Fanie's Seeds excerpt from Dumisani's gift by yaz rooney
Fanie looked over at the international travellers who were roasting boerewors, traditional Afrikaaner sausage, over a fire. They had joined the Dutch group for the evening meal, and some sat about talking amongst themselves while others helped prepare the rest of the food. The carts were still loaded with the seed they had brought with them; no-one had figured out yet where to store it. Fanie walked over to one of the carts. Seeds; he’d always been fascinated by these tiny specimens, amazed by the potential for life that he held in his hands. Often he indulged his habit of sitting with the seeds, sifting them through his hands and feeling the magnificent promise of God. He’d appreciated every phase of farming, the preparation of the soil, the process of planting, the appearance and nurturing of the new shoots, the bursts of growth into maturity, and then the joy of the harvest. For Fanie, every sack of seed held the potential for magic, for life, for joy.
Fanie hoisted himself up into the cart. Opening one of the sacks, he put a hand inside and felt the coarse grain brush his skin. He’d completed a long voyage of discovery in which he’d explored the fertile ground of his own mind. God, he’d long realised, had given him birth into life with an open mind, a mind that had started out free of thought and ideas. Into that fertile soil ideas had been planted, seeds that became the structure of the life he’d lived. The world was like a storehouse of seeds; it contained countless sacks of ideas that defined the people who planted, nurtured and harvested them. God, Fanie had discovered, saw human life in the way a farmer views his land. Plant it, and it will grow. Harvest what you sow. And God looked on while we chose the seed, planted, nurtured and harvested it. Sometimes the harvest was good, sometimes it was poor. Like many other farmers he knew, Fanie had often put down to God’s will, whatever came out of the land. But through his journey, Fanie had learned differently. Those seeds that now rushed through his fingers held the quality of his thoughts. Whatever was in his mind as he tilled the land and sowed his seeds, was reflected in the quality of the crops he harvested. Whatever ideas were planted and nurtured in his mind, were reflected in the life he lived. God looked on, allowing us to choose our seeds, and to choose our ideas. Whatever harvest was reaped was down to us. God’s wish was only that we chose carefully, taking heed of everyone around us.
Fanie had reflected on his life. He’d journeyed through every idea, waded through the illusions of grandeur that had caused him to nurture each and every one. Ideas, he now understood, were only illusions that gave him a reason to live. Fanie had learned that, as God’s children, we could choose any idea and it would be just a structure in which to live our life, a shelter through the cycle of life. Ideas gave us a way to know ourselves, communicate with each other and complete a cycle of human experience. Fanie was a Boer, a Dutch farmer who’d been close to the land. He’d been proud of his tribal roots, believing himself and his people to be superior to others. He’d demonstrated this in his attitudes, in his behaviours. He’d justified atrocious actions against others by deferring to his superiority. Fanie had believed in the sacredness of his ideas. They had been real, solid, and to Fanie, sanctified by God. As a farmer, Fanie knew never to grow seeds in the same soil lest the crops he grew became weak and lifeless. Yet he continued to sow the same seeds of his ideas in his own mind, and in the generations that followed him. Now, he witnessed the harvest of his long-held ideas. His people, in the New South Africa, were now weak and lifeless, folks who clung to old beliefs while drowning in a sea of new ideas, new customs and blossoming new relationships.
Fanie had endured the agonizing war on his beliefs, the inevitable consequence of holding on when everything in his life was urging him to let go. In entering the battlefield, he’d suffered the glory of defeat. Once, he’d called upon God to release him from his suffering, and God had called back to him urging him to release the ideas that had caused him pain.
Now he sat here, his hands clutching his precious seeds. They were seeds of hope; they held the promise of fresh new life. His people would live again; they’d merge with others, allowing new ideas to give them new perspective. This, Fanie had decided, he would do with his seeds. He’d plant new ideas that, in turn, would also have their season.
Fanie hoisted himself up into the cart. Opening one of the sacks, he put a hand inside and felt the coarse grain brush his skin. He’d completed a long voyage of discovery in which he’d explored the fertile ground of his own mind. God, he’d long realised, had given him birth into life with an open mind, a mind that had started out free of thought and ideas. Into that fertile soil ideas had been planted, seeds that became the structure of the life he’d lived. The world was like a storehouse of seeds; it contained countless sacks of ideas that defined the people who planted, nurtured and harvested them. God, Fanie had discovered, saw human life in the way a farmer views his land. Plant it, and it will grow. Harvest what you sow. And God looked on while we chose the seed, planted, nurtured and harvested it. Sometimes the harvest was good, sometimes it was poor. Like many other farmers he knew, Fanie had often put down to God’s will, whatever came out of the land. But through his journey, Fanie had learned differently. Those seeds that now rushed through his fingers held the quality of his thoughts. Whatever was in his mind as he tilled the land and sowed his seeds, was reflected in the quality of the crops he harvested. Whatever ideas were planted and nurtured in his mind, were reflected in the life he lived. God looked on, allowing us to choose our seeds, and to choose our ideas. Whatever harvest was reaped was down to us. God’s wish was only that we chose carefully, taking heed of everyone around us.
Fanie had reflected on his life. He’d journeyed through every idea, waded through the illusions of grandeur that had caused him to nurture each and every one. Ideas, he now understood, were only illusions that gave him a reason to live. Fanie had learned that, as God’s children, we could choose any idea and it would be just a structure in which to live our life, a shelter through the cycle of life. Ideas gave us a way to know ourselves, communicate with each other and complete a cycle of human experience. Fanie was a Boer, a Dutch farmer who’d been close to the land. He’d been proud of his tribal roots, believing himself and his people to be superior to others. He’d demonstrated this in his attitudes, in his behaviours. He’d justified atrocious actions against others by deferring to his superiority. Fanie had believed in the sacredness of his ideas. They had been real, solid, and to Fanie, sanctified by God. As a farmer, Fanie knew never to grow seeds in the same soil lest the crops he grew became weak and lifeless. Yet he continued to sow the same seeds of his ideas in his own mind, and in the generations that followed him. Now, he witnessed the harvest of his long-held ideas. His people, in the New South Africa, were now weak and lifeless, folks who clung to old beliefs while drowning in a sea of new ideas, new customs and blossoming new relationships.
Fanie had endured the agonizing war on his beliefs, the inevitable consequence of holding on when everything in his life was urging him to let go. In entering the battlefield, he’d suffered the glory of defeat. Once, he’d called upon God to release him from his suffering, and God had called back to him urging him to release the ideas that had caused him pain.
Now he sat here, his hands clutching his precious seeds. They were seeds of hope; they held the promise of fresh new life. His people would live again; they’d merge with others, allowing new ideas to give them new perspective. This, Fanie had decided, he would do with his seeds. He’d plant new ideas that, in turn, would also have their season.