Guest Houses, soul shrines, spread all over the fields, towns, and cities of South Africa   

Kind Sir, dear Lady, hear me graciously out. We vulnerable humans get bombarded by politicians, business people gunning for the bottoms of our pockets, industrious clowns probing our banking capacities, hopeless people reeling, then dropping out, too much pain, too much sorrow, out there on the sad streets of ‘Baltimore’.

So, the soul, the precious soul, needs protection. At some point in the flow of things, one should get your soul mate, with a slight lingering smile, to get into your car and then to drive out with you to one of the serene, proud, smiling, guest houses out there that will very subtle, grab the essence, and the reach of your longing soul.

Yes, to walk into that heimat, that guest house, a tendered place that soulful people have created because their house, their home, their cottages, all, sing a longing song for people to come and share the brief beauty that life in protest to all the disquiet, still subtly, generously, allows.

So dear Lady, hubby too, follow your soul. To the full. Get into your vehicle and drive out there to the beckoning of your soul. With your senses, your skin, your eyes, wide open. And you will see – your eyes, your inner being, hand in hand with your soul, will be opening gates and fences. And you heart will be on more and more focused, fierce, fire. And jip, your soul will be clapping sincere hands in the very quiet. Like remembering a full arena. Yes, and watch. The deep welcoming of a guest house longing you to be just there. So that the soul, and the wobbly human being, walking with, can become a friendly fierce lingering fire.

Enjoy. Enjoy the beautiful brevity of life. And say hello to the house. To that house. Sit down to the feel. And just, sing, jive, shuffle, along. The soul’s very longing song. It can do nothing else, but protest to the very last.

In bricks. And poems. Willows and mortar.

Specifically. But, there might be a mere child around, looking like a Dylan protest song, just looking on, watching. And on into the fields of the wandering soul. Just go. Feed. Go like plains and rain.

Just go. And go. With no full stop. Let the hills in front, wave you a welcome. Allow the road behind you to shed you a farewell tear, a sad goodbye!

Wim van der Walt