Landscape Regained

— First written in 2020; translated into English in 2026 —

There is no cause for complaint. Winter often brings cold fronts—low-pressure systems rising from the South Atlantic, cold air masses turning in slow spirals, advancing without mercy, closing the sky, sealing off the land. From the Antarctic the wind arrives sharp and unyielding. Snow dusts the mountain peaks without warning. Hail strikes where the front lingers; the low pressure holds its ground while warm air retreats behind the mountains, step by step, giving way. Then rain follows the channels of the currents and pours across the land without end.

There is no cause for complaint. The people of Cape Town should be grateful. This cold wave arrives in time, bringing the rain long awaited by a land of sharp seasons—renewing the coming spring, easing the water crisis of the dry and burning summer ahead.

There is no cause for complaint. A cloud passes across the sky, heavy or light, grey or luminous. Gathering slowly, it becomes rain, falling upon those passing through this world on their brief journey, and in a moment—no trace remains.

Rain fell through the night. Today the sky clears.

Outside the window, sunlight and cloud trade places across the sky. The mountain, washed clean by rain, releases cold streams from its wet cliffs. The sight persuades me—past the small resistance within the heart—to come before the mountain, to walk into its embrace. Along the forest path the drizzle comes and goes. The outline of the mountain appears and disappears in the mist.

There stands a mountain barely a thousand metres high, where warm and cold currents meet and clouds rise as naturally as breath. Not so high as to remain out of reach—one may walk to its slopes straight through the city. Not so low that one does not look up—across the open plains its form fills the horizon without obstacle.

Since the sixteenth century, sailors crossing vast seas have known: the sight of this mountain meant hope was near, the long voyage could at last find rest and water. The mountain was a fortress of the spirit, a faith that could not be erased.

For someone like me, arriving from the distant East, it is a mountain seen day after day. Its outline, its silhouette, the texture of its cliffs and rock faces—all shifting beneath the play of sunlight and cloud. At first sight: wonder at something new. In quiet reflection: a glimpse of oneself within it. Looking up: a stillness that borders on the sacred. Walking upon it: beauty that can only be found by being there. When it disappears: a melancholy with no clear name. Only after leaving does one understand—this mountain had long since entered the bones.

There stands such a mountain, barely a thousand metres high, yet once seen it takes up residence in the heart, leaving its mark across however many years follow.

Today I do not climb. No need for the summit. I follow the forest path in the fading light, passing through trees swaying softly in the wind, stepping across quick streams running bright after the rain, and finding king proteas opening in the first breath of returning spring.

Walking, pausing, walking again—the ridges shift their angle with every glance. Water runs past, murmuring, hurrying. For a moment something seems almost clear between past and present. Then the feeling slips away, leaving only a quiet uncertainty.

There is no cause for complaint. The forest seems to say: whether the pressure rises or falls, do not hold too tightly to any single moment. When the heart opens wide enough—everything becomes landscape.

Simply landscape.