A discipline I have observed is an attitude of love and reverence

Host: The dusk settled over the village like a warm sigh, and the air smelled of rain-soaked soil and woodsmoke. The sun hung low, a molten disc bleeding amber over the hills. Beneath a large acacia tree, a small schoolhouse stood — its walls cracked, its paint fading, but its windows alive with the laughter of children finishing their lessons.

Jack sat on the steps, a notebook in his lap, grey eyes scanning the evening sky. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hands rough with the dust of work. Jeeny emerged from the classroom, wiping the chalk from her fingers, her hair loose, catching the last light of the sunset.

For a moment, there was only quiet — that kind of sacred silence that follows effort and meaning. Then Jeeny spoke, her voice gentle, her tone reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, Bessie Head once wrote, ‘A discipline I have observed is an attitude of love and reverence to people.’ I’ve been thinking about that all day. Maybe that’s what teaching really is — not just giving lessons, but learning how to love people enough to see them fully.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “Love as discipline? That sounds poetic, but naïve. You can’t build a world on feelings, Jeeny. Love doesn’t fix corruption, poverty, or failure — systems do.”

Jeeny: “But systems are made by people, Jack. And if you don’t start with love, your system becomes a cage. Look at apartheid — built on fear, not love. Bessie Head saw that. She wrote from it.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying the echo of children’s voices as they ran down the road, their laughter fading into the valley. Jack’s face remained still, his eyes fixed on the distance, but there was a faint tremor in his voice when he spoke again.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s an instruction, a manual you can follow. But in the real world, it gets used up. You give too much, and people take it until there’s nothing left. Reverence sounds good — until someone spits in your face.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s a discipline, Jack. It’s not about feeling good — it’s about choosing to stay human when everything around you tempts you to turn cold.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But love doesn’t pay the rent or keep the lights on. When you’re fighting to survive, reverence becomes a luxury.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “No, it becomes a necessity. Because if we lose that, we lose the one thing that keeps us from turning into what we fear. Think about the teachers in Soweto in ’76 — they taught even when they knew they could be shot for it. That’s discipline. That’s love made real.”

Host: The last light faded, leaving the world bathed in blue twilight. A dog barked somewhere down the lane, and a motorcycle rumbled past. Jack leaned back against the wall, his expression shadowed, while Jeeny’s eyes glowed with a quiet fire.

Jack: “So, what, you think we can solve the world by being kind? Tell that to the people who trample others to climb out of poverty. Love doesn’t stop the strong from taking advantage of the weak.”

Jeeny: “No, but it stops the weak from becoming like the strong. That’s what Bessie meant, I think — reverence isn’t about control, it’s about resistance. It’s how you refuse to hate even when you have every reason to.”

Jack: “You think reverence is strength?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s harder to love than to hate. Hate is instinct — love is practice.”

Host: A pause, heavy as the earth before a storm. Jack’s fingers tightened around his notebook, and he exhaled slowly, as if weighing her words like stones in his hand.

Jack: “When I worked at the factory, the foreman treated us like machines. No greetings, no names — just numbers. You think I should have loved him too?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe not him. But maybe yourself enough not to let his cruelty define you. Maybe the others around you who needed someone to remind them they still mattered.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing in the world. That’s why it’s a discipline. That’s why most people fail at it.”

Host: The moon began to rise, spilling a silver sheen across the dust road. The tree leaves whispered, and the night gathered its breath. A faint smell of rain drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of firewood.

Jack turned his head, studying Jeeny’s face — its serenity, its strength. There was something unshakable about her, something he both envied and feared.

Jack: “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. Just someone who’s been broken enough to know what keeps her whole.”

Jack: “And love does that?”

Jeeny: “It does. Because when you love someone — truly love them — you see the part of them that still believes, even when they don’t. And that’s what heals the world, one person at a time.”

Jack: “So that’s your revolution. Not anger, not rebellion — reverence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not a soft love, Jack. A fierce one. The kind that stands its ground but doesn’t become the enemy it fights.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, a low sound, half-skeptical, half-resigned. He looked toward the fields, where fireflies had begun to blink, like tiny stars scattered across the earth.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been too busy building armor to remember what it’s for.”

Jeeny: “Armor has its place. But sometimes you need to take it off to feel alive.”

Jack: “And get hurt again?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s how we remember we still have hearts.”

Host: A long silence fell again, but it was gentler now. The wind softened, brushing through the grass with a whispering lullaby. Jeeny closed her eyes, breathing in the night air. Jack stared at the moon, his expression shifting from defiance to thoughtfulness.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real discipline — not obedience, not control, but refusing to become numb.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reverence isn’t about worship; it’s about presence. To see someone and still choose to love them — even when it’s hard.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “It’s strange. I used to think discipline meant keeping your distance. Staying detached. But now… maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s the courage to stay open.”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. The courage to stay open.”

Host: The moonlight spread, soft and tender, across their faces. The night insects began their song, a rhythm older than language, older than doubt. Jeeny gathered her bag, stood, and looked down at him with that quiet, earnest smile that had somehow outlasted everything.

Jeeny: “Tomorrow I’ll bring the children early. They want to paint the classroom wall. You’ll help?”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Yeah. I’ll help. Maybe that’s my practice — one brushstroke at a time.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your reverence.”

Host: She turned and walked into the dark, her silhouette dissolving into the silver mist. Jack remained, sitting beneath the acacia, the earth cool beneath him, the sky vast above. He closed his eyes and listened — to the wind, the crickets, and something deep within him, stirring for the first time in years.

And as the stars burned quietly, he whispered into the night:

Jack: “A discipline… not of rules. Of love.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the village shrinking into a constellation of light, and the world, in its stillness, seemed for a moment to breathe — as if remembering what it means to be alive.