Karinaland River

  Steady and Smooth   Another meditation on qualities which we have  most likely  not explored enough. Our times are fast, rough, and ruthless. After Slow and Sweet here comes Steady and Smooth . Sounds boring, right? Who needs it, when we can successfully act rash, forcefully, flashy, edgy, getting attention quickly – succeeding in the short run. Increasing quick spikes of addictive highs, followed by devastating lows. Dullness that craves fantasies and passive hope. How to get into the groove of pleasurable active-ness? When you repeatedly sound the word “smooth” out loud, extending the vowel into an elongated cooing caress – mysteriously, soothing rivulets will start permeating your heart-body. Like a trance. Listen. Try. One long out-breath....   It feels good to sail smoooothly… all along refining sound and technique. Mindful, curious repetition, relaxing our nervous system, becoming reward, rather than achievement. In my teaching, I have noticed with old ...

Slow and Sweet   where to turn for true sweetness? slowly drink tender streams of nameless soothing? not related to fast rash harsh sugar stuff we buy, are addicted to, but rather singing swooning   flowing glowing snowing sowing   murmuring melodies, gentle waves quietly lapping at the shore of soul’s secret lake, deep inside, waiting breathing, listening with yearning ears, heart aches can we pacify the savage greed, more more more not enough?   going for the spectacular, advertised and sold as fun biggest, loudest, fastest – are we too dull, deaf, numb so insensitive, not even recognizing what is salty truth? Playful life offers  spontaneous  steady sparks,  small  sacred insights   creeping reaping weeping seeping   where can we taste slow and sweet? searching between split seconds, confounding gap amidst an in  and  out -breath, swaggering in sloppy slow-motion seeking to amaze us, sweeping our cheeks’ smooth skin snow ...

  Die Blechtrommel   The Tin Drum by Günter Grass holds a special place in my life. It has history. Growing up in Germany, I am reading it for the first time in 1966, at the tender age of thirteen. Later I keep returning, to the English translation as well. Published in 1959, the novel is part of early post World War Two literature engaging in the necessary work of collective re-membering via literature – Erinnerungsliteratur . There is no walking forward without doing the work of “re-collecting” as an act of repairing, bringing light and insight. Artists often know how to do this well. Shame, guilt, denial. The novel’s broader historical setting is familiar to me already, thanks to my unique parents. Both looking to new ways of dealing personally and collectively with the nation’s horrific past. Political satire, subtle and grotesque humor, poetic imagery, all embodied by the voice of the ‘untrustworthy’ narrator named Oskar. For my young teenage spirit, the style of magic r...

  Honesty as an act of resistance full moon freely illuminates forlorn nights will try to teach us wistful winds, the chimes will speak direct and multi-languaged, but never double tongued   as an act of resistance skeleton of sand, grains, waves soundless honest shapes, sign language whatever we always obeyed, submitted to avoiding, actively ignoring plain truth courage to be   bison being, human memories still haunting us because we did not ask, could not face what is in front of us till death enters as an act of revelation we never admitted, but it was always present   whether rudely robbing, extorting enslaving, exterminating, hiding history not willing to unmask, we take part passively gladly removed, also seemingly so innocent fierce rays of suffering now reveal helpless resisting   cold tragedy, troubled business of peace directly avoiding deft dialogue, within, without dutifully we remain deaf-blind to what is in the picture till clearly a...

  Ode to Loss When loss strikes, we have to dig deep. Such goes the saying. Looking back at the arc of my life, I realize what a large part loss has played, small and big, devastating and minor. Unexpected, and unavoidable, always carrying gifts and growth with it. Offering transformation in mysterious ways. On our life’s path, we encounter many kinds of valleys and mountains, rains and melting snow. Gentle or ferocious, our sorrow sings in streams, roars in rivers. On a steep winding trail, measured steps merge rhythmically with heartbeat. Resting on a mossed covered rock, we spot hidden mushrooms. Gratefully polishing an apple, eating it whole, leaving only the stem behind. Slices of rye bread held together with sweet butter. New ways of being, people, things, emerge miraculously. Nothing stays the same when we lose. A friend, a partner, a homeland. That’s why I fall in love with the little blue shovel that finds me – out of the blue – at the beach in January, after the last fero...

My Snake Skin   Once upon a time – a long long time ago – there was and was not, a little girl traveling over the big big ocean on a big big ship, as big as a village, or even bigger. She was not alone however. Her mother, father and brother were there too. On this boat life seemed strange and boring. All around were grey sky and ocean, sometimes blue. And waves, nothing else. People speaking all kind of languages, sitting in deck chairs, reading, bundled up. But when they land, it becomes interesting. Finally, they have arrived on this other continent. The family is going to live in the south of Brazil, far far from Germany.  A new life.  In a simple small home. And a yard with banana, mulberry, goiaba (guava), maracujá and orange trees, date palms and many bright big flowers. Magic all around. The little girl is called Jutta. She feels very close to her brother Heiner who is one year younger. They play outside all the time. It is balmy, sometimes hot, lots of sun. And r...