Tag Archives: future

#295 ~ Psalm Series.9

She told me she lived quite presently. I saw wisdom in her

words, but knew they weren’t true for me.

I live in the future, holding my life quite literally in my own

hands, fingers splayed as far apart as

possible to try and juggle those dreams and aspirations

I don’t want to let go, even though your palm overthrows both my

hands within one



At least I remembered that


Psalm 119 vs 109: I hold my life in my hand continually, but I do not forget your law. 

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#252 ~ Ithemba Projects: Day 18

National Arbour Day! Today, the Ithemba Team went en masse to the Community Centre to plant trees. 3 years ago, when I visited Sweetwaters, the land upon which the Community Centre is built, had jut been given to the charity by the Chief. It was an unmarked field of blood-red soil and grass. Today, after the hard work of the garden project team, it received its first plants! As we met early this morning, we were spoken to by a local business man and plant lover about the 4 kingdoms of this world. The rock and mineral kingdom feeds the plant kingdom which feeds the animal kingdom, and all three contribute to the survival of the human kingdom. The beauty of life. And then we got down and dirty. With each of us assigned a tree, we set to (back-breaking) work shovelling in the soil and compost before planting our little green babies. It was such a rewarding experiences, seeing the foundations of the crèche and community centre which will spring up in a few years. The whole site is being built using a new soil compression technique for the bricks, so although it takes time, it will be sustainable and truly a part of Sweetwaters.


Below are some photos. Enjoy!

Community Centre site, covered in mist. 


 Indigenous South African trees.

 My Tree!!! (I had to get some help half way through planting, my back almost split in two, hard work!)

 My tree in all its glory (I did fall in love with it, and the idea that it will provide food and shelter for hundreds of years!)

 Our tree rows, encircling the food garden. 

 My hands caked in the beautiful rich red African soil of Sweetwaters, Mpumuza.

Prayer for Day 18: That the community of Sweetwaters would grow like these trees. That as the plants are nourished and flourish, they will provide a home and food for the community and local animals. They would be a sign of hope, strength and potential life in this beautiful community. That my tree would flourish and bless those who sit under it. For the garden and community centre projects, they would receive all the funding they need, and become a beacon of light in Sweetwaters. Amen!



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#214 ~ Life Lesson No.30

Trust in the present before you dream into the future.

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#198 ~ Worship in Wormwood Scrubs

I need redemption for my soul. 

It is not that when man has lost all else, he finds God. It is when his ‘world’ is stripped away and the fragility of Life is exposed in such brutality that he realises he needs God. Needs comfort, needs Love and in his weakness needs strength. He needs Hope and a Future. And not just for himself. The men in Wormwood Scrubs prison, incarcerated, shackled, confined to their cells and the mundanity of the bleak brick walls and razor barbed wire trimmings that top their concrete jungle, created by former convicts in 1875, didn’t just pray for themselves. It was for the hope for their families. Their wives and kids.

Within the bleakness of condemnation, the promise of redemption can be found not in looking outwards, but inwards. Into that secret place within their hearts, where God won’t relent until he has everything, has their lives and shows them how he can change, shape, remould them.

The quote that begins this post was the first thing an inmate asked my colleague when we went into the prison this sunday to help run a church service. Talk about a call to prayer. Reeling from the request, my friend set to work. Asking for redemption for the inmates soul, because the prisoner, speaking frankly, every possible facade that the outside world delivers as Christmas present having been ripped and gouged off his face, for forgiveness for his guilt.

I am guilty. If guilt were a perfume I’d reek of it. Not necessarily the guilt of outright murder. But the guilt of coveting other people’s looks/talents/lives/houses/husbands/boobs/smiles/grades – I’m sure you’ve desired your neighbours ass/hairline/job at some point. But I never asked, even in jest, for redemption for my soul because I’m living in guilt. I’m not aware of the pong that covers me in an odorous display of vain glory.  I don’t believe it’s there.

I live, incarcerated in my four by four brick walls, trimmed off by the Sky satellite dish and poor guttering. Cyber fetters devour my flesh, varieties of plastic compounds clothe my skin like translucent straight jackets giving me the appearance of movement.

These men were crying out for a taste of the outside. But not the outside world we inhabit. The Outside, that is outside of man-made creation, and inside the divine Creation, the pure form, where there is hope and a future of more. More than these chains and brick walls, whatever material they are made from.

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#155 ~ Free Fall into/with Me

Like the rain that pelts these single glazed window panes

The consonant rhyme helping to keep these lines in time

You ask me to free fall

With no cord or bungee support

Off the side of Control-Cliff

Expertly engineered under My high Way

Into an abyss of nothing-ness.

The optimum word in the sentence is trust

The first thought that flashes through my mind

Is that I will bust my ass on the rocks that form

the gorge pool, elaborately covered by the foams of a turquoise plunge pool.

It’s my strength that we are relying on

But these muscles are tired from

Rowing against the tide

Undergoing that long distance ride

Until massages can’t even hide

The distorted form of this bruised and blotchy human side.

My intellectual faculties of comprehension and eloquent expression

Were the tools I used to further my profession.

The basis, the foundation, the Cephas of my self-governed nation

A kingdom of grey matter, over which I am the only Father

And now you say it’s all crumbled to dust

I the Creator must become the Desecrator

Bulldozing through the temple, erasing the remnants

Till it reintegrates into the cycle: from dust to dust.

And instead of that knowledge that sometimes transpired into wisdom

I should return to a distant voice

Overpowered, under-shouted, over roared by the thunder, the lightning, the earthquakes and the ever-present heart that is thumping.

Instead – of course there’s always a stead, a steed of a different breed that will return me to the Foreign Homestead

I should bend my ear, to the faintly heard whisper

and seek to honour a Governor who controls no boarders I can see

No militant lines, raises up no National Boundary Signs

Of this here terra…

…and in giving up my desire

I will find a path that will lead me to the higher realm, design, functioning plan of your regimes prime

goal, inspired

to march through the mire, to a different drum beat, which promises to make this yearning heartbeat

secure, in His ultimate desire.

Well…I’ll try not to make the prospect seem too dire.

In the process, I’ll be she, the one that is attempting to trust in the vision which claims to be, and resolutely is

higher than mine.

The will of the divine.

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#132 ~ Hot Chocolate Ideas

When you get an idea, if it’s potent enough, it infects you like a virus which rapidly mutates in order to evade capture, annihilation, the cessation of its existence. Conscious that there are no anti or prebiotics that can alleviate such a situation, wisdom tells you to succumb. As you inhale the froth that licks the sides of your quaint hot-chocolate glass flute and muse about the next year, a squinted eye fixed on the ticking hands of the clock, the cogs start to jar and jut into place, and your mind embraces the fermenting concept.

I’m still struggling to understand my subject, to understand how to analyse, write and express my ideas. Yet, while I regularly moan about it, clutch at my hair, have self-pitying crying sessions and crawl into my bed at 4 a.m after attempting to read enough to present something called an essay, I have learnt to also embrace the parts of my subject I enjoy. Perhaps I’m not yet a critic, but I am creative. What better way to remember what you love than by doing what you love.

So my fiendish hot chocolate friends have infected me with the idea of not only writing a play, but putting on a separate play next year as well as creating, presenting and producing (god willing) my own late-night niche poetry show. To combine Slam-Poetry with Spoken Word, seductive jazz music and international, obscure, marginalised, political, social and just beautiful global poetry. Sounds like a huge task, but that’s a part of English literature I love.

Hopefully the people who give me permission to do this and the training to learn  how  will also be quickly bitten by the creative compulsion mosquito which has expertly impregnated my brain with poetic-malaria compulsion.

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#107 ~ One Hundred Words and A Photo : 7

From her window, if she left one ear on the sagging pillow, slightly raising her left shoulder, she could just about peep over the ledge before the squeal of the burnt tyres fled like a stamped out fire. Refracted and misdirected in the sweat lined window pane, the light appeared dis-coloured and vague in shape. She sighed, letting her head sink back again. It reminded her of the obscure vision that played in her brain, danced through the rain of pervasive thoughts that told her perhaps but in short, she would have to work, wait, before her great escape.


Victoria O, Copyrighted

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