on finding my place.

one starry night, the woman took a walk inside of herself to the quiet places that she loved to visit, and

there, under the karoo sun, she could play barefoot again, unworried about ice and snow and other cold things, and her young hands could tease the

hot earth for tiny fragments of blue glass hidden in the soil, and

one day i will be an archaeologist and i will dig for things — beautiful things, in the dirt, and i will have rooms full of books and i will travel the world and see pyramids and other beautiful, broken things, and we will see each other and smile — the broken things and i — and i will never have to prove that i do know things and they are all wrong about me and perhaps i will finally belong, and i wonder what that feels like, to fit snugly in a place and in a life, like your shape was made to belong, but

some don’t, do they — belong?

and some people aren’t made

to fit into round holes, because they have sharp edges and sharp corners where the loveliest things hide, but not everybody can see this and not everybody knows, and it takes a very long time for a soft, square heart to know that it is ok not to be round,

and i have been scratching in the dust for years to find hope and life and other green things, and

i have grown soft with love for myself, and i still look for fragments and other broken things in places where others see dirt, and

this is my gift — to see the loveliness in a man’s skin, and to hear africa in his voice as our children swim together, here, far from home, and to see hope in the eyes of a woman who crossed deserts and bullets

with children in tow and then

still the oceans, too — what did she know about water so deep and so fierce, other than that it was safer than the hearts from where she ran, and i look for smiles and people who walk straight into you with mouths that bow up to the light, and eyes that sparkle like glass in the sun — these are the things that i search for now, and when i find them, i turn them over, and over, in my hands and when my hunger is satisfied i hide them, deep in a corner, and oh

you should see all the beauty that i have hidden inside here, on this side of my walls, and finally i belong.

— on finding my place.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Tim Mossholder.

the thing that gave you joy, is (still) waiting.

do you still have that dream?

the one that you have been dressing and,

undressing

since you were little.

breathing in the joy

of knowing that

this,

this beautiful thing

belongs to you,

and

only you, but

then

they made

you build a fence

around the thing

that makes you happy.

keeping you out,

and away

from it.

your

face

pressed

right up against the magic,

but

not

close

enough.

did they say,

who do you think you are,

and

that will never happen,

and

you are not like them,

you are like us,

and

people like us don’t dream.

and,

you

think

you

are

so much better than us.

but

you

are

not.

do you remember it now?

i thought you might.

the voices

are pretty much the same,

no matter who you are,

or who you were,

once-upon-a-time.

and that fence

might be overgrown by now.

mine was.

and it might be higher

than it seemed

when you still believed

in dreams.

that happens.

so, don’t you worry

about

weeds,

and thorns,

and strangling things,

that can be cut back,

ripped out,

and

broken down.

that will be the easy part.

what i want to know,

and this,

is really the most important part,

do you still hear their voices?

because

that is where the lie started,

and

that is where the lie must end.

so

turn

your

back,

dreamer, yes

you must

if you are still searching

for that thing

that made you feel alive, and

it will need some care, and

a little bit of love,

but it will live

if you want it to.

so, this is what you do.

you listen for another voice,

and

it is quiet

and

it is soft,

so listen carefully.

it says i-believe-in-you things, like

you can,

and

i know you can do this,

and

what a great idea,

and

you are just the right one for this,

and,

let

me

tell

you

something else.

sometimes,

there is a lot of noise

when fences come down,

and

when dreams go up, so

don’t you mind this.

it will die down,

and

you will grow up,

and

you will grow out,

and

you will find your way again.

because

the thing that gave you joy,

is (still) waiting (for you), and

the light on your skin

will be beautiful

and warm,

and

one day,

sooner than you think,

you will walk

straight into yourself,

again.

— the thing that gave you joy, is (still) waiting.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Matheus Bertelli.

this is (already) heaven on earth.

today, i saw an old man walking with his wife. his turban a flash of bright orange — everyday holiness on an ordinary afternoon, and i saw daffodils — a sea of brazen yellow — just waiting to be noticed, despite the throng of traffic, and tired people chasing lists of things to do, and to buy, and to get through, before they can live, and the sky was a van gogh blue that hasn’t shown its handsome face around here since last september and it made my head dizzy with joy as it shouted hope is here, hope is here. just look up!

and a man with very little money, gave me a smile — he was that rich — and i gave him one of mine as i bought his magazine full of brave stories, and a father was swimming with his little girl and i saw tenderness wrapped in strength and one small heart was safe today, and it was good. and a man from another faith taught my son to swim — gently and patiently, he made miracles happen in my boy’s brain, and later at the shop there were rare, bright jewels in the fruit aisle, although some people call them pomegranates, and the aroma from the bakery was heaven on the breeze, and how i love the way my nose can smell, even though someone once said that it is too big, and unpretty, but i do not care, it works so well, how can i worry about opinions that do not love me.

and another man said this world is going to hell and look at this mess they’ve made, and how can we ever find peace this side of heaven, and i said but look! look — i am wearing my scarlet lipstick and my toes are pretty too, in red — do you know what i have seen and survived to be brave enough to wear these colours, and to tell of joy, and light, and maybe this is already heaven and we need to look up, and around, and sometimes even down, but especially inside, so that we can find the thing that sings in the dark and says, see, it is not too late, take off your shoes on this sacred ground, and all the earth is, you know. and can you even remember how the grass feels under your feet, and just listen to the breath dancing in your chest and do you know how precious that is?

how much it is worth?

just hold out your hands, don’t be shy — and ask for more, and it will come, if you believe.

but you must believe, this doesn’t work so well if you don’t, and neither will you, or your heart, and i am not sure you know this yet, but you are so beautiful, inside and out, and one day you will know it, really know it, when you walk straight into love, as we all will, but until then open the windows and sing.

— this is (already) heaven on earth.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Amin Imanifar.

the holiness of cinnamon, and more.

in the quiet of this morning i made oatmeal, rich with cinnamon and honey’s golden kiss.

i do this every day, and also,

i whisper blessings on the hands that made this and not just mine, no.

all the hands that planted, and watered, and harvested, and packed, and delivered, and the lovely hands that work at the till in the shop where i bought all of this goodness.

all of this light.

how beautiful is this life of mine, i say as i eat all of this love.

and i say thank you to the bees, and the earth, and the trees, and my body, who i so often forget.

but lately, i don’t.

no.

not anymore.

because late one night and early some mornings, when the earth was sleeping, i dared to ask for more.

more light, more God, and truth like i have never known.

and i watered my hopes and my bones with tears, and they were seen.

and they were heard.

so small and so quiet.

but still.

i was heard.

and now i see God everywhere, but seldom where i was told he was before, and now i don’t look for him there anymore.

because he is here in the light that falls on my bedroom floor, even before i vacuum it, can you believe that?

even in the dust, on my floors and on my shelves and on my life, even here.

but dust, is what i am made of and more — little bits of stars and heaven and tears and earth.

and floors are where i have found holiness, and him — yes, God.

and there is more to this, if i may tell — he is in the postman too when he comes to my door, but i don’t think he knows it yet, so i will keep on speaking kindness over him until it blooms white hot in his soul.

and i call him by his name, God, and the postman,

and i say thank you for all that i have received, from Him, and from him, yes, even the mail.

and just in case someone else further back has forgotten that we are all holy, i say thanks for him too, the postman.

the one who delivers my mail with his soul.

it is only a simple prayer.

thank you.

but holy.

holy, with the fragrance of heaven, and somewhere out there in another part of home and earth, someone once touched the cinnamon on my oats, and i bless their hands, and their heart, and their body, and their soul, and for them too, i ask for more.

and this is how i change the world, and this is how i open the windows.

and God finds me here, in the dust, and in the light where it falls.

everywhere.

— the holiness of cinnamon, and more.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Alessio Cesario.

christchurch.

and a morning will come where you will wake up to find that somewhere, somehow, some of us have lost the way, and heaven mourns this loss, and pain will weep all over the earth again, because hatred is nothing new and there have been hearts closed up tight against the light since time began, but you must remember, please do not forget this, that somewhere, somehow, a mother is teaching her son how to throw open the windows in his heart and a father is teaching his daughter that God is love and so are we, if we choose to be, and this is important, and people all over this world are standing up for love and crowding out the-thing-that-would-separate-us-into-boxes and even though it hurts right now and will for a very long time, in the end we will be ok if you hold my hand and i will hold yours, like a friend — i see you — and if we speak kindness over each other, like a blessing and if we hold up flags of mercy over our brothers and our sisters, and our mothers and our fathers, and ourselves, and if we remember that there is no them under heaven, just us, then we will be love and we will win.

— christchurch.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph Pixabay.

My heart goes out to the people of New Zealand today. xx

#christchurch

uitpak, wegpak en regpak.

partykeer dink ek, mens moenie die dag begin voor jy nie eers rustig oor ‘n koppie tee met jouself gesels het oor al die dinge wat gister, en miskien ook lank terug gebeur het, en al die ander dinge wat miskien in die nag se drome met jou gebeur het.

en dan as jou oë eers alles mooi bekyk het, dan kan jy mos nou alles mooi reg wegbêre. alles in sy plek, soos my ma altyd sê.

‘n hopie hièr, vir ek-het-nou-genoeg-gehad-van-al-die-nonsens-en-ek-gaan-diè-laai-toesluit-vir-ewig-en-altyd.

en ‘n ander hopie daàr vir ek-sal-moet-terugkom-na-jou-toe-want-my-hart-sal-weer-hier-moet-optel-en-voel-en-ruik-sodat-ek-uiteindelik-vrede-kan-eet-hieroor.

en dan is daar ander stukkies wat saggies blink en hulle moet mens nie tè vêr wegsit, want sjoe, is hulle nie pragtig nie?

ek sal hulle elke dag uithaal omdat alles in my kop net wil dans in die sagte lig en my gesig smile net heeldag van al die mooigeid. en dis seker die belangrikste hopie van almal, maar nie alle mense weet dit nie, want hulle sluit nie die laaie met die goed wat hulle harte deurmekaar krap en dan kom staan diè goed swart en knorrig voor hulle elke oggend en dan is dit moeilik om die mooi lig so deur die donkerte te sien.

en vandag huil die wolke hier in glasgow ‘n koue, grys reën en ek het amper vanoggend ‘n laai-sleutel verloor, maar gelukkig het ek hom gekry so tussen gister se krapperigheid en los blaaie, so nou drink ek rooibostee uit my fyn koppie sodat ek al die mooi stukkies son en moederberg en die see van kalkbaai kan uitpak hier op my skoot en my hande kan al die mooigeid vashou en ek kan sommer voel hoe die see my vel liggies nat soen, en ai die lig binne-in my kop is vanoggend so mooi.

— uitpak, wegpak en regpak.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Foto Lisa Fotios.

#afrikaans