Karinaland River

  Simple For many years now, my life has been shifting to more and more simple. Not by chance – I work on it. Eliminating unnecessary distractions, setting clear priorities, keeping needed focus. Those are my tools in order to be of good use. In our age of “more-not-less,” I find myself an outsider. Limiting everything to essentials, to stewardship of land, students, and my own destiny. Simple life. As an eight-year-old, my relationship with Spirit is a secret refuge, my citadel. Precious. I dialogue with elusive, yet palpable, "spirit presence" through  feet,  sky, moon, trees, sounds. It lives in all things and everywhere, inhabiting my body, too. When alone, I dance in slow-motion, feeling that clearly something  unknown  is flowing through me. Or I engage in shapeshifting, seeing the world from the viewpoint of a tiny daisy in a meadow.  At age twelve, I start inventing slow sequences, gestures, postures. It's a language, an architecture. An invisible r...

  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 ...

  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 ...

  The Cicadas are Calling   This summer the cicadas are singing again in my patio! Oh, how I yearned for them to be back. Last May’s "mind-boggling" flea infestation of the whole hill forced me to have it sprayed with chemicals. Meanwhile, bitten all over my body and discovering that I am extremely allergic to the hundreds of fleabites from working in the garden, I get my first anaphylactic shock. My whole body is densely covered in red welts, ferociously itching every minute of the day and night. Unrelenting. Not just the garden, by now house and bedroom cottage are also infested. Non-stop, I am vacuuming, and washing clothes and sheets. Everywhere I am spraying oils of cedar wood, rosemary, and lemon grass diluted in water, and wipe floors and furniture with it. After two sleepless weeks from the intense pain – worse than itching – I catch a high-dose covid infection, first time and brutal. This takes me out for another three weeks, ribs dislocated from excessive violent co...

Practice – Life   Some people are naturally disciplined. I often confess to my students that  I am an undisciplined person . Whenever I muster discipline, it is fueled by curiosity, then passion (a kind of falling in love), then devotion, in that order.  And practice is all. My life has guided me deep into three fields, each organically blending into and building upon the other, complementing. In each field, I will dedicate myself to daily practice for two or three decades – not just years. The question is: can I keep learning, improving, transforming, contributing, discovering? T o me p ractice means never-ending exploration. I keep developing skills and artistry in these three areas through thousands of hours of practice, study, and work. First in the   Theater  – via creating, choreographing, performing, writing, directing, designing, collaborating. At the core is my aspiration to grow as a human being. Secondly, in   Filmmaking  – via envisioning, ...

  Equinox   Each year, the time at the Autumnal Equinox invites me to contemplate balance. Balance between life and death – gain and loss – up and down – full and empty – joy and sorrow – light and shadow – young and old. There seems to be a hint of decay and death in the air, yet all is brimming with life. And ripening. Or is it that the light of Fall is initiating a pensive mood? The musky smell of forgotten apples on the ground. Today a dear friend’s glorious 80 th  Birthday Brunch full with vibrant guests, last night sad news of the lonely death of a 39-year-old Black solo performer and author. Fate & destiny.     Death is great as Life , wrote Walt Whitman  – painted on stone, in my garden   Yesterday evening, the sun is about to set as we listen to ten musicians perform a score that blends into the idyllic outdoor setting at the creek in Berkeley’s Live Oak Park. The music features sporadic horns, bird whistles, violin sighs, singing glass, f...

Atman         The empty space, hot sun, and stars at night. Cleaning up in the garden, a gentle breeze on my sweaty skin. Presents are still trickling in, surprising me... touching me. A couple of days ago, Bob Ng, my cello teacher, sends me this beautiful note and audio gift:    “As I thought about the silence which must have settled on your garden after the chain saws and workmen had completed their task, I was inspired to record my transcription of "Atman" as a tribute to Mama Oak.  According to Google,      Atman is a Hindu word that means 'soul or spirit'. Essentially, it refers to the real person inside an individual. It is made of part of the spirit of Brahman, who Hindus believe is the one true ultimate God. Therefore, it is not something that can be seen or touched, but it is eternal and everlasting.     I'm sure that Mama Oak had an interior soul that is as real as the ones that we humans experience.  This song i...

Sometimes Life offers us completely Unexpected Gifts   Such a thing happened when I decided in December 2020 to take up my cello again. One of the best decisions in my life, especially with losing my husband four years earlier and retiring from documentary filmmaking. The previous pandemic months, I had spent much time outdoors, working in the garden, and on my new project which involved community: the  BLM Memorial Mural  on the garage doors, often painting with friends, masked, and on a scaffold. When working alone or with collaborators * , this would become social time, talking to passersby of all ages, neighbors, dogs, and once in a while a special visitor. What a tragic year of loss, deaths, killings, fires, insanity and cultural awakenings. As the pandemic’s first winter with our Californian rains was looming, I decided to muster courage and take my cello out of the closet. 30 years had passed since I had touched it, always in fear that I would never again be able t...