What remains

I have been thinking about this blog for weeks.

Perhaps longer.

It has taken me nearly five hours to write.

Not because writing is difficult, although some days it is. Not because I did not know what I wanted to say, although that was also partly true. Mostly because stopping is difficult.

Stopping properly.

Stopping long enough to think.

Stopping long enough to let things connect.

Stopping long enough to notice that a few weeks of life, which at first felt like a jumble of meetings, flights, funerals, school events, coffee shops, music, sport, friends, grief and admin, were actually telling the same story.

Some things deserve more than a hurried note between meetings, a WhatsApp voice note fired off between commitments or a social media post dashed off while boarding a flight.

Time is our most precious asset.

Choose carefully where you invest it, I remind myself.

Choose carefully who you invest it in, I caution myself.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that much of life comes down to those choices.

I am writing this in the Emirates Lounge at Dubai airport.

I love airports.

Not everyone does. Many people endure them. I genuinely love them.

Perhaps it is because airports are places of possibility. Places of arrival and departure. Places where stories begin, continue and occasionally end. Places where people come together after months or years apart and where others set off into the unknown.

I am reminded of that scene in Love Actually where Hugh Grant, playing the British Prime Minister, reflects on arrivals gates and the love visible there. He is right. Airports are full of love if you look properly. Romance, yes, but also family, friendship, relief, hope, grief, adventure, duty and the slightly chaotic human comedy of people trying to find the right gate while carrying too much luggage.

I am fortunate enough to know this lounge well. I know where to find a shower after a long flight. I know where to find a very decent glass of wine. I know where to charge my laptop and phone.

More importantly, I know where to recharge myself.

That matters because I have been too busy.

Too, too busy.

My life is generally full and I want it that way. I often say that to whom much is given, much is expected. I believe that deeply. But lately I have been moving too quickly, talking too fast and dropping too many balls.

I have not been looking up enough.

Not gazing far enough.

Not breathing deeply enough.

Not thinking enough.

This blog is a deliberate pause.

A marker.

A chance to stop long enough to make sense of a few remarkable weeks and perhaps to ask myself, again, where I am investing my time and with whom.

I thought of the Sunscreen song as I wrote. Many of us know it well. It is on the playlist I put together for my 50th birthday, along with other songs that carry memory, meaning, humour and advice (please donwload it if you haven’t). That piece has endured because it says something true about life, time, advice, friendship and the strange business of becoming older while still feeling, in many ways, like we are just figuring it out.

I am still figuring it out!

This coming week, though, I have intentionally carved out time for two things that have shaped my life profoundly.

Art and sport.

In a few days I will be sitting in La Scala in Milan watching Verdi’s Nabucco.

A few days after that I will fly Milan to Dubai, Dubai to Durban and head almost directly into Comrades duties. I will be standing at the Comrades finish line in KwaZulu-Natal as Race Day Chairman.

Opera and running.

Verdi and vasbyt.

Milan and Durban.

Different worlds to some.

Not to me.

Art and sport are not competitors. They are partners. Both challenge us. Both inspire us. Both require discipline. Both build community. Both reveal character. Both ask us to become more than spectators.

We need children to sing, act, run, read, paint, debate, dance, play, volunteer and explore. We need adults to do the same. Not as passive consumers of other people’s talent, but as active participants in all life has to offer.

Life is short.

Do not sit everything – anything – out.

Run the race. Go to the opera. Join the book club. Watch the orchestra. Support school theatre. Volunteer for the committee. Sing even if you are not very good. Read even when you are tired. Travel when you can. Show up for people. Get involved.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that art and sport both ask the same question in different ways.

What remains?

The opera

The catalyst for this trip is Alessandro Talevi.

I have not seen Alessandro in decades.

When we were both much younger, I directed him in a school play in South Africa. It was one of those ordinary school experiences that disappeared into the blur of memory. Or so I thought.

Recently, I heard that Alessandro had referred to that experience as part of the inspiration for becoming a director.

I sat quietly with that for a while.

I was humbled.

Deeply humbled.

Influence is often invisible.

Most of us never know which conversations matter. Which encouragements land. Which opportunities open doors. Which moments help shape another person’s life. We do our best, or we should, and then life moves on. We seldom see the full arc of what follows.

We plant seeds and rarely get to see what grows.

Today, Alessandro is one of the leading opera directors in the world.

And I am travelling to Milan to watch him direct Verdi’s Nabucco at La Scala.

How extraordinary is that?

Not because I deserve any credit for Alessandro’s career. I do not. He did the work. He built the craft. He has the talent, discipline, imagination and courage. But perhaps somewhere, decades ago, something in a school play, something in a rehearsal room, something in being trusted or challenged or simply seen, became part of the journey.

That matters.

It matters because it reminds us that what we do with young people matters.

What we say matters.

What we model matters.

What we make possible matters.

And we often have no idea at the time.

Life is full of connections if we remain open to them.

The Talevi story does not end there.

Alessandro’s sister, Giulietta, has become a friend through work and through our book club. She is one of South Africa’s most respected financial journalists, one of the founders of Currency and someone I admire immensely. Smart. Principled. Curious. Challenging. Fun. The sort of person who makes every conversation better simply by being in it.

Books and people have always gone together in my life.

Our book club has given me much more than books. It has given me friendships, ideas, laughter, disagreement and endless recommendations. It has reminded me that reading is not an escape from life but a way into it.

Joining us on this trip is my friend Angus, who also happens to be a Saints old boy and a fellow member of the book club. Angus is one of life’s genuinely lovely humans. He travels beautifully. Not in the social media sense. In the human sense. He notices things. He meets people. He returns from journeys with stories and ideas rather than souvenirs. He is a paradox of gentle forcefulness. He makes the world better.

In my luggage is Butter, a novel he recommended after a trip to Japan.

Think about that for a moment.

A book recommended by a friend after a Japanese trip is travelling through Dubai on its way to Milan, where it will be read before an opera directed by someone I once directed in a school play, in South Africa.

One plus one does not always equal two.

Sometimes one plus one equals twenty-two.

That, in many ways, is what this blog is about.

Connections.

Not networking.

Connections.

The kind that make life richer.

The kind that make the world smaller.

The kind that remind us we are part of something bigger than ourselves.

Nabucco itself is about power, memory, exile, belonging and redemption.

Even if you think opera is not for you, go and listen to Va, pensiero, the famous Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves. I suspect many of you already know it. You may not know that you know it, but you probably do.

The music is beautiful, but its power lies in what it represents. A people stripped of power remember who they are. A community in exile sings of homeland, memory and longing. A king consumed by his own importance falls. Broken relationships are restored. People find redemption.

Nearly two hundred years after it was first performed, those themes remain remarkably relevant.

Power still corrupts.

Resentment still destroys.

Communities still matter.

Leaders still need humility.

And all of us eventually find ourselves asking what remains when titles, positions and status fall away.

That question has been on my mind a lot lately.

Grief

It has been a little over six weeks since my father died.

Many of you will have seen my Good Grief blog.

Most of what I wrote there remains true.

The grief has not disappeared.

But it has changed.

The sharp edges soften. The administrative realities emerge. Life, stubbornly and beautifully, continues.

What I perhaps did not appreciate fully at the time was how death reshapes the lives of those left behind.

There are new conversations with Annemarie as she adapts to life without her partner. Conversations with my brother Cobus. Conversations with friends of my father who suddenly find themselves sharing stories that were never shared before. People reach out. Memories emerge. Connections deepen.

Death leaves a void.

We know that.

But it also creates new pathways.

New relationships.

New responsibilities.

New ways of understanding people we thought we knew well.

In an odd way, my father’s life continues to reveal itself through others.

Perhaps that is true of all of us.

One of the greatest gifts we can leave our loved ones is not only emotional clarity but practical clarity.

Have a valid will.

Make sure somebody knows where the important documents are.

Make sure passwords, policies, keys and paperwork are not locked inside your head.

Talk about these things.

Not because death is imminent.

Because it is inevitable.

We spend so much time avoiding the subject that we often make things unnecessarily difficult for those we love most.

That seems a poor final gift.

My father’s death came at the end of a full life. His mind remained sharp. His curiosity remained intact. His humour survived almost to the end.

We were fortunate.

Very fortunate.

Not everyone gets that.

A few weeks later, my mate Denis Kotze died unexpectedly in Boussac, France.

Many of you will know Denis and Sunelle from the Mooi documentary that EasyEquities sponsored and CN&CO helped bring to life.

A few days before he died, Denis and I exchanged messages about Good Grief. We discussed death, family and legacy.

One of the last things he did was send the blog to his son Joachim.

On Friday, Joachim and I chatted on the phone and he shared the message with me. I hadn’t known.

I cried, happily.

A father sends a blog about death and grief to his son, not knowing that within days he will be gone. A son receives one of the last written pieces of communication from his father and then shares it with the person who wrote the blog.

If that does not make you pause, I do not know what will.

Denis often spoke about legacy.

He was right.

Not because legacy is some grand monument.

Because it lives in people.

Sunelle and Denis raised two exceptional sons in Joachim and Jabus.

I often joke that it is relatively easy to become a successful businessperson. That may be a slight exaggeration, but only slight. Building a business is hard, but raising wonderful human beings is harder.

To raise people like Joachim and Jabus is an extraordinary achievement.

Today, together with their partners, they are carrying their dad forward while doing their best for their mum.

That is legacy.

And then there is the B-Team.

A bridge group Denis founded in Stellenbosch.

There were five of us.

Which was always one too many.

Bridge requires four.

Now, heartbreakingly and ironically, we are the right number.

We still play. We still enjoy good food and good wine. We still tell Denis stories. We still laugh. Denis would have loved that. And yes, Ilzemarie and I still very much enjoy beating Chris and Dave.

The stories remain.

The friendship remains.

The laughter remains.

A few weeks after Denis came another funeral – on Friday this week.

Chris van Dyk.

I never met Chris.

I attended to support Gary, our CFO at EasyEquities, his twin brother Justin, their brother Craig and the wider family. Gary and Justin are friends. Their families are friends. Sometimes you show up not because you knew the person who died, but because you know and love those who remain.

In the church was a photograph of Chris running Comrades in 1984.

As people spoke, a picture emerged of a husband, father, churchman, sportsman and friend. He loved watching marathons. Wrestling was also his thing. He was clearly a big part of his church. His wife, his children, his grandchildren and many others had been shaped by his presence.

An ordinary life.

And in its ordinariness, extraordinary.

Not because he was famous.

Because he mattered.

I often ask people whether they can name all four of their great-grandparents. Many cannot. Even inside our own families, memory fades quickly. Within a surprisingly short time, even remarkable people become stories, fragments, photographs and occasionally a name on a family tree.

That sounds bleak.

I do not think it is.

It is freeing.

It means the point is not to be remembered forever.

The point is to live well now.

To contribute now.

To love now.

To help now.

To stop being a doos now.

And when we fuck up, which we all do, to say sorry, fix what we can, learn and move on.

What remains?

Not the job title.

Not the possessions.

Not the achievements.

The people.

Always the people.

Founders Day

At St Stithians Founders Day this weekend, Dr Tinashe Chandauka – an alumnus and extraoridnary individual who is meaningfully making the world better – asked us to turn to the person next to us and share what we wanted to be remembered for.

I was sitting next to Bishop Faith.

My answer arrived immediately.

Helping people become happier.

Helping people become the best versions of themselves.

The Bishop spoke about kindness.

Then Tinashe said something important.

Because we had shared it, it had become a commitment.

We must make it so, Bishop.

And all of us who were sitting there.

I do not want to be remembered as smart, rich, famous or successful.

And if I am remembered at all, which is a very big if, I hope it is because I helped a few people realise how extraordinary they were.

I have been connected to St Stithians since the 80s.

Student.

Old Stithian.

Chair of Council.

Trustee.

Now Chair of the Endowment Fund Trust.

Founders Day landed differently this year.

Perhaps because of the recent deaths.

Perhaps because I am older.

Perhaps because I am finally starting to understand what stewardship means.

Before the Founders Day service, we opened the new Junior Prep Bell Tower.

One of the people I bumped into was Lee Astfalck. Lee and I were at school together. Today he is my lawyer, a Saints parent and, for many years, served as deputy chair of CN&CO.

I assumed he was there because of his own connection to the school.

In fact, he was there with his brother Jeremy because Jeremy’s class had donated the bell that would be installed in the new Junior Prep Bell Tower.

The story gets even better.

Gayle Harris walked into Jeremy’s antique store in Franschhoek looking for a bell. Somewhere between that search and a conversation about Saints, the connection was discovered.

Suddenly an object became a story.

What struck me was not the bell itself, although it is beautiful and will no doubt become a much-loved part of the Junior Prep.

It was the journey.

A class gift made decades ago. An old boy preserving it. A school leader looking for the right symbol. A chance encounter. A community recognising itself. Then one of our youngest pupils ringing the bell for the first time.

That pupil may be at Saints for the next fifteen years.

Thousands of children will hear that bell.

Most will never know the full story behind it.

But the story matters.

Because institutions are built in exactly this way. Through gifts, memories, chance meetings, careful stewardship and people doing something today that will benefit others they may never meet.

The bell is not really about the past.

It is about continuity.

It is about connection.

It is about what remains.

We also opened the Samantha Kirk Cycad Garden.

The Kirks love cycads. The Backwells, who donated the cycads, love them too. That connection alone would have made the moment special, but there were deeper layers.

Pete and Lorna worked together for years and remain close friends. Pete has been part of my life for almost three decades, since speaking at St Stithians when I became the first alumnus to deliver the Founders Day address in 2000. Humble, wise, razor sharp and deeply good, Pete is one of those people who has quietly shaped countless lives and careers, mine included.

After my mother died, our family donated our cycads to the school. They now form the Elsa and Carel Nolte Cycad Garden. The de Beer family did something similar. As our rector, Celeste, pointed out so beautifully, these are living donations. Some of the cycads are centuries old. Long after those who planted, nurtured and loved them are gone, they will continue to grow, providing beauty, shade and connection for generations yet to come.

That thought stayed with me.

People leave. Memories fade. Yet some things endure. Not as monuments to the past, but as gifts to the future.

Sam’s death remains a tragedy. Andrew and Lorna will always carry that grief. There is no neat way around that reality. Yet there was something profoundly beautiful about seeing a garden created in her memory. A place of reflection, learning and beauty. A place that acknowledges loss while still choosing life.

The Samantha Kirk roses at my home, KleinBlouKlip, also continue to add beauty and create memories. They remind me that gifts in memory of people we have loved are not static. They keep growing. They keep changing. They keep asking us to notice.

Another gift.

Another reminder of what remains.

Tinashe was phenomenal.

Head boy in 2007. Rhodes Scholar. Doctor. Entrepreneur. Global citizen. He represents much of what St Stithians hopes to develop in its students.

I joked that he was a major upgrade on me as a Founders Day speaker.

That is exactly how it should be.

The people who come after us should be better than us. The teams we build should surpass us. The students we teach should see further than we do. The institutions we serve should be stronger because we were there and stronger still because of those who follow.

That, to me, is success.

Tinashe’s mother sat in the audience and I made a point of thanking Mama Tinashe during my vote of thanks.

Years earlier, my own mother had sat in that same space when I became the first alumnus to deliver the Founders Day address. There was something deeply moving in that symmetry. Different families. Different generations. Different stories. Yet connected through the same school and the same hopes for those who come after us.

My 2000 Founders Day speech is something I remain proud of. I am also grateful that the school has changed since then.

It should have changed.

The world has changed.

South Africa has changed.

Our understanding of education, inclusion, identity and belonging has deepened.

Good institutions do not preserve themselves by refusing to change. They preserve what matters by knowing what must evolve.

That is true of schools.

It is true of businesses.

It is true of families.

It is true of society.

It is also true of AI.

I have written before about AI and humanity – AI should empower people. It should remove friction. It should help us do better work and serve others more effectively. It should not be used as an excuse to make people smaller.

If the next generation uses AI, technology and new tools to do more, think better, care more and create more, we should celebrate that. If the people we mentor and lead become better than us, that is not a threat. It is the point.

Johanni La Vita was at Fouders Day too.

I spoke at her 80th birthday celebration not long ago and found myself reflecting again on how many lives she has touched. Johanni never formally taught me a subject, yet she taught me a great deal about education, service and what it means to invest in others. Through Thandulwazi and through decades of commitment to young people, her influence reaches far beyond any classroom.

It is particularly exciting that St Stithians is actively exploring becoming an accredited teacher training institution. That feels deeply connected to the legacy Johanni helped build. We need more excellent teachers. We need more people investing in education. We need more institutions taking responsibility for the future rather than complaining about it.

Janet Fox van der Poel was there as well.

Janet was my music teacher and today is a partner in CN&CO Recruit. Seeing her reminded me that some teachers continue teaching long after the lessons end. Their influence shows up years later in unexpected places and often in ways they will never fully know.

Which brings me back to a theme that has run through my life.

Influence is often invisible.

A school play inspires a future opera director.

A teacher shapes a life without realising it.

A parent’s values echo through their children.

A friend recommends a book that travels halfway around the world.

A school bell rings decades after it was donated.

And long after the moment itself has passed, the influence remains.

One and All

My Founders Day thank-you focused on the “& All” in One & All.

I did not want to thank only the obvious people. Many of them had already been named in the programme and from the stage. Many more had not been named and never would be.

That is the story of every meaningful institution.

There are those who stand on stages and those who arrange the chairs.

Those who speak and those who unlock the doors.

Those whose names appear in programmes and those whose names never do.

Those who receive applause and those who clean up afterwards.

Those who make decisions in public and those who quietly carry responsibility.

The visible and the invisible.

The celebrated and the unsung.

Both matter.

In fact, the older I get, the more convinced I become that most of what matters is built by the & All.

St Stithians works because of the & All.

The same is true of Comrades.

The same is true of an orchestra.

The same is true of an opera production.

The same is true of a company.

The same is true of a family.

Founders begin things.

Communities sustain them.

Community

Earlier in the week I attended a Johannesburg Philharmonic Orchestra concert.

I have sat in the same seats for decades. When I am not in Johannesburg, my godsons use them. The soloist was magnificent and the orchestra superb, but what struck me most was not the performance itself. It was, once again, the sense of community.

At Founders Day, Tian led the national anthem on the field. At the orchestra, Yuan was performing. Both are talented young men, but what makes me proud is not their talent. It is the kind of human beings they are becoming.

Much of the credit belongs to their parents, Christo and Marthie, dear friends whose example, values and love have helped shape them. Children become who they become through homes, schools, opportunities, discipline, encouragement and community.

Love matters.

Example matters.

As with Joachim and Jabus.

As, I hope, with my brother and me.

I thought of this again because Ramon, our neighbour on the farm, is helping Christo and Marthie with their house renovation in Plett. I met Ramon when he was a national rower and Olympic medalist. Hollard sponsored rowing. I helped with PR. Decades later, rowing has given me many amazing mates and Ramon built KleinBlouKlip and became our neighbour.

Again, connections.

Get involved.

You never know where it leads.

Support your mates.

Support their businesses.

Say yes.

Show up.

Community appeared again a few days earlier at Croft in Johannesburg.

I stopped in for an hour before a meeting on a cold Highveld morning. The place was packed. It was one of those bright Johannesburg winter days that makes the city glow, quite unlike the dark wetness of the Cape.

What impressed me was not the coffee, although it was excellent.

It was the people.

The manager moved through the restaurant with quiet confidence. Staff smiled. Orders flowed. Tables turned. Problems were solved before customers noticed them. There was energy, pride and professionalism.

Real service.

We have become too accepting of mediocrity in South Africa.

That does not mean we should blame people simplistically. Most people are not lazy. Most people are not stupid. Childhood experiences matter. Education matters. Opportunity matters. Role models matter.

But excellence matters too.

Whether you are directing at La Scala, teaching mathematics, serving coffee, running Comrades, parking cars, leading a company or serving on a board, do the job properly.

Respect yourself.

Respect others.

Bring energy.

Serve.

I left a generous tip.

Not because I am generous.

Because excellence deserves recognition.

Comrades

A few days after Milan I will be standing at the Comrades finish line.

This will be my second Comrades as a board member and my fourth Comrades if I include the three I have run.

Running it was easier.

Much easier.

Seconding is tough because of logistics and stress. Serving on the board is something else altogether.

Board service comes with politics, governance and the occasional frustration. Comrades has history, complexity, passion and strong views, all of which make it wonderful and difficult. Athletics South Africa continues to disappoint in too many ways and, as citizens, we should demand more from our public institutions. Not perfection, but consistent excellence.

Yet Comrades is much bigger than its politics.

Comrades is about people.

A woman at Founders Day proudly showing me her nails painted with this year’s slogan.

Volunteers standing for hours because they believe in something bigger than themselves.

Families waiting anxiously at the finish line.

Elite athletes chasing gold medals.

First-time runners chasing cut-offs.

People discovering reserves of courage, resilience and determination they did not know they possessed.

That is why Comrades matters.

That is why it endures.

The 100th running next year is important.

The next 100 years matter more.

That is stewardship.

Not ownership.

This year, because the chair, deputy chair and former chairs Mark, Nontu and Mqondisi are running, I have race day chair duties. This may involve a jacket and tie, which will amuse anyone who knows how much I prefer casual dressing.

Fortunately, Barry Holland is deputy race day chair and will be a visible and wise face. Barry has 49 Comrades medals and is an icon in the community. He speaks brilliantly because he knows the race in his bones.

Again, One and All.

The runner and the volunteer.

The elite athlete and the back-marker.

The board member and the marshal.

The broadcaster and the family watching at home.

The race only works because of all of them.

Jack Davis and Gareth Whitaker have been exceptional partners in helping us tell that story.

Direct, honest, creative and robust, they are exactly the sort of people I enjoy working with. They listen. They push back. They take what is useful. They challenge what is not. Too often we tiptoe around each other in professional settings and call that respect. It is not.

Respect does not mean avoiding honesty.

Respect means telling the truth in a way that helps the work become better.

My role increasingly is to support, guide, challenge, influence and then get out of the way.

Let talented people do brilliant work.

This year’s YouTube Comrades production will be extraordinary. There will be a main broadcast and additional channels, including finish-line feeds so families can watch for their runners. Drones, cameras in the race and athlete perspectives will help tell the story in ways that have never before been possible.

Again, what remains?

Not the technology itself.

The connections it enables.

This also links back to St Stithians in ways that make me smile.

Years ago I spoke in chapel as part of the Wally Thompson lecture series, honouring a teacher who meant a great deal to us and who died while hiking with students when we were in matric. He was one of those teachers who still lives in many of us. Think of the Robin Williams character in Dead Poets Society and you are somewhere close.

Instead of speaking alone, I took John “Red Socks” McInroy with me. There was a Comrades link there too, of course.

This week, Gareth Whitaker from T&W spoke at Saints. The students loved him.

Connections again.

Different moments.

Different people.

Same threads.

Art and sport.

Education and media.

Schools and races.

Alumni and new stories.

Life and its strange, wonderful pattern.

Art and sport, again

I want to make the art and sport point clearly because I think we get this wrong too often.

They are not extras.

They are not luxuries.

They are not nice-to-haves once the “serious” things are done.

They are serious things.

They help us become whole.

Opera helps us feel.

Running teaches us to endure.

Theatre gives children courage.

Music teaches discipline and listening.

Sport teaches resilience, teamwork and humility.

Reading expands our imagination.

Volunteering teaches service.

All of these things build people.

All of these things build communities.

At FEDA, at the JPO, at La Scala, at Comrades, at St Stithians, at a bridge table, in a book club or in a coffee shop, I keep seeing the same lesson.

Life is richer when we participate.

Do not only watch.

Do.

Not because you will be the best.

You probably will not.

So what?

Take part anyway.

The point Nabucco makes, and the point these last weeks have kept making in different ways, is that power, titles and appearances are fragile things. Community, memory, humility, service and redemption endure longer. They show up in opera houses, at school gatherings, in funeral services, at bridge tables, in coffee shops and at marathon finish lines.

And all of us, eventually, are forced to ask what remains.

I have been too busy.

Too, too busy.

My friends Raaf sing in one of their wonderful songs, Die Lewe Het ’n Punt Gemaak.

Life makes its point.

Sometimes it does so through joy.

Sometimes through grief.

Sometimes through a school bell.

Sometimes through a bridge game.

Sometimes through a marathon.

Sometimes through an opera.

Sometimes through four unexpected hours in an airport lounge.

The trick, I think, is to notice.

We should use the pauses life gives us.

And when life does not give them to us, we must create them.

To recalibrate.

To ask what we want.

What we need.

What we must stop doing.

Where we must contribute.

Who we must thank.

Who we must forgive.

What we must build.

What remains

As I finish this blog, my flight to Milan is boarding – I have never had so little to drink in the lounge, nor ytaken so long to write a blog!

In a few days I will sit in La Scala listening to Verdi.

A few days after that I will be standing at the Comrades finish line.

Somewhere in between I will read a book recommended by Angus, drink wine with friends, think of my father, think of Denis, think of Chris, think of Tinashe’s challenge and probably marvel again at how small the world can be if we remain open to it.

I started this blog thinking it was about opera.

It was not.

I thought it was about Founders Day.

It was not.

I thought it was about grief.

It was not.

It was about people.

The strange and wonderful way our lives intersect.

The seeds others plant in us, often without knowing.

And the seeds we plant in others, usually without knowing.

Which brings me back to the question that Verdi asks, that Founders Day asks, that funerals ask and that life itself eventually asks.

What remains?

Perhaps it is Alessandro standing in a rehearsal room in Milan, shaping an opera for a new audience.

Perhaps it is Tinashe standing on a field at St Stithians encouraging the next generation to dream bigger.

Perhaps it is the sound of a bell ringing for the first time, a cycad garden growing for future generations or Denis somehow still taking his seat at a bridge table in Stellenbosch.

Perhaps it is a photograph from Comrades 1984, a book passed from one friend to another or a lesson from a teacher that outlives the classroom by decades.

Perhaps it is found in people like Kurt, Tanya, Rikus, Kate, Pippa, Paolo, Ntombi, Emma, Tinashe, Israel and so many, many others. Different ages. Different races. Different genders. Different backgrounds. Unique individuals who have made my life richer simply by being part of it.

The best parts of our lives remain in other people.