Terwyl ons nou hier so stoei oor grond, en die moontlikheid al groter word dat die bloed weereens op `n tyd hierdie bedroefde land se vlaktes gaan voed, het ek gedink hierdie gedig van Margaret Wheatley is nogal van pas:
The flags are flying at half-mast. Again.
This one drapes across the highway as I drive toward it.
It’s over-sized, the type of flag that became popular when patriotism
needed to be more visible.
It suffocates the road, limp, lifeless.
Wind attempts to lift its spirit but
the flag refuses so
laden with sorrow.
This flag is for Katrina.
I remember another massive flag that
flared-out defiantly in the fierce wind after 9-11.
The world I see will soon be lost in lifeless flags.
We are only at the beginning.
Last night, I threw out a salt container that still had some salt in it.
I wanted to clear out space in my crowded cabinet.
As I tossed it in the garbage, it came to me. There will
come such scarcity that even those few grains will be treasure.
I still threw it out, but I vowed to remember this night.
Now, how do I live whole-heartedly?
Every time a flag gets lowered, I tell myself:
This is what it feels like as a culture dies.
This is what it feels like in the age of destruction.
This is what groundless feels like.
Don’t grasp for ground.
Groundlessness has to be learned.
I am teaching myself with these terrifying mantras.
Later dalk meer oor “The art of humble self-forgetting”