Karinaland River

Language as Vehicle and Vessel   Sunday late morning – still so much fog wafting, mystical and mysterious – engulfed in shades of grey. What will the future bring us? Where will it go? How will it look like? Unknown. Seeking anchor, I am reflecting on the last few days, my encounters with German and Jewish friends. All week, history has been visiting me, triggering vivid memories. Opening internal space, where I am free to roam. Vast time spans and continents interweave their landscapes as I am preparing my late breakfast. Come on a ride with me.   Surprisingly, I am in a really good mood. Splurging on a home-made espresso, a rare occasion these days. Getting out my old Bialetti stovetop Moka pot. The fresh coffee beans are called “Grounds for Innocence,” a blend by Bongo Roasting Company in Tennessee, created as a fundraiser for the Innocence Project . This organization has been fighting since 1992 to free the innocently incarcerated, prevent wrongful convictions, and reform ...

  Getragensein Seemingly unrelated sequences, wild memories of old times arising from my belly, befitting our churning times. Two weeks ago, I have the urge to find those old paper stills of me standing on my sister-in-law’s horse. My brother Matthias and his wife Ingeborg live in on old farm house in a tiny village called Königshagen, in the middle of Germany. The thin booklet with photos he sent me back then – where is it? For so long it’s been atop my small old wooden desk. Second-hand, the first piece of furniture I ever owned in America. Acquired for $10 from one of the several very good second-hand stores in the Mission on Valencia Street. 43 years ago, I lived in San Francisco, sharing a flat on near-by Capp Street. Life was simple, walkable, affordable. Nowadays whenever I clean up, things disappear – where is the photo booklet? Here, alas, I am relieved to find it. Looking at Bill, the quarter horse, and me standing atop of him, a soft silence opens up in me. An inner stre...

  The Shards of my Papa’s Story The elements of my Papa’s initiatory story as a teenager can easily be detected in our fast-changing world in America. These days, I hear myself spontaneously sharing with friends and strangers an abbreviated version. In the past I did this very rarely. Even in our family, Papa’s story had been a taboo. My father evoked the traumatic events only two or three times. Listening, it would pain me to witness the toll the remembering took on him.   So why share now?  First, to honor my father as a man of peace, justice, and integrity. Second, to make clear to others, that I know in my own blood and nerve strings what these coming scary times might bring us. Seeing things early, before they are obvious, visible, palpable. Third, as a warning to those around me to take things seriously. As shocking as it might be. Good luck might keep many of us unchallenged, unscathed. We might stay under the radar, quiet. Perhaps serendipity will save our life. O...

  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...

  Beavers are Back On rare Sundays when he was not working, or sick, or out of town, our father would take us to the wild woods, the meadows – empty of people – the forests, rivers and hidden lakes. It is just our small family in nature, no crowds. Back in 1959, there were no man-made paths, nature areas, or visitor centers, signs to explain the natural wonders. It was utter freedom and beauty, nature organizing itself in the relaxed harmony that eludes humans. I still remember the first time he shows us beavers and their landscaping skills – I am in awe and in love! What superb architects, artists, and engineers the beavers are. Humans can’t do what they do. At age five, I have already decided that I want to become an architect. Papa explains to us the work and construction skills of the beavers. It strikes me that the beavers’ minds seem to contain an overview of big stretches of land. They know collectively where to fell trees with their sharp teeth, build dams and homes, make s...