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After coming out after a long depression After coming out after a long depression
by Abigail George
2019-07-24 09:06:41
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(for the South African poet Cwayita Hlohloza)

I wanted to say this. Just because we don’t talk

    all the time on the telephone or haven’t
    seen each other in years doesn’t mean I
    don’t thank God for you in my life. For
    distributing my work among your cool friends.
   depres01_400 It doesn’t mean I don’t pray for your life
    Everyday. You’re faith. You’re faith. You’re
    faith to me. You mean something to me.
    You’ve given my life a novel meaning. I
    write with purpose now. Because of you.
    Because of you, my friend. My beloved friend.
    Sometimes I think of you, faraway, knee-
    deep in your work. Loving a small child.
    You’ve been good to me. I want you to
    know that. That I’ve never forgotten your

    kindness. In the open air I’m reminded
the rituals that you follow as a sangoma, and of course
    your writing rituals. Nature reminds me of
    you, your work. The images of ochre, earth
    and divine water spilling into the air. You
    don’t know about the times I was a wreck
    in despair. A wreck in freaking-hardship.
    You don’t know when I’ve been at my worst.
    Perhaps you only see the phenomenal-me.
    The me that doesn’t seem to get hurt by
    anything. For me everyone is phenomenal
at something in their life. Smart at something. You
    gave me something I’ve never forgotten.
    Life. Freedom. I met this Catholic nun at
    Tara. She was in her eighties. There for the
    same reason I was. She was depressed.

    Her brother was the curator of a museum
    in Germany. She still had the German-
    accent after living for most of her adult
    life in South Africa. After supper at 5 o’
    clock we would go for a long walk. You’re
    like that nun to me. She (like you) gave
    me a new lease on life. She taught me
    how to live again after coming out of another
    long depression. Now, I rinse the grains of
    rice clear. So focused on what I am doing
    and I wonder if you perhaps are doing
    the same thing. I rinse the rice under the
    cold-water tap, and I want to tell you this (but

you’re so far away). That you’re an amazing
    poet and that you your life inspires me.



After coming out after a long depression
(for the South African poet Cwayita Hlohloza)

I wanted to say this. Just because we don’t talk

    all the time on the telephone or haven’t
    seen each other in years doesn’t mean I
    don’t thank God for you in my life. For
    distributing my work among your cool friends.
    It doesn’t mean I don’t pray for your life
    Everyday. You’re faith. You’re faith. You’re
    faith to me. You mean something to me.
    You’ve given my life a novel meaning. I
    write with purpose now. Because of you.
    Because of you, my friend. My beloved friend.
    Sometimes I think of you, faraway, knee-
    deep in your work. Loving a small child.
    You’ve been good to me. I want you to
    know that. That I’ve never forgotten your

    kindness. In the open air I’m reminded
the rituals that you follow as a sangoma, and of course
    your writing rituals. Nature reminds me of
    you, your work. The images of ochre, earth
    and divine water spilling into the air. You
    don’t know about the times I was a wreck
    in despair. A wreck in freaking-hardship.
    You don’t know when I’ve been at my worst.
    Perhaps you only see the phenomenal-me.
    The me that doesn’t seem to get hurt by
    anything. For me everyone is phenomenal
at something in their life. Smart at something. You
    gave me something I’ve never forgotten.
    Life. Freedom. I met this Catholic nun at
    Tara. She was in her eighties. There for the
    same reason I was. She was depressed.

    Her brother was the curator of a museum
    in Germany. She still had the German-
    accent after living for most of her adult
    life in South Africa. After supper at 5 o’
    clock we would go for a long walk. You’re
    like that nun to me. She (like you) gave
    me a new lease on life. She taught me
    how to live again after coming out of another
    long depression. Now, I rinse the grains of
    rice clear. So focused on what I am doing
    and I wonder if you perhaps are doing
    the same thing. I rinse the rice under the
    cold-water tap, and I want to tell you this (but

you’re so far away). That you’re an amazing
    poet and that you your life inspires me.

*****************************************************************
Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

 life_06_400


   
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