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​mooi loop

reflections of a son and fellow traveler...

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​As I write this in the last week of my 40th year of life I feel very grateful for all that this story has reconnected me to. I have attempted to organise, interpret and transmit some of my dad's stories, photos (aren’t some of them great?!), and ideas (trying as much as possible to limit my own interjections) - and I think I have managed to keep my dad’s story 95% intact. I have tried to retain his own voice and the things that are important to him - like precisely when things happen and remembering how they happened.

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Looking back now (if I take time to trace my own steps - and also my own mindset) I can see that when I started this project I simply wanted to arrange it and narrate it. If I did that well, then I wouldn't really need to participate in it. And the first half of the posts I think that's what I was doing - but I was still getting close enough to the story for something to start softening. As the year has progressed I have been able to clearly see that I'm not just trying to do that here - I've been doing it my whole life: if I can learn to tell the story well, then I don't actually have to participate fully. Narration is safe. Sidelines are safe. Participation is dangerous. Or perhaps those are the lies I have come to believe and therefore transmit.

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As themes emerged in my dad’s writing, I was able to see that these were the same themes that had recently become important in my own life:

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• connection to myself

• the courage to be myself and not what another wants me to be

• the importance of doing what I am passionate about - of having a cause - a reason

• of creating meaning with movement rather than with utterances

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As i started to resonate deeply with what he was sharing it became harder and harder to not want to take over and to simply let the story tell itself… and to resist the compulsion to tell this story my way. If it was speaking to me this way (as it was already written) then perhaps my interpretations and clarifications might be an unnecessary distraction. And if there's one thing I fear most it might be this - being unnecessary. His story truly came alive as I dared to listen more and interrupt less. And perhaps this was it’s greatest lesson for me: that being irrelevant is the best form of relevance - if only to myself.

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There is a story of an ancient people. They were a people of God. A remnant. Many myths were written about them but they existed in history as The Hebrews. Enslaved. Captive. In many ways yearning to stay that way. They crossed the first of many rivers as they tried to leave slavery behind - only to find that their desire to be enslaved followed them into a 40 year wilderness. In Hebrew, the Red Sea (their first obstacle) was known to them as the “The Reed Sea” - and they were being led by a man named Moses - who we are told was found naked and afraid in a basket... in reeds (bullrushes). This became only one of many narrative arcs that seem to point to something both mysterious and circular -- if we take the time to listen to that story. Once on the other side of the Reed Sea, what might have been a 3 week trip turned into a 40 year struggle. They stumbled and grumbled this long not because of the journey’s requirements, but because of their fear of confrontation. Taking hold of the promise would require much of them - organisation, passion, faith and much much courage. It would also require violence. Perhaps this story has survived and been transmitted through generations because it's a story within which we can see ourselves. That stories are like that. Mirrors and witnesses.

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If only I might learn to pay attention to the stories of others and hear what they are saying to me.

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And one of the first things I learnt while reading my dad’s writing was that a promised land is optional. But if it were to become my home, that would demand that I find my way to it through the rivers and wastelands I have faced, am facing and the ones that lie ahead around the bend. This project has given me the determination to keep walking regardless of my own circumstances. That faith = making ground. And that sometimes turning back is it’s own form of progress if it keeps me safe to walk another day.

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You see…. I am one of those people who like to start things - I am quite fond of being inspired. Projects, ideas and initiatives. Relationships. Careers... Impulsivity, stimulation and escape have been my real drugs. It has always been this way. Life is real loud when you are my level of sensitive. And to find the plot twist late in life: That the healing was to be found by moving closer towards my sensitivity, rather than trying to fight it with clenched fists. In finding my own “saggies”.

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At the start of 2024 - at the age of 39, I had driven my life off a cliff trying to live far beyond my own capabilities. And my capabilities are enormous... so imagine that strutting around with a massive ego, seeking to clarify, explain, embellish and narrate everything... I didn’t want to be around myself - and so I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be around others - and so I wasn’t. And like Icarus, I collided with Nature’s Laws and was facing not only a wilderness beyond, but also a wilderness within.

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I still couldn’t see a lot of this in December 2024 - life truly was in fragments and my own map had failed - but it was during that Christmas holiday one month prior to my 40th birthday that the idea presented itself that I would like to try to tell my dad’s story - or at the very least, give him the space & platform to share his own. (More likely I was doing it hoping to exploit the story to become a famous writer and fix all my problems with words because this really is my fantasy... but these are the lies we tell to ourselves and then to others). He was at this stage still a few 100km from finishing this walk, but the family had been quietly rooting for him on every one of these adventures so far - and I was suddenly struck with how amazing it all was - that he really wanted to connect these dots - and I believed that he was going to do it. There was a sparkle in his eyes that had me convinced that he would get this done.

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I started compiling this blog in Feb of 2025, and it was the catalyst for a few things really coming into focus for me. As I have walked in my dad’s footsteps, and tried to listen to what he is really saying (when he talks of specific times and references sometimes seemingly bizarre details) - to see all that I simply was not seeing before. I have tried to allow myself to get close enough to both his shadows and mine - to both his wisdom and my own - to both his fixations and my own - to both his light and shade as well as my own, that quite a lot has been illuminated for me. These are the big ones:

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That I don’t have to pretend that I am enjoying something if I truly am enjoying it - and perhaps that’s possible with everything I do

And that if I start doing what I love then that solves some pretty big challenges for an anxiously avoidant adult child.

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That the end is sooner than we might want it to be

...with nearly all of it. It really is so fleeting. And that sometimes it ends just as we finally figure out what it's all about. And that while we might mistake this for Life’s cruelty it might really be her kindness. May I learn to hold it with an open hand but also learn to hold it. And to not be sad that it's ending, but amazed that it continues in unfathomable ways - astonished that any of it happened at all.

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To know that I can keep going long after I think I cannot

Thanks for showing me this, dad.

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To know that I am seen, loved, protected and cared for

And even when I put myself close to life’s edges - it is never beyond the care of the great power beyond which slowly makes its home within me.

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To know that I am not lost - only afraid

Afraid of my smallness and inadequacy - but really most especially afraid of the opposite. But that I was not alone and was fortunate enough to stumble on a path that others before had also found - and learn how they managed to still stack a life together that they could be proud of. How they navigated their wilderness.

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"I was not lost; I was on a path that others had walked before me, and would walk again." - Cheryl Strayed

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Thank you Rob, Bill, Craig, Herb, George, Feli, Tony, Haley, Catherine and Scotty. In your stories I am finding my own. To finally see that for my whole life people have been saying some really difficult and really profound stuff and that I have been rather preoccupied with chasing surfaces hoping to call it depth.

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To listen to what is being said - but also what is not being said

I was faced with a man who so desperately wants to be the hero of his own story - and the hero of his own life - without knowing that he already is. And while there were moments of real courage and adversity that required that he dig deep to find a way to the other side and although sometimes he got thoroughly stuck it's also just a story about a man who slept off the bruises… and the cuts... who felt fear… who was stubborn and miscalculated... and got lost in thoughts… maybe that’s just everyone.

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And perhaps that’s the real story here: that a guy went on a walk - and anyone can.

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The story is not that it can never be done - the real story is that it can. And more than it simply being theoretically possible, steps were actually taken...

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My dad did those last 15 hikes coming back from a failed back surgery where his heart was too weak for anesthesia - he was supposed to have a structural upgrade of sorts because something isn't quite right with his back - and still he walked. He doesn’t really talk about that. And as much as one might read this and say - “gosh Joe, you might be making a fuss out of yourself a bit here”, my comment to you would be to remember all that is left unsaid when he tells us all the exact time that he ate the bullybeef.

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That i wasn’t that interested until I started really paying attention

There was one specific post that really had me relating so much with my dad. It was day 2 of his hike between Umgazana and The Kraal at Mpande where the following happens: He misses the turn. He is too stubborn to backtrack. He believes this is now the only way possible. Then proceeds to tell us a survival tale for the path he struggled on as a result of his own choices. And I know that guy. And know him well. And I love that guy who survived until now - you did what you had to - and that’s how you chose to do it. I can also see now that you had to do it that way too. That compulsion and devotion are bedfellows. And I connect to that. I relate to that hardwiring and it’s transmission. I too am both the victim and crime.

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That this story could write me - if i could learn to listen

As I made my way along his adventure, the idea was forming that this really is just the story of guy stumbling along a coastline - doing very ordinary things like getting lost, getting grumpy, getting stuck, being forgetful, making a river crossing sound like a space odyssey, getting hungry and getting frustrated. But when pieced together it somehow becomes something quite other than ordinary - and so it might be with every ordinary life and every ordinary collection of ordinary steps. That when collected and considered, every journey becomes something magnificent. That most of us will get to the end of our lives having done nothing truly remarkable, and yet the world we exist in (and at the very least - the world that is within ourselves) is it’s own kind of magic which we have this single opportunity to participate in. The extraordinary of the ordinary. So best I learn to dance to this beat and not the soundtrack in my head.

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Through taking these steps with him, it has taught me that the only way we ever become something in this world - it is to learn to tell the stories of others. As we read these chapters the heroes reveal themselves slowly. Not only the man who stumbled his way over many decades up and down the hills of his own life - and through many rivers of his own choosing - perhaps he is simply a small part of it. Surely the real heroes are the people who made it possible - the strangers - their unexpected kindness. The deep friendships forged along the way. The bonds of blood. Nature herself - her brutality but also her steady rhythms. Her exposure. Her protection. And that the hero is the one who sees this - and chooses to courageously participate in it.

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There were a few moments there where I became convinced that no one was watching his blog / life more closely than himself - and that formed both judgement and compassion within myself. We see most clearly in others what is apparent within. And to face the fact that I was not annoyed at his obsession - I was getting frustrated by my own... My own compulsion to build systems to tell the story my own way. That I was not frustrated by his self-obsession but rather of my own - and what ever sneaky way it might like to interfere next. “How exactly will you try to steal the show this time, Carl?” “How might you try to get away with the bare minimum of effort and present it as much more?” To encounter the shadow within myself of someone who compulsively chooses glory over safety - but to see it this time - and find a different way. And to take a risk not for glory, but for the safety of being known. And to see that this process was teaching me this. Truthfully but oh so lovingly.

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And to see that I just needed to stand back. And learn to amplify that which is already there.

There was another “ah-ha!” moment while editing the same post that comes from the finish line to us in reverse (Chapter 30). While choosing which pictures make it into the album I deleted the picture of the rucksack he had thrown over the ledge before a dangerous decent - even commenting under my breath: “that’s a kak photo” only to realise that this had been something really key in that story - and I was willing to cut it out based simply on my own flash judgement of what is appropriate / reasonable and beautiful. And i would like to pretend like i have these “ah-ha!” moments - they are mostly moments of “oh shit” - and dark thoughts about how much of life i might have missed because I have had this entitled, defensive and distracted mind - coupled with gratitude to be able to pay slightly better attention now. And be here a little bit more. And be elsewhere less often. And I don’t think I am the only one who wants this life - to get beyond planning to do it - and doing it… a life that stumbles it’s way into a story that helps someone else.

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That each person I meet in this world is walking in their own wilderness - and crossing their own metaphorical rivers. And if I am to have an awareness only for my own journey then I can never walk with them on theirs. And that this is a double loss - because my story is both spectacular - but also very much an ordinary trudge - which makes it pretty much the same as every story out there. And so that double loss is that not only do i not see another but that I am prevented from witnessing myself - for surely, my life and meaning is held in others and through them - as I learn to hold their relevance as my own. Every life lived - every pathway lost - every koppie ascended - every obstacle underestimated and every complexity over-imagined. To take steps with others.

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This really is the story of us all as we all find our own way in this world - always alone and ever alongside. And best we not wait to do it - but rather do it now - for surely this is it - and best we participate gratefully - and learn from each other what that means.

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And then to see that we really do tell the story of others when we learn to tell our own.

Writing this has helped me to do that with greater clarity...

I had dots to connect.

I had a scattered mind that needed a map.

I had sections I wanted to avoid.

My Jericho’s have thick walls and heightened defenses

And I needed to learn the power of devotion

And realise that the walls didn't come down after a well articulated argument

They came down after worship

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I needed to hear the stories of others.

I needed to find my own voice along the way.

That i had it the wrong way around from the start - I thought I was uncovering my dad - but really he was uncovering me - for surely I have been naked and afraid from the very start.

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And to see that for obsession to become steady devotion

might take me more than a lifetime

but to let obsession find movement

and not only narration - the tales of my trails

because surely I might ever know

what might appear

if i choose love over fear

if i choose care over harm

if i choose action over thought

If I open my hand and lift it outward

if I choose expression rather than consumption

if I choose to sing rather than chatter

if i choose to bleed

and learn to write

in red

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Of finding a way of answering this question:

“how brave do you want to be?”

and to answer that with: “yes”

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That maybe all he really wanted this whole time was someone to walk along-side.

And maybe that is what he always had.

That maybe this was me.

Maybe I was that man who so determinedly wanted to be the hero of my own life.

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“Each generation returns to the same shore, hoping to see what the last one saw. And more”

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There came this specific time while writing this (pretty late in fact - about post #35) that i simply stopped writing the words I thought my father was trying to say and stopped trying to say them better and simply listened to what he was already saying. Most of what he was writing was already simply beautiful. He was being so wonderfully subtle and I had to listen carefully sometimes.

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And that it was me that needed to learn to read between his lines

rather than trying to write them

for it was actually him

the whole time

saying meaningless chatter

sprinkled with timeless wisdom

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And he had been doing it for a lifetime

and it was me that had not been listening

I was not able to pay attention

I was not able to pay much

I even tried to pay my bills with magic

It was me that had not been singing

for i had been too busy talking

- interjecting -

and i needed to learn to not do that here

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I was not here to improve his story. I was here because that was happening in reverse

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And that is why i think the stories of others are so relevant:

in them i find my own substance

and that is gravity

True North

God

Father

Dad

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to be a hero doesn’t require much

but at the very least I must learn to keep walking

and learn to dance on beaches

and sing in harmony

and let the story speak for itself

perhaps that is attention

perhaps that is devotion

perhaps that is worship

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that the perpetrator is also the accuser who is also the crime

so what do you do for the crime of loving with a sword

of trying to get all the attention

rather than learning that is must be paid

and that it costs

but these might turn into the best investments

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I arrived here as narrator but leave as student

And this has been my first real lesson

And it cost a lot

But my dad has been trying to tell me about “school fees” for 40 wilderness years

I just wasn’t listening

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To what was already

So clearly there

Before me

Without me

What will exist when I'm forgotten

But for right now?

I could participate in it

rather than interrupt it

or reengineer it

or reinterpret it

and learn to listen

to the story of others

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Guided by the Sea that sometimes spits us out

She can be so brutal in the most gentle of ways

and through her tides and rhythms

we learn to find her real edges

and dance upon solid ground

the shore

safe harbours

we are safe now

not because we managed to change the tides

but rather that we obeyed them

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so may it be a long happy life for me now

these lessons have been oh so costly

but they are my treasure now

and more valuable than the green that existed before

the envy

the excess

and the unlikely triumph of Red

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I’m finding my way and finally wishing everyone the best on theirs

as we all make our way

or rather learn to find it

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that these might turn into the best investments

if i can control the returns

and I do

so return i do

and will keep returning

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For the journey is never completed

I am only ever at the start

Of all that is

Of all that might yet be

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that this really was all about him

and it really was all about me

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that it had always been about control and surrender

and that ever before me lies slavery or confrontation

that this had always been about a returning to new thing

an arrival into everything that has always been

this. now. here.

as it is

above what I want it to be

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And that my real safety is being known in what I am

And was never to be found in being seen in what I am not

That devotion was quiet

That true worship whispered

That it was both Truth and Love

And cared not for my words

Unless they revealed and amplified that which IS

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from a burning bush the Sea spoke to it’s most reluctant Hebrew:

I am that I am

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to that i raise open hands

wondering aloud:

what might land in a hand that opens?

what might stir in a heart that softens?

what might become of a moment of deep clarity?

what might yet be forged in this Fire?

who might be reborn in this Sea?

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and to know at last that life’s fullness

was not to be found in curated narration

but rather in creative expression

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To know this:

That if I had done this walk - I would have had a lot more to say about it - God knows i can make something sound better than it really is...

But what if it really is already amazing?

How would it sound then?

How does it sound already?

Can I hear that music?

Can I find that voice?

Can I sing that song?

Can I learn to sing along?

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And that I had to walk alongside his shadows to find my own.

The journey of another really was the journey of my own.

And that the real heroes are the mediums - in every sense of that word.

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to keep walking

to find my own way

post 40.

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