Karinaland River

  In Love – In Liebe Being in love takes no effort. It happens to us like an ocean wave licking our bejeweled toes, caressing our naked ankles. It crashes over our heads, submerging us unabashedly and all-consuming. Effortless pleasure, a song that carries us through dark times or nights. It is possible.   A little boy staring at an older woman walking with a rhythmic stride, her bare feet assuredly meeting the compounded sand. Her long fuchsia-color skirt waves in the breeze, her wide brimmed straw shades her face. To the 3-year-old she looks like an apparition: vivid pinkish-purple-red intensity on a milky blue-green day at the beach. Naked arms hanging from tiny shoulders, ring shaped mouth wide open, he can’t stop looking. Surprise – and he drinks it in. The object of the boy’s unrestrained gawking turns around, still walking, laughs, smiles, waves. She – let’s call her: our lady friend – is surprised, too. By the youngster’s unfiltered and honest curiosity. The brief enco...

  Protectors In 1984, in Rio de Janeiro, among meeting friends, cousins, nieces, I also visit the Brazilian mother of one of my dance students back in Germany. This elegant petite woman in her late fourties takes me on a trolley trip above the favellas where her seamstress lives. Scanning the crowd in our open car, I notice Mrs. Cunha is wearing gold jewelry. Right then, the eyes of young male teenagers are already dashing about, barely perceptible, into our direction. A whiff of fear and excitement starts mingling with sweat, sun, breeze. Mrs. Cunha is removing her earrings and necklace to safeguard in her small shoulder bag.   At the terminal stop, Mrs. Cunha takes me down a dirt road to an outlook over the picturesque hills of Rio de Janeiro.  I don’t really know this woman. A visit for tea at her home  the day before,  lets me know she is wealthy upper class. I am confused, nervously asking what we are doing. My Brazilian language skill is good enough to spe...

  Early Spring Force – Frühlingskraft How truly awesome is the tenacity of new bloom erupting from bare hard branches? Every Spring, I immerse myself into the wonders of first delicate blossoms. For extended minutes, put my face close to a sea of white petals, breathing their state of being, letting myself be washed. How do they do it? Breaking through. How do they dare? Birthing into a tumultuous world is an act of utter faith. They have no guarantee to be greeted with welcome. Is the sun out, is it hailing, snowing, raining? Oh, how safe it was inside the dark skeleton of tree or bush. But now the juices are pushing from the root system through the trunk, branches, bark, relentlessly demanding the buds’ release. The sun is out and it is warm, let’s go. But no assurance for an easy existence. There is only knowing that blossoming needs to happen, the desire to bloom. Buds opening, what will be unfolding? Light – though soon, desperation might arrive, freezing winds. Where is yeste...