Karinaland River

  Sommerträume – Summer Dreams Out of nowhere, my brother Matthias announces that he is sending a package from Germany. Mid-year, not for my birthday. What will arrive? Mail across the ocean is not dependable anymore and postage has become very expensive. Arbitrary tolls have to be paid in Germany and here, so with the huge postage increases I had to give up sending presents to my family in Germany. What a loss. When his parcel arrives two weeks later, a colorful woven textile emerges. Marvelous. So much joy. Freude . His hands spin the wool with a spindle, the threads get dyed, then he weaves. The beautifully crafted gift brings consolation – a piece of him in my home. I drape it on the couch, admiring it daily. Times of pandemic, my own health issue, and now, for the past year and half, it is too dangerous for me to fly.  Having not seen my siblings and family for seven years, I feel most bereft  t his summer. D reaming of magic carpets. Yes, my old childhood habit of t...

  Perpetual Promise   Sometimes people from the past appear out of the blue. Recently, a former long-time student of mine writes to ask about my current T’ai Chi classes. She is a memorable and lovely person, and a good writer.  “ I would so love to take one of your classes again — they still linger in my mind as times of great pleasure, peace and progress. ”  We catch up a bit on our lives in our e-mail exchange. I write back about possibilities for her to join. And we add to all the previous p’s: pleasure, peace and progress – possibility. This strikes me as a wonderful game. I add my own p’s as the days go by. There are word-wizards in the world, I am not one of them. But the palpable popping of the syllables is enticing. Just like the dry seed cups of my poppies ready to spread precious potential. Fleeting gentle explosions, play of lips. All the p’s pouncing…   Luscious memories of lingering on the floor with dictionaries. What is progress? I am on my belly...

  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...

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...

The Power of the Powerless   The forces of history are always bigger than us – we are at their mercy. What will be our fate? How will destiny unfold? What influences guide us? Can we be dedicated to Living in Truth?   Václav  Havel – Living in Truth In the Spring of 1968, my 14-year-old teenage attention is laser-focused on Czechoslovakia. The great Alexander Dubček is my hero. As secretary of the Communist Party, he puts the Prague Spring Reforms into place beginning of January that year. In West Germany and France much political turmoil and transformation is happening. Starting at 12 years old, I am devouring books by Albert Camus, Thomas Mann, Nellie Sachs, Heinrich Heine, Günther Grass , Hilde Domin, Hans Magnus Enzensberger, and many more. I read Czech writers, poets, and playwrights, like Václav Havel , Bohumil Hrabal, Pavel Kohout, etc.  Ours was a socialist family. Every night, we heatedly discuss sociological trends and political events at the dinner t...

  Knowing Last night, on New Year’s Eve, 2025, I am flooded with immense gratitude, bigger than life. To honor it, I finally write about something specifically sacred to me. With its intense flame, the essence of the story is burning inside me. Today, ten years ago, my Mama puts her simple paper affairs one more time in order with the assistance of Edeltraut, her trustworthy helper who comes twice a day. It’s New Year’s Eve – Sylvester . I speak to her on the phone, my morning, her evening already, nine hours difference. “Like you, I am not going to do anything, just go to bed early,” I say. She falls asleep and never wakes up again. That night of hers is my day here. Despite not having heard yet of her death, I seem to know. The irrepressible urge to drive to Point Reyes for a walk on the beach. When two hospice workers drop by bringing confusing news about the service for my husband Bob, I blurt out impatiently: “I need to go, can’t figure this out now.” At the ocean, my feet are...

  Flows, Sings In the early hour peeing later morning   surprises on tongue tasting tea teeth chewing lips   listening with feet on curious soles   another day steps into my humming orb with honest clarity   midday overflows into afternoon filled with silken chords multiple voices ring echoing through ears, flesh, bones   misty waves of sound weaving droplets into dusky desire for rest, drifting, winter five o’clock sun’s gone already, structures, roofs, walls, fences, blurred, melted, faint – how could the day glide so effortlessly Open is the garden: Licht   fading to shades of grey evening sprouts questions   darkness delicately explores night star-studded with dreams Here a fugue entices centuries converge music by J.S. Bach reaches consoles, flows, sings, strings shimmer Tröstet das Herz, wir sehnen uns nach dieser Berührung der Seele   Es regnet… Auch heute noch In der kleinen Kathedrale klingt der Gesang  Violoncello Stimme Orgel ...