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  Lachen oder Weinen? Yet another November, this one like none. Harvesting my sparse pomegranates before last night’s rain, I am leaving two on the tree. This brings me comfort and delight. The taking and the leaving, both. Yesterday overnight, these two pomegranates split open, greeting me exuberantly on my morning round. Are they laughing or crying, lamenting or smiling? Hidden new moon energy infuses our shortened days. The gentle rain washes my garden clean, makes it bright, sparkling with promise – fragrances of deep hidden growth, of composting and restoring. Soon we will face darkness and the poignant starkness of winter. Trees bare, energies pulled into the root system. All beings must store food, remember ancestors, be brave. Keep the heart warm. Renew the commitment to living with goodness, nourishment, sharing. Embracing our brothers and sisters who are suffering, listening to their plight. The squirrels are busier than ever, racing up and down the highways on the lichen and
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  Tikkun Olam Pledges Saturday, I start lining the patio with chairs, Afghani stools, and benches, to create a big oval space. Around the perimeter I pin fabric from all over the world. This funky outdoor living room will be holding together the circle of guests and food, memories and hope. For four decades, I collected them: keffiyehs from Syria and Palestine, embroidered fabric from Mexico, Guatemala and India, woven cloth from Berber nomads in Sinai. I envisage these weavings to embrace all of us so we can become courageous, caring world citizens.  It just so happens that no photos are taken at my Citizenship Celebration on  Sunday October 20  here in Karinaland . Is it divine direction?    War, chaos, disaster – it has happened before, it is happening right now all over the world. I myself was born into moral and literal physical rubble of post-war Germany. Till age 27, I grew up in an era of slow collective reckoning with a horrific unimaginable past. It marked and prepared me for
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  Thoughts on Shame, Acknowledgement, and Celebration Talking with my brother Matthias on zoom this Sunday morning – his early evening in Germany – we converse about the politics where each of us is residing, the wonders of aging, his recent travel with wife Ingeborg to Istanbul, the Middle East situation, and the frighteningly accelerated brutalization of language and spirit. Verrohung . Which mirrors the worldwide wars and tragedies. We talk about the Western world living so wealthily on the back of other countries and populations – Ausbeutung – continued extraction, exploitation and robbery. And how two days after major catastrophic storms and flooding, the media is highlighting angry complaints and whining voices about not enough gasoline, waiting in line, not fast enough this, not enough of that… never enough. Oh, how ungrateful we humans are. All this perhaps to cover up our fragility? In our talk Matthias and I celebrate our upbringing, our different lives across the ocean, our
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  Last Dance with Uncle Oak This time, to honor the loss of another member of my ancient live oaks, I want to climb into the tree. Like I used to do 32 years ago, move, touch, feel – suspended in the air, resting on bark, sensations to be remembered. Perhaps documenting it? I ask around last minute, and find a good match in photographer  Rebecca Weinstein  to take stills of my last dance with old Uncle Oak. Once my naked feet touch the rough bark, a dynamic joy starts spreading through my body and limbs. The surprising urge to elongate myself within the safety of his sturdy arms. Next morning in a different light, I dress for another chance of closeness, envisioning my smallness to be captured. The freedom to grow into a tree, become tree , get an oak’s view, blend well, and disappear eventually. Uncle Oak, has been leaning for decades, growing northward horizontally, reaching far over into the neighbor’s yard. Now that Mama Oak has left, his malaise is more apparent. The upward growth
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  Immigration On Friday morning of September 20, I am spending a couple of hours for my naturalization interview in the federal building  on 630 Sansome Street in San Francisco  that houses the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. Then later at 1 pm, in the oath ceremony, I am reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Standing, holding up my right hand like everyone else, repeating the words after our master of ceremonies, I am engulfed in a chorus of immigrants’ voices from all over the world. Out of maybe 80, only two are Caucasian. The man leading us through the 20 minutes ceremony, is most likely a judge, but without his robe. He is an elegant, kind, and personable elder. We can hear the genuineness in his voice, and we are genuine, too. As we pledge allegiance to this country, the English sentences might ring slightly different for each of us. In another minute we will be citizens of the United States. Something in me is expanding. I am swearing to be a responsible and good citizen
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