‘When you go to Africa a thousand sounds welcome, a million thrilling moments embrace, then silence invites you into the great mirror where the search begins”.

Peter Frickel.

We met on the road, on jungle pathways, on the savannah that stretched into the desert on to their prayer mats.

As I walked towards the hills on a rutted road of soil and rock, I heard them singing.  They tilled and planted.  For generations, their hoes in unison have turned this earth.  Some worked with babies strapped to their backs, the old with drooping breasts, the young and the children with playful smiles.  There are no men.

They sang as they toiled, sowed seed as they worked, sang continuously for a harvest and the joy of fertility.

Under this fierce African sun, there is no shade, only a dark fear that nature will turn its back on their digging and hoeing and planting.

Excerpts from my writing:

Roads:

That morning, before sunrise, before the sun’s stretched red lips kissed the horizon I heard whispers, that soft tenderness of nature awakening, silently the road moved by and I joined it.

*

When I grew tired and sat to rest I saw it in the distance stopped like me and felt its weariness. I laid down my head, watched the heavens, saw the stars blink and never blink again.

*

And for the people that came my way I saw their sufferings, ravaged bodies and undernourished minds. With their needs came a yearning for opportunities. They rejoiced when they had plenty but were sad in poverty and that was most of the time for most of them.

*

Again I heard a voice that whispered, “traveler from my ancient history I will tell you stories of great roads and momentous events and leave the new for you to find.”

*

I am a traveler following the roads that go on and on from some

place into time.

*                           

Big Fish:

I grip the rod. My mind is strung along the line to the big fish in the darkest water where pressure is greatest, where he doesn’t rest. I feel his desperation and my fear of not knowing begins to soak me, short shivers come and go.

*

Steadied, he hesitated as if to recognize his victor, pay tribute for new life. Watched, he moved slowly, with eyes the color of love for the far away deep, he was gone.

*

Law was set aside for friendship, abandoned for fellow tribesman, while there was always room for showmanship.

Everything that blooms, fades, everything that births, changes.  Nothing stays the same.  So, too, within the garden of my life, seasons come and go.

One foot

then a step

a shadow comes

My Frog Sings:

Everything that blooms, fades, everything that births, changes.  Nothing stays the same.  So, too, within the garden of my life, seasons come and go.

*

Sidelined, parked with engine idling, I began to wonder: what next?  For without direction, and not knowing what to do, helplessness becomes a haunting shadow.

*

There are great moments, many enduring.  But death always comes—nothing bears fruit all the time.

*

No more did I wish to ride rapids in my pirogue on the Congo River, gamble with its currents and sudden turns, spill over and lose everything.  The current of life had drowned too many dreams.  I was just trying to breathe, to hold a paddle, to guide my way out of turbulence to a quiet eddy to rest; to know I was alive; to try again.

*

Autumn had climbed through vines, weaved an invisible fabric of faded color, the shadow of a past glorious summer.  While winter, unloved, had taken beauty, given death and buried itself in dried stems, frozen memories and scolded berries, it could not take away time.

*

When on my knees weeding flower beds or performing needed tasks that pull on stretched and tired limbs, I would smell richness in the earth and wonder how I might have blossomed in another soil.

*

In this little world, surrounded by time, growth and the mystery of my garden, it is good to feel there is a cure for all ills, that no one is unwanted, unloved, or forgotten, that this garden comforts emotions and accommodates the hurt that lies deep within.

Nothing is demanded.There are no questions, just giving and acceptance, humility and a search for truth that requires patience.

*

Some beautiful sounds and feelings do not stay for long.  I do not know where they hide or when they might return.  They just happen. When they pass, I feel cleansed, touched by soft silk, and compassionate towards my surroundings.

*

We must move towards change.

We must move from our broken selves, from our bare foreign soil or a place once called home, to find a home within.

We must seek a special place to germinate, for we have a need to love, a need to fulfill ourselves and our dreams.

*

My garden is a space.  It is time with a beginning and an end, between which nothing stays the same.  It is a place where so much comes and goes and nothing lasts forever.  It is where nature measures seasons—where I measure my life.

*

                        Knowledge is there but wisdom lingers.

*

They sang as they toiled, sowed seed as they worked, sang continuously for a harvest and the joy of fertility.

Under this fierce African sun, there is no shade, only a dark fear that nature will turn its back on their digging and hoeing and planting.

*

The final judgment of my personal effort and fulfillment is measured between defined lines of hope and time where there never is a feeling of total loss or need to chastise, but rather an effort to understand the differences that roam within this space

*

The end brings change.

Its shadows move in all directions, some unknown, others planned.

The past is replaced.

New horizons beckon, tempt and call for risk.

Nothing is ever the same.

*

I go to a little town near a great castle across the ocean to be with new life that blossoms in the most beautiful garden of all. It is the garden of my flesh, of my family, where love grows wild and flows between outstretched arms, where tears fill eyes on smiling faces, share pain and laughter.

Where beauty sits with age; where the newness of our time shades color from beloved past generations, and leaves the fine things untouched.

Where the richness of hugs wanders through emotions, where recipes and herbs fill senses, roam the kitchen, and give tastes that linger throughout life.

Where whispered encouragement stays, holds hands with time; where tears come and beg never to forget how we were loved

I go to a garden from which I can look back, find purity in success, understanding in failure.  Where I can see hills half climbed, myself on a mountain top, and know, on the river water below where I paddle, there is balance; sometimes reached, sometimes touched, and sometimes only dreamt of.

*

Never, have I stopped thinking of the far away garden where the frog still sings.

*

Lilies of the vlei:

There are thrilling times in a village by the ocean in Africa; doing things I dreamed and planned and watching my world widen.

*

The removal of my naivete was gentle, left no guilt and I did not cry over the passing of innocence but rather saw it all as footsteps in the sand where slow waters permitted me to look back and see how far I had come.

*

The differences between force and gentility were not shrouded but held in my hands at an early age. I felt I was something of value.

*

Come with me to Africa. I am a young boy

*

*

I waded the vlei, made pathways, always careful to avoid deep holes hidden by shaded waters and sucking mud that was known to hold feet as firmly as a python’s crush.

Here the tallest reeds stood several feet above me holding nests filled with the bird’s eggs I hunted for my collection.

Lost or held in sucking mud I could rot, be eaten by six foot blue headed Nile Monitor like creatures, with shining scaly muscular bodies powered by strong legs holding razor claws. Powerful jaws held a mouth that stretched wide to show hungry teeth and a tongue that wiggled and shot in and out all the time pushing stinking breath.

Beady eyes always followed, watched my every move from hiding places in dark dense clumps of reed

undergrowth; but when they thrashed and whipped their tales, breaking silence around me, I felt coveted and afraid.

*

There were parts of the vlei I was afraid to explore for I believed the tales of superstition, bewitching stories and repeated warnings whispered by our Zulu servants.

*

Lilies of the Vlei

I remember my family

Remember servants

Friends and things I did

I remember why I smiled

When I was there

And when I was happy

Nothing is forgotten

I am still me

In Africa

I continue to update and build this site, to tell you more

between my working on ‘Manon’:

a story of immortal love and passion

set in Paris and Havana.

Manon:

*

With the glass resting on the table, between both hands, only finger tips touching, he looked out across the sea, kept looking—remembered when she came back.

*

On the blue shores of silence waves unfolded, water moved, truth opened, he waited, and all that time he thought only of her.

*

Paco her favorite sparrow cocked its head back and forth when her eyes were closed; why did she go, he asked from behind the window pane. Why?

The old man watched; Paco was brave, and when the wind came and he flew away with it, the old man understood—it’s the loneliness that haunts.

*

Bulletin:

Right now, this very moment, I have just completed writing the last of three stories of the life of:

“LOTHA”

Years ago, when I was walking across Africa, after a visit to Darfur, I was resting in Malakal by the River Nile.

Abdul and I had finished our afternoon prayer.

Soon afterwards we were approached by some desert friends who wished to introduce me to three priest friends from Abyssinia.

In the soft wind that cooled itself over the water we spoke of many things.

One, the story of a man, a stone cutter who knew Jesus.

They told me how Jesus had cured Lotha and about the events following that miracle.

How the waters of Lourdes curing powers can be directly attributed to the work of Lotha.

All this information, from hundreds of years ago, had filtered back to the villages of Abyssinian slaves and servants who escaped or were released by Roman soldiers.

Of course the stories have it some of them were actually there, in the streets, witnessing Jesus carrying the cross. Seeing His body against a dark grey sky, on a cross, on a hill.

So vivid was their account there was never a need to ever corroborate it.

When I reached the Holy Land, through connections, I was able to corroborate the words of the priests from Abyssinia–was even told that Lotha was a good friend of Nicodemus.

Intrigued, I have over the years traveled through Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Israel, throughout Palestine and pathways in between.

I have fished in the Sea of Galilee.

Washed in the waters of the Dead Sea.

Prayed at the Wall.

Prayed in the Great Mosque.

Knelt in His manger in Bethlehem.

Walked the path of His crucifixion.

I have felt what I have seen and heard,

faith dismembered

and the power of God.

It is all written down

in

“Lotha”

for you.

Thank you for your visit.

Your thoughts and ideas are welcome:

Website:  www.peterfrickel.com