
and gluing down the harsh fullness of this moment.

The memories grab like gnarled fingers across the years
each a slant of the past – wild, judging.

Sombre shards of shadows blocking out the glow
are the crossing of a border, an invitation.

I will rummage the hoard as searching for a reason
and unfurl the layers, savings for a perfect day

I breathe will  into hands with eyes watching outward
and pencil onto a blank page questions among desires.

Not daring to think  I shall make the way by walking
as if my whole being is this one moment.

I will go to bed with curtains wide open,
a beholder of light, in plain view of the dark.

Poem the third

I am going to start living like a child

Today I am removing the grown-up lady mask
and wearing the white skirt with ribbons braided through my toes.

The mask left like fifty two and a half scars of harrowed stains
each a deep pierce of a thing – tightly, clinging.

Animals of clouds playing with the grass-tickled body
are the hungers for a life, yet secret.

I will watch the clouds as dreams in the day
and weep the nightmares, wounded hurts of summer.

I will bow on grazed knees with split heels
and finger the earth for the life of the ant.

I shall again look up lolling in light
as if yesterday and the morn were scrubbed by it.

I will whirl the white skirt with hands wide free
a child of light, un scarred by the other self.

While waking up for this day


Not even a cold wind

could blow away

the befuddled morn

but ritual

not reason

served coffee and chores

and just like that

while fumbling for rhythm

stress sounded

and on the brink

of a mood

quite in discomfort

the self waited





without thought and excuse

and it was


the way the silence

lifted the lie

It brushed and sensed

a world clear

and then

in you walked


did we sense

the mystery

yet to unfold?

~sonja s

Of writing #1

DSC_0062wp heart

Others form man; I only report him: and represent a particular one, ill fashioned enough, and whom, if I had to model him anew, I should certainly make something else than what he is but that’s past recalling.

~ Michel de Montaigne, Of Repentance

Again and again, Dinty W. Moore‘s writing exercises spur me to fill my paper with the breathings of my heart – to quote William Wordsworth. The words that follow, two exercises – one, to translate the above paragraph in today’s common speech, and the other – to write a contemplative essay, attempt to breathe the beatings of one heart.

Most people are other people – did Oscar Wilde read Montaigne? I portray a prim and grim personality: me, myself and I. Does this ill-shaped three-in-one being tell my mind that I need to be different from how I actually am?  And now my ego believes it is her role to fix this self-spirited-soul! Is it then past hope to live my life from essence?

 This attempt might take a life – a life time.

die skaam is opgehoop

en het op gehou


maar die hoop beskaam nie

the (not so) simple life


a simple home-made cheese – paneer


Could we be more careful and aware of the world and ourselves, we would without a doubt find that we live in a holy environment, and that the meaning of our lives can be found and experienced exactly where we are.

~ Gunilla Norris

Living simply – a tag for a few scroll-down writings. A simple tag nagging jumbled thoughts to take a (not so) simple stance.

My father’s father was a subsistence farmer; his livelihood – growing food for the family; his lifestyle – simple, limited, and wanting(?) His living happened not by choice and not by a love for farming; but it happened by need and by a great suffering. His life happened because of a great love for his family.

Today, some of me, or is it all of me? needs his simple, limited and wanting-needs lifestyle. Today, self-sufficiency – a word describing his life, sets a world-wide trend. And today, for me, to just think about new ways of living is not enough. I must want. I must love. I must choose. I choose to live myself into new ways of thinking.

The tagging is easy, the living is not.




I sit here in silence writing this small volume of words, and it seems to me the most public thing I ever have done.

– Richard Rodriquez

Five years ago I met WordPress. I wanted to do this public thing – public. Early this month I read Terry Tempest William’s essay “Why I Write.” Yesterday I read this post. And now, I only have today.

I write to pen down thoughts. I write to set free thoughts… I write to meet myself. I write to meet other selves… I write the whispering voices’ stories. I write to still the loud voices … I write because I’m afraid if I keep all bottled up some will explode. I write to keep explosives hidden… I write to find out what it is to write.

And, this public thing I’m doing now…  I’m doing – hoping to find resonance.