Hlala Apha: Sitting here now
In Xhosa, an indigenous language spoken in South Africa, the word apha means “this location”, “this place” or “being here right now”. Add the word hlala (to sit) and it becomes hlala apha which means “to sit here”, “to stay here”, or “to stay present.” There is rootedness and stillness in these words. Sitting - Here - Now.
In traditional culture, the phrase has to do with stopping the migration and setting up a homestead in a particular place. During the 49-day Being Time To Renew Being training, with its theme of time, I am feeling into what hlala apha means for our migration between life and death.
I was there when my daughters were born. I was there when my father let his last breath go and I whispered in his ear: “Go well dad! Don’t be afraid!” And now apha, I am the witness to the constant birth and death of each of my own breaths.
“Who is witnessing, noticing, seeing, feeling, experiencing?” Gordon Greene Roshi asked in his recent 49-day talk. Initially, it feels as though I am the center that holds it all together. However, sometimes I get some glimpses of being the one that is watched rather than the one watching. I look in the mirror and notice that my hair has grown longer. Is it me watching the mirror or is the mirror watching me?
I believe I am the witness, and yet now and again, I catch a glimpse of an am-ness that lies within and beyond me and my breathings. That lies beyond and within the migration and bends into apha. The mirror is watching me. How my hair grows, and my wrinkles change. I smile back at the utter funniness of this coming and going and the mystery it all holds. Apha right now.
In South Africa, we are currently experiencing two electricity cuts that last for two hours every day. At first, it was annoying because I was so attached to my projects and my goals; the clock was always reminding me that I was behind schedule. I worked feverishly to complete my work using all the technologically available. And then with one short snap, all of that stops, and I tumble headlong into rural agricultural time. No electricity to speed things up. The deal of time, as Gordon Greene Roshi called it, was disrupted.
Taking a stroll through the garden. Noticing small flowers that start to bud. A fat green worm making its way up towards a leaf. A tiny gecko darting between bricks. For the first time, I see what the fast-paced deal conceals and what agricultural time reveals. And yet, neither fast nor slow is it.
Apha, Apha, Apha reminds the rhythm of a Zen chant. And Hlala Apha penetrates both slow and fast. Rural Xhosa culture taught me a lot about Hlala Apha. In rural Xhosa villages, one sits on a weaved mat close to the earth. With that kind of closeness, time slows down, and a different deal emerges.
Suddenly, being with becomes more important than spending time as Gordon Greene Roshi told us. In fact, when you enter a traditional village, it is considered rude to jump straight into business. First you need to be with your host and enquire about their health, their harvest, and their animals. Only then you can reveal the reason for your visit.
“But you didn’t greet me yet!” a Xhosa friend reprimanded me when he came to visit, and I offered him tea soon after we said hello. He wanted me to be with him first before all else. Hlala Apha was his Zen-like correction.
I gassho to the Chosei Zen community and our Roshi’s for helping me deeply realize the words of T.S. Eliot during our 49-day training:
What we call a beginning is often the end
and to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
We shall not cease from exploration
and the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time.
We all are migrating to realize Hlala Apha!
Roux Malan
Cape Town, South Africa
You can learn more about Mfuleni Hlala Apha Isangqa (River Just Sitting Here Circle), a small Zen youth group that I recently founded in Cape Town.
The picture accompanying this article is a still life landscape that in the Dutch 17th century style. It was painted, probably from a template, in oil by my grandmother Sarah Joanna Roux (born Swart) 25 March 1905 – 14 November 1987. According to the National Gallery Website, “These incredible illusions of space, solidity, texture, and light often assume the role of memento mori (a memento of mortality) - a reminder that life is fleeting and that God is good.” One also gets a sense of being lovingly and patiently watched by a fellow sentient being.