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Lank gelede

Skielik, onverwags, spring hiedie stukkie weer uit die kas uit:

A quote by Henepola Gunaratana, from his book Mindfulness in Plain English,  as included in Everyday Mind, a Tricycle book edited by Jean Smith:

“Discipline” is a difficult word for most of us. It conjures up images of somebody standing over you with a stick, telling you that you’re wrong. But self-discipline is different. It’s the skill of seeing through the hollow shouting of your own impulses and piercing their secret. They have no power over you. It’s all a show, a deception. Your urges scream and bluster at you; they cajole; they coax; they threaten; but they really carry no stick at all. You give in out of habit. You give in because you never really bother to look beyond the threat. It is all empty back there.

There is only one way to learn this lesson, though. The words on this page won’t do it. But look within and watch the stuff coming up-restlessness, anxiety, impatience, pain-just watch it come up and don’t get involved. Much to your surprise, it will simply go away. It rises, it passes away. As simple as that. There is another word for self-discipline. It is patience.


Mokuin het die volgende opmerking gemaak:

It arises, it passes away, and it returns. The painfulness of it’s returning can open our heart. If it’s too much for us however, it can close our heart.

The hollow shouting of our body and mind is itself the path. At first our path is narrow and separate, because that is who we think we are. When we become one with all of life, then our path widens and becomes more inclusive. If we persist with our training, eventually every moment and everything that is, is our path. Even if we have had patience with our own hollow shouting, now we have to deal with the whole world. What will we do?

Discipline is the wisdom gained from years of experience of knowing what is helpful to beings, by trying, and often, failing. Failure is often a better teacher than success. And, when we truly don’t know, discipline is trusting the deep stillness within.

That deep stillness knows, because it is part of – everything.

Discipline is getting out of clinging to the way of “my” ideas, and allowing “deep stillness” to lead the way..


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Die tentbewoners trek verder deur die woestyn. Hulle kla dat die paaie onbegaanbaar is en hulle 4×4 voertuie uitmekaar skud. Die Jeep Rubicon kry veral swaar.

Deur Ais-Ais, Riemvasmaak, Sesriem (Wonder waarom was die voorgeslag so gepla met rieme?), mik hulle vir Luderitz en natuurlik die beroemde Kolmanskop/ Kolmannskuppe/Coleman’s Hill.

Namibian Holiday 2017

Eens n vooruitstrewende myndorp met eie kragstasie, kegelbaan, operahuis, hospitaal en swembad ... maar geen vars drinkwater nie. Nou n vervalle monument bewoon deur spoke en sand.

Namibian Holiday 2017

Onder Duitse bestuur was bykans alles gratis vir die mynwerkers, van gratis ys tot gratis huise, elektrisiteit, gratis mediese behandeling in n moderne hospitaal tot vervoer met n tein van hulle huise af tot by die winkel.

Namibian Holiday 2017

Mens kan jou skaars voorstel dat mense hier gebly het, kinders hier skool gegaan het, Paasfees en Kersfees groot gevier is en daar soms deurnag gedans en ge-“party” is, ten spyte van al die sand.

Namibian Holiday 2017

Teen hierdie trappe het kinders gespeel en ellegante dames met lang rokke op en af geloop, skaars sestig jaar gelede vir die laaste maal. Nou is dit net die sand en wind en n spook of twee wat nog daar speel.

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Het `n besige tyd beleef die afgelope maand. Waar ander ouens pub crawling doen vir pret en plesier, doen ons mos spreekkamer en hospitaal besoeke vir ontspanning, kan jy maar sê. Beide tydverdrywe is ewe riskant, maar elkeen het ook sy eie voordele. Na `n hewige drinksessie vergeet jy vir `n wyle van jou probleme en ontspan jy effens, dis immers waarom in die kroeg is. By die hospitaal werk dit ook so, as jy daar uitloop met al die stapel x-strale, scans en bloedtoetse onder die blad en die dokter het jou gesond verklaar, dan ontspan jy ook so effens, maar nie te veel nie want jy weet, net soos die drinker se onafwendbare hoofpyn wat soos klokslag toeslaan, net so gaan die stapel rekenings ook opdaag en eis om betaal te word. Die lewe werk so; daar is nie pret sonder pyn nie.
Die drinker se voordeel is dat sy tydelike gevoel van vrede in die kroeg hom aansienlik minder kos as die gemoedsrus wat jou R150,000+ se stapel doktersverslae jou kos.
Uiteindelik verskil die twee tydverdrywe nie veel van mekaar nie. By die kroeg kan jy in `n geveg betrokke raak wat jou in die hospitaal kan laat opeindig, terwyl die dokter en hospitaal se rekeninge jou weer in die kroeg kan laat beland.
Die ding van die crawling spree (as ons in Amerika was kon mens dit seker die Obama Care Crawling genoem het, en in Engeland sou dit die NHS-crawling kon wees. Hier by ons is dit die Zuma-does not-care crawling?) kom so: Ons vat my erge pyn dokter toe, en dit werk weer amper soos daardie musical chair speletjie behalwe dat jy sonder musiek vir meer as `n uur lank op een stoel sit en wag – eers op `n stoel by ontvangs, dan op `n ander stoel voor die dokter se deur, dan op die stoel voor sy lessenaar, dan op `n stoel by die hospitaal se ontvangs en teen daardie tyd is jy regtig nie meer lus vir speel nie, jy wil huis toe gaan. (meer…)

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Ons staan skuins na 4 die oggend op en ry bosveld toe. Die son steek sy kop uit toe ons by Kranskop verby ry.


Ons en die rietbokkies geniet ontbyt voor die werk begin.

En toe begin die dag in alle erns

Chopper 44 en die arts met sy pylgeweer

Blesbokke word een vir een verdoof en aangery na die boma

Terwyl hulle slaap word daar met hulle gewerk, en dan word hulle weer wakker hemaak.

En nou het hulle net 35 dae, en dan is dit die einde van die pad vir 16 van hulle … ter wille van die wetenskap.

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Duitsland 2014

Rise of the Zombie
And so, he died on us, just like that, the bloody moron. The good Doctor was still poking around inside of him when his heart stopped. No goodbye, au revoir, addio, Auf Wiedersehen, proschhay or even a simple koebaai came from his lips. He just left … for about 20 seconds … twice, and then he was resurrected by a very frantic surgeon, and my moron joined the ranks of, what the French calls; the “réanimés”.
And now I, the very famous Red Cap, is burdened not only with a moron, but by a Zombie moron (or is it a moron Zombie?). I will tell you how it came to pass.
Some time ago he had his gall bladder removed. It did not go well. He almost died. Most people involved believed that he would not make it at the time. Long story, but he did make it. And soon after that incident he started to experience a chronic pain in his right side just below the last short rib. The doctors speculated, poked, manipulated, scanned, X-rayed and sonared him from all sides, but to no avail.
Finding nothing from the outside, one good doctor (our eventual reanimator) decided to invade. A date and time was set for colonoscopy and gastroscopy procedures to be done. His oesophagus, stomach, duodenum, ilium, jejunum, colon and caecum were washed clean to shine forth like the pink marble floors of the Tia Mahal. And in this shining condition he was wheeled into the theatre where the good doctor and his killer anaesthetist awaited him. They sedated him and unceremoniously pushed a flexible rod down his throat and another one of the same up his you-know-what, and that’s when his heart stopped.
The brave doctors did battle for less than halve a minute before they succeeded in reviving the poor sod twice. He was wheeled out of the theatre and sent off post haste to the nearest decent hospital down the road where a cardiologist was alerted of the imminent arrival of a troubled heart attached to a very troubled old man.
Coming too, and then being told of his short visit to eternity, his only comment was that any normal, decent man’s heart would stop if he found himself with a steel rod down his throat and a hose pipe up his arse. He can be such a crude son of a bitch. He then lamented at length about the lack of ringing bells, singing angels, a white light and /or a loving welcoming delegation dressed in brilliant white robes on the other side. “How imprudent can you get?” he asked indignantly.
I coughed warningly and said, “Shall we call you Reginald Shoe from now on sir?” in a castigating tone of voice. Of course, I was alluding to Reg Shoe the zombie in Terry Pratchett’s’ Discworld series. If one rants like a child, you will be treated like a child.
On arrival at the hospital he was admitted to an ordinary ward for un-well people. The cardiologist’s runner girl rocked up with a tablet in hand and fired a lot of questions at our zombie who did not comprehend a word she was saying. His wife took over and answered all the questions which was promptly and efficiently punched into the tabled before the runner girl took off again. Next came the Ward Sister with about ten pages of questions that needed to be answered by the patient before he could be admitted to the hospital. The questions turned out to be the exact same questions the runner girl just fired at our perplexed zombie.
With the questionnaire completed the Sister wandered off, and out of the blue another Sister appeared on the scene with a clipboard in hand. This one looked decidedly more like a cleaning girl than a proper Ward Sister. She started to ask the same questions the other two interrogators threw at our newly reanimated, and now totally flabbergasted Mr Reg Shoe. The irony was that the new inquisitor could not comprehend the answers given to her and so she kept repeating the questions over and over, and although the real Ward Sister told her that the admission papers have been completed and the more she referred her to the file, the more she kept on repeating the questions.
This madness continued for a while when suddenly the Reanimator doctor stormed into the ward foaming at the mouth and wanting to know what the hell his Promethean (or réanimé) was doing in this ward. He should be in intensive care, he shouted. And off they sped with the poor fool down the passage to the nearest ICU ward.
But on arrival at the ICU he was refused entrance, citing a shortage of beds as reason. Off they wheeled him again, down the passage and into a lift to the next ICU where he was again refused admission on the same grounds as at the previous ICU, although we were standing right next to a pristine clean and obviously empty bed. A heated argument erupted between the bed pushers and the Ward Sister re the empty bed reserved for very sick people and the seemingly healthy but somewhat bewildered patient with the rosy cheeks who could not possibly need intensive care.
Enter stage from the right came our little runner girl, adding her shrill soprano voice to the fray. Out shouting the rest of the lot, she won the day with threats of hell-fire and brimstone, and the zombie was transferred to the empty bed, hooked up to a monitor with angry flashing lights that went beep-boop-beep.
There he was, sitting up in bed and smiling his moron smile at everybody while his good wife sat crying in the corridor. At length, the runner girl showed up again and explained to the good wife that the cardiologist wanted permission from the patient to invade his body … again. He wanted to enter the engine room and more specific, the pumping department. (Thank the small gods for small mercies, it was not the hose-pipe-from-the-bottom kind of invasion again!) The doctor felt that an angiogram was urgently called for at this stage.
After much deliberation, shedding of tears and promises that no open-heart surgery would be performed again like the previous time, permission was granted and the invasion scheduled for the next morning.

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“Am I something that exists in time – or does time exist within me?”
(Arthur Tricknor: Solid Ground of Being)

“Did I come into the world – or does the world come out of me?” (Arthur Tricknor: Solid Ground of Being)

“The path to truth is a voyage of disillusionment.” (Arthur Tricknor: Solid Ground of Being)

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Hiermee dan die laaste aflewering in die reeks. Ek sal mettertyd reageer op die reaksies op my skrywe.

5) About love:

Love is a beautiful thing. Have you ever seen a sunset as beautiful as when you were in love? Have ever a spring bloom quite so profusely as when you were in love? Oh yes, in love even life is a beautiful thing.

In love the beloved becomes a perfect being with the smile of an angel, a body divine and a whit unsurpassed in living memory. To be with the beloved is like being in the presence of God divine.

And then it all turns sour. By some miracle the god/goddess inevitably turns into a demon. The fire of love becomes a raging, all consuming holocaust.

Sometimes this happens (thank God) before the sound of happy wedding bells. But many a time it happens only after the little…

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