Obiter Dictum

Notes on the adventure of life.

Secrecy versus discretion.

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What is the difference between keeping a secret and being discreet?

I was asked the question. It’s an important question, but I’d never thought about it.

Think about it before you read what I have to say below…


Here’s my conclusion:

Secrecy contains a demand: “you must keep a secret”. A demand by one person to another.

Discretion, on the other hand, is voluntary. Someone tells me something which they don’t share with others. I treat this information with discretion, choosing to protect their privacy, or vulnerability. Discretion contains love. Secrecy doesn’t.




Written by sabineclappaert

March 11, 2017 at 6:18 pm

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I choose the number 46 and drew this card. This is the photo I received.

The second I saw it, I said: “Shit!”

I knew exactly what it meant. Exactly.

I am the man in the water. I am holding my breath, staying in a situation that keeps me mediocre. In a moment, I will surface and take a huge gasp of fresh air. And I will really live.

That is what’s waiting for me. If I just stop holding my breath.

It’s time to let go and breathe.

Thank you Tal for taking me on this journey.

Written by sabineclappaert

March 3, 2017 at 7:14 pm

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is a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the hibernating bear. Hiding is underestimated. We are hidden by life in our mother’s womb until we grow and ready ourselves for our first appearance in the lighted world; to appear too early in that world is to find ourselves with the immediate necessity for outside intensive care.

Hiding done properly is the internal faithful promise for a proper future emergence, as embryos, as children or even as emerging adults in retreat from the names that have caught us and imprisoned us, often in ways where we have been too easily seen and too easily named.
We live in a time of the dissected soul, the immediate disclosure; our thoughts, imaginings and longings exposed to the light too much, too early and too often, our best qualities squeezed too soon into a world already awash with too easily articulated ideas that oppress our sense of self and our sense of others. What is real is almost always to begin with, hidden, and does not want to be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows what is happening. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence.

“Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into the light of a proper human future.”


Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others, especially in the enclosing world of oppressive secret government and private entities, attempting to name us, to anticipate us, to leave us with no place to hide and grow in ways unmanaged by a creeping necessity for absolute naming, absolute tracking and absolute control. Hiding is a bid for independence, from others, from mistaken ideas we have about our selves, from an oppressive and mistaken wish to keep us completely safe, completely ministered to, and therefore completely managed. Hiding is creative, necessary and beautifully subversive of outside interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into the light of a proper human future.

From CONSOLATIONS: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.
2016 © David Whyte:

Written by sabineclappaert

February 13, 2017 at 8:42 pm

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How I go to the woods

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“Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.”
― Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems Art

Written by sabineclappaert

January 27, 2017 at 9:39 pm

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Christmas 2016

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“Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.”


Written by sabineclappaert

December 24, 2016 at 5:20 pm

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2017 wishes: of dragons and dreams

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Impossible wishes

I want 2 dragons like Daenerys Targaryen in Game of Thrones

I want to be able to talk to animals

I want to be able to talk to trees

I want to see my ‘meme’ again

I want to be able to live in South Africa knowing it’s a safe country with a bright future

I want to be 22 again, just for a day or two

I want all my animals to live until the day I die


Possible wishes

I want to be able to give my soul the space and time it asks, and live in a house on the beach in Portugal for 2 months, doing nothing but reading, thinking, writing and walking on the beach with my dogs.

I want to see all my dearest friends happy and healthy and totally enjoying their life.

I want my ‘poepies’ to have lots of fun on his motorbike and I want to see him believe (and go for!) his dream of organizing trips throughout Europe and Morocco.

I want my parents to be healthy and happy for many years to come.

I want to see my brothers again, several times please, during the year.

I want to start my new business and see it grow to a success beyond my wildest dreams.

I want to live a life in which I stay true to myself as much as possible.

Written by sabineclappaert

December 16, 2016 at 7:59 pm

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I think that I shall never see   
A poem lovely as a tree.   
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest   
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;   
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;   
A tree that may in summer wear   
A nest of robins in her hair;   
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;   
Who intimately lives with rain. 
Poems are made by fools like me,   
But only God can make a tree.

Written by sabineclappaert

December 10, 2016 at 8:02 am