Every morning they gather along the fence line near the succulents, nine donkeys, each one different, each one somehow already telling its own story before a single word gets written.
The tall one at the front always stands closest, watching everything with those long, patient ears turned toward whatever sound arrives first. Behind her, the others line up in their own order, as though they’ve already agreed on it years ago.
I believe each of them carries something of their own inside, a history, a preference, a way of greeting the morning, much the same as we all do. We just rarely stop long enough to notice.
Here in the Karoo there is a quieter than quiet that I only discovered once I moved to it.
No traffic. No sirens. Just wind moving through the veld, a donkey calling somewhere close, and the long, slow light of morning easing itself over the mountains like it has all the time in the world. In this quiet, I have found myself thinking more, remembering more, and somewhere in all that stillness, wanting to write more too.
Because I think the world needs a little more wonder right now.
We are so saturated with information. Headlines that frighten us before breakfast. Opinions shouted louder than truths. Everyone rushing to be right, to be first, to be seen. And somewhere in all that noise, I think we have somehow stopped telling each other stories, the kind that ask only that we feel something real for a moment.
Out here, the Karoo is teaching me that a story can stay small and still matter deeply. A dry borehole finally finding water. A pair of longdogs pressed warm against your legs at sunrise. A husband patiently writing down your wants and needs while you figure out how to build a whole new life from scratch.
Nine donkeys standing together at a garden fence every morning, each with a personality entirely their own. These are small things. But they are also, quietly, everything.
I think the world needs a little more imagination too. The kind that remembers reality can still be beautiful. The kind that looks at an empty water tank and imagines it full again. That looks at an unfinished room and imagines a family gathered there one day, laughing. Imagination trusts that things can still become good.
And we need more stories that remind us of courage. The dramatic kind, yes, but more especially the quiet, everyday kind. The courage it takes to move provinces at this stage of life and start again.
The courage to keep believing in a dream after disappointment. The courage to sit with uncertainty while trusting it will resolve in its own time. That kind of courage rarely makes headlines, but it holds up entire lives.
We need stories of beauty too, simply because beauty is still out here, waiting patiently to be noticed. Mist lifting off a mountain at dawn. A protea opening slowly in its own time. Five donkeys lined up along a stone wall in the gold light of early morning, framed by flowers someone planted with love. If we stop telling each other where the beauty is, I worry we’ll all forget where to look.
And resilience. Always resilience. Because every single one of us in our own way is surviving something, a heartbreak, a diagnosis, a loss, a hard year, a harder decade, and yet here we all still are. Still showing up. Still hoping. That deserves to be written down, rather than simply endured in silence.
I believe stories are how we remind each other that the quiet magic of this world remains, even when it grows harder to hear over everything else. A good story slows a person down long enough to notice it again. It is, in its own small way, an act of restoration.
So that is why I hope to keep writing from this mountain. Simply because I believe every honest story, told with an open hand and a willing heart adds a little more wonder back into a world that is quietly starving for it.
If you have a story sitting inside you, the kind you keep meaning to write down one day, I hope this is your gentle nudge. Write it my love. Someone out there needs exactly the kind of courage, beauty, resilience, and quiet magic that only your story can give them.
The world could always use one more.
Walk with me. There is more to tell.
SharynAnn
Every morning they gather along the fence line near the succulents, nine donkeys, each one different, each one somehow already telling its own story before a single word gets written.
The tall one at the front always stands closest, watching everything with those long, patient ears turned toward whatever sound arrives first. Behind her, the others line up in their own order, as though they’ve already agreed on it years ago.
I believe each of them carries something of their own inside, a history, a preference, a way of greeting the morning, much the same as we all do. We just rarely stop long enough to notice.
Here in the Karoo there is a quieter than quiet that I only discovered once I moved to it.
No traffic. No sirens. Just wind moving through the veld, a donkey calling somewhere close, and the long, slow light of morning easing itself over the mountains like it has all the time in the world. In this quiet, I have found myself thinking more, remembering more, and somewhere in all that stillness, wanting to write more too.
Because I think the world needs a little more wonder right now.
We are so saturated with information. Headlines that frighten us before breakfast. Opinions shouted louder than truths. Everyone rushing to be right, to be first, to be seen. And somewhere in all that noise, I think we have somehow stopped telling each other stories, the kind that ask only that we feel something real for a moment.
Out here, the Karoo is teaching me that a story can stay small and still matter deeply. A dry borehole finally finding water. A pair of longdogs pressed warm against your legs at sunrise. A husband patiently writing down your wants and needs while you figure out how to build a whole new life from scratch.
Nine donkeys standing together at a garden fence every morning, each with a personality entirely their own. These are small things. But they are also, quietly, everything.
I think the world needs a little more imagination too. The kind that remembers reality can still be beautiful. The kind that looks at an empty water tank and imagines it full again. That looks at an unfinished room and imagines a family gathered there one day, laughing. Imagination trusts that things can still become good.
And we need more stories that remind us of courage. The dramatic kind, yes, but more especially the quiet, everyday kind. The courage it takes to move provinces at this stage of life and start again.
The courage to keep believing in a dream after disappointment. The courage to sit with uncertainty while trusting it will resolve in its own time. That kind of courage rarely makes headlines, but it holds up entire lives.
We need stories of beauty too, simply because beauty is still out here, waiting patiently to be noticed. Mist lifting off a mountain at dawn. A protea opening slowly in its own time. Five donkeys lined up along a stone wall in the gold light of early morning, framed by flowers someone planted with love. If we stop telling each other where the beauty is, I worry we’ll all forget where to look.
And resilience. Always resilience. Because every single one of us in our own way is surviving something, a heartbreak, a diagnosis, a loss, a hard year, a harder decade, and yet here we all still are. Still showing up. Still hoping. That deserves to be written down, rather than simply endured in silence.
I believe stories are how we remind each other that the quiet magic of this world remains, even when it grows harder to hear over everything else. A good story slows a person down long enough to notice it again. It is, in its own small way, an act of restoration.
So that is why I hope to keep writing from this mountain. Simply because I believe every honest story, told with an open hand and a willing heart adds a little more wonder back into a world that is quietly starving for it.
If you have a story sitting inside you, the kind you keep meaning to write down one day, I hope this is your gentle nudge. Write it my love. Someone out there needs exactly the kind of courage, beauty, resilience, and quiet magic that only your story can give them.
The world could always use one more.
Walk with me. There is more to tell.
SharynAnn
