HOPE...

It’s yet another rainy day- and the last day in August. September always seems such a
demarcation, a beginning of a new chapter: the beginning of the end of the summer, when
we feel the wheel turning again, kids are back at school, new courses begin, change. As a
child this time felt more like a new year than January ever did. I am hoping for a sunny
September, for a surprise after this most rainy August, as we still have our ‘summer’- holiday
ahead in Cornwall! I hope for sun and even some swimming.
Hope is an interesting one. There is the ‘beacon of hope’ and the icon of hope’; we put our hopes in people, projects. We do what we can and hope it will work out. Sometimes its easy to hope because we have evidence of things that have worked out; sometimes one hopes against all odds and at times we struggle to keep hope alive. Hope seems like an important inbuilt force that keeps us going, that moves us towards a better space, whatever this might mean. When we find it difficult to hope we rely on other loved one’s to remind us or to hold hope for us.
The daffodil as a symbol of hope speaks of spring, the dove delivers a branch of new life. The magical transformation of the butterfly reminds us that sometimes we just can’t see clearly: what looks like an ugly state might be the last moment before something magnificent!
Chuang Tse :‘What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.’

Whenever catastrophe strikes, we look for signs of hope: the toddler that survived under
the rubble of the earth quake, or the calf they found under a heap of carcasses during the
culling following foot and mouth disease. After this they stopped the cullings.

Listening to Barack Obama’s speech at the Democratic convention in Denver this week, it was clear how much of an icon of hope he has become! Holding the hope of so many people for change, big change- and speaking like a visionary, painting a picture in bold strokes. A black president in itself a symbol of hope for change. Of course he has to show he can deliver, but it is such a fresh breath of air hearing such vision!

It seems hope has to do with faith and vision, yet in the famous painting of ‘Hope’ by Watts (1886) in the Tate, Hope sits blindfolded and bent, holding on to a lyre with only one string left; her world shrunk, holding on one last string…. This is not cheap hope: it’s trying to survive on one note, on one last something- hope against all odds. Such a moving, internal, tender image! Sometimes an action of hope might be as small as picking one string to create some sound that might comfort. And then maybe at some point Hope can take off her blindfold, look out at the horizon and move from her small golden ball!

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops -- at all

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.
Emily Dickinson

PRESENCE...

This week was a difficult one, high emotions sweeping through me, old ones and new ones, evoked by starting new projects, working too much on my own and suddenly feeling lonely and isolated, questions about belonging and the future…then at the end of the week and it’s highlight, was seeing the Vietnamese Zen Buddhist master, poet and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh in London with my friend Kathy and listening to his deceptively simple message of mindfulness, presence, dealing with anger and pain, being in the world, smiling, the nature of love and cultivating relationships.

At a time when I am reading ‘The Zen of Creativity’ by John Daido Loori, to see and hear ‘Thay’ as he is also called, was moving and encouraging. And it was an interesting process, observing myself listening to him. He speaks quietly and slowly, sometimes repeating in slightly different ways what he has said already. And it all starts with the breath: breathing in….breathing out….observing one’s breath, enjoying one’s breath. I am observing my fidgety, impatient nature- ‘oh, come on, give me more than that…!’The ego hates simplicity, repetition, at least mine does!
A simple message: the body is here; the mind is either in the past reminiscing or in the future, worrying or dreaming. ‘If you are not HERE, where are you? If you are not where your body is, you are not really alive’. That’s tough!
Bringing the mind HOME to the body.

I didn’t like his slow pace, I didn’t like the simplicity, the -no frills’ teaching, the repetition; but I knew that he is right. And to me, who so often ponders about ‘HOME’, where home could possibly be for me, whether it’s here or there or where? , to speak of bringing the mind and body together , creating ‘home’ in oneself though this process, spoke deeply to me.
The power that lies in this alignment, in true presence- I think we can see it watching the Olympic athletes in their actions- this alignment of body and mind, sharp as an arrow, one-pointed concentration and presence: gymnasts, runners, swimmers…close ups of their faces just before and during the race or routine reveals it. We can see it sometimes in dancers, musicians, performers, singers giving their all. We can see it in their bodies, faces, in the hands, in gestures. Wherever we see it, it is a feast, a joy to watch, to listen, and we know intuitively that this is powerful, it transpires.

Watching Thich Naht Hanh sit and speak and particularly drink a cup of tea, I could see this embodiment of mindfulness. He is completely in the world and present. This rootedness in life is obvious in his life, having been an activist for peace for many years, exiled from his country after working for peace in Vietnam. He was already a monk when the Vietnam war started. Like all monks and nuns he had to make a decision: to stay in the monasteries and continue the spiritual life there or to help alleviate the suffering and help the villagers rebuilt their villages and lives. He did both, creating what is now called ‘engaged Buddhism’, founding schools, universities, meeting world leaders.

His suggestions of how to deal with pain, anger, jealousy and all those difficult feelings again was deceptively simple: to cultivate mindfulness and presence, which will be like a point, a place, a pole- from where to HOLD the difficult feeling, gently as a mother or father holds a small child; to ‘lullaby it’, embrace it… it sounded so simple and it is so hard!

And then there was the Vietnamese nun, who seemed absolutely timeless and sweet, teaching us some simple, gentle, deep songs, which still echo through me even today. A tool for difficult times: songs like balm for the soul.

These are challenging teachings for my life in which so much I do is based on schedules, planning and ‘multi-tasking’ – not just being with body in one place and mind somewhere else, but even in two, three places with my mind, body doing two, three different things! Me wearing so many different hats too- and then always the question about time: “well, if I had that kind of time….maybe then one could be mindful….”

But I have a hunch that all this isn’t even so far apart. That if I could be more present and mindful and in the moment, things could also get done easier, lighter and quicker. I am convinced that I waste a lot of time and energy worrying about things that are not even really THERE: things that have already happened or are ahead somewhere in the future. To just be and to do things in the moment is something else altogether. Sometimes when I am really absorbed in creating I can get a little taste of this. And particularly when I am in nature: steeped in nature I can manage to BE sometimes- the need to DO sometimes falls off like a drop of water from a plant, just like that, easily and I can just sit and be.
I am still practicing 10, 15 minutes of meditation per day- it is still very difficult to calm the chatter in my mind and ‘come home’. Sometimes impossible. But sometimes it also feels freeing, allowing myself to just to BE for 15 minutes- nowhere else to go with nothing to DO but just to be, the hardest thing and yet I also feels like a little gift sometimes to myself.

Here are two of Thich Nhat Hanh’s poems:

For Warmth

I hold my face between my hands
no I am not crying
I hold my face between my hands
to keep my loneliness warm
two hands protecting
two hands nourishing
two hands to prevent
my soul from leaving me
in anger

***************************

Drink Your Tea

Drink your tea slowly and reverently,
as if it is the axis
on which the world earth revolves
- slowly, evenly, without
rushing toward the future;
Live the actual moment.
Only this moment is life.

COURAGE...

This week I was wondering how one conjures up courage for a new project or at least, for a first, new step.
On Monday I saw ‘Man on Wire’, a film about Philippe Petite, who in 1974 did the impossible: illegally rigging a wire and walking between the twin towers. For about an hour dancing between the towers, crossing eight times. I had read his book ‘to Reach the Clouds’ a few years ago, which had deeply moved me. To see him talk and recall his story was a feast for the eyes and heart (check out the trailer for the film with some amazing footage www.manonwire.com).

It all began with a crazy dream, a vision, sparked by an article in 1968 about the possible construction of the twin towers, which Petite saw, waiting in a French dentist’s practice. The towers themselves were still only a vision then and yet Petite’s dream was already potent and alive. It took him six years of preparation with an amazing team of people and fierce determination until that foggy morning in 1974 when he walked across the void. On his first visit to the towers and to the roof, ‘Impossible’ was all he could think of playing like a mantra in his mind. Yet, having felt the air up there he was suddenly struck; and in horror and delight he whispers his first thoughts: ‘I know it’s impossible, but I know I’ll do it!’ ;
and once back on street level: ‘Impossible, yes, so lets get to work!’

Petite did not know whether he ever would succeed, in fact everything seemed to contradict this vision. Yet staying focused, stubborn, unwavering and enlisting all the help he could get, he succeeded and gave us an amazing and beautiful gift.

Where does courage start? Did courage mean first of all to listen to the vision and not dismiss it as plain crazy? What are first acts of courage? Petite took his pen and drew a line between the outline of the towers, which weren’t even built then. A single line, a few millimeters long, recorded this gigantic dream. His amazing ‘coup of a century’ contained in this very first gesture.

Without courage and risk there is not much aliveness nor growth. Anais Nin reminds us that ’Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage’;
Jeanette Winterson believes that ‘only the Impossible is worth the effort!’
and Peter Drucker claims that ‘there is the risk you cannot afford to take and there is the risk you cannot afford not to take.’

I guess there are many kinds of courage:
Courage to just breathe and allow a vision to be there no matter how crazy or huge it might present itself to us;
Courage to allow the vision to remain close no matter what we encounter;
Courage to share the vision with others and ask for help;
Courage to commit- and commit again and again;
Courage to make uncountable small steps all leading to the single point of fulfilling the vision;
Courage to show up daily in service of the vision;
Courage to start again after failure;
Courage to remain flexible, yet focused;
Courage to acknowledge the impossible, yet get to work.



This morning I was witness to five spiders in my garden creating their delicate webs. Yesterday I had admired their determined stillness sitting motionless and waiting in the centre, this morning I saw them in action, witnessed this miraculous action unfold.
Do spiders need courage for their constructions? Courage to throw that first thread?
The most difficult part in constructing the web is the first thread: a sturdy horizontal thread on which the rest of the web is depending. The spider uses the wind and some luck: throws out one thread, hoping it will catch.
The similarities to Petite’s coup, firing a fishing line with a bow and arrow across the void between the towers is amazing! Petite describes how he can’t find the fishing line for some time that has been fired from across the other tower by an accomplice, the line on which all else hangs or fails (a thicker thread, a sturdier rope, eventually the steel rope!). In frustration he takes all his clothes off and searches the floor. Eventually he finds the arrow perching precariously on the edge; one small breath could have send it into the void.
From this thread the coup is constructed.
From the first thread thrown by the spider the whole web is created. Here is how:
The wind carries a thin adhesive thread released from her spinners while making the thread longer and longer. If she is lucky the thread sticks to a proper spot. Then she walks carefully over the thread, strengthening it with a second thread. This is repeated until the primary thread is strong enough. After this, she hangs a thread in the form of a Y below the primary thread. These are the first three radial of the web. More radials are constructed taking care that the distance between the radial is small enough to cross. Then non-sticky circular construction spirals are made. The web is completed when the adhesive spiral threads are placed. While the sticky spirals are placed the non-sticky spirals are removed.
Unless the web can be easily mended, a spider shows up every day and constructs a new web, first recycling the old one by eating it up, using this precious protein for the new construction.

Wow! I think I never will be able to thoughtlessly walk through a web again. Then again I know if I do, I know the spider will start again, rebuilding the web.

Petite is an extraordinary man. He promised to walk the towers again if they are rebuilt: ‘When the towers again twin-tickle the clouds, I offer to walk again, to be the expression of the builder’s collective voice4. I will carry my life across the wire, as your life, as all our lives, past ,present, and future- the lives lost, the lives welcomed since.’
When I don’t know how to conjure up courage for a new project, maybe I will think of the spiders and just show up every morning, creating my web in daily practice, laying out sticky threads for inspiration or whatever wants to come along. At present I cannot measure my courage with people like Petite, but spider’s courage I should be able to conjure up!

RIPPLES...

Back from our intensive trip to Germany I am trying to find ground again here in England, collect my thoughts and my soul and let everything slot back into it’s place, it’s rhythm. It feels uncomfortable and slightly ungrounded to be neither there nor quite fully here- images, emotions, faces, voices, vignettes still flowing, rippling through me. My dad’s 80th Birthday and my speech to him, something I would have never thought possible in times when our relationship was strained- I am very grateful for this.
Walks in the hills and on a wild mountain and lots and lots of wonderful, nourishing food! From Bavaria via a slick train to my hometown and then to the Black Forest to stay with my oldest friend Gabriele- I had not been back for over six years. Three places, spanning thirty years of my life. Sometimes there were many layers of time present: like on a walk with my dad and Maz, my partner on the hill in my hometown; suddenly we heard some silly songs sung from behind hedges: the same as when I when I was sent to a children’s holiday camp at exactly the same spot about 35 years ago! While my dad told us a story of the time, shortly after the war, when he as a young man worked for the Americans in Nuremberg and how he ended up in prison for one night for stealing sugar. And then there we were all together in the here and now, having delicious iced coffee with vanilla ice cream… before saying good bye and parting for England…

And then the German lakes! It’s a magic I miss here, to swim in a lake still as a mirror, with clear emerald water or slightly brown one from the moors, being enveloped and embraced in a different way than the sea does, a more gentle, still way.
Swimming in these lakes I find a quality of calmness like no other. There is something that feels truly perfect when I am immersed completely: there is only the regular stroke of my arms, the rhythm of my breath, so slowly and deliberately that I forget after a while that it is me creating it. There is the glittering of the water and the mountains in the background, the subtle sound of water being parted and a steady movement forward without any haste…. a unison of movement, breath and perception. Occasionally there is a fish coming to the surface with a subtle ‘blubb’, a bubbling-sound, reminding me of all the life underneath and that I am really only skimming the surface…
If we had such lakes here and it would be warm all year round, this would be my perfect meditation practice: because somehow I completely stop thinking when I am swimming and there is a sense of oneness, timelessness, feeling part of something much bigger which is exhilarating and freeing….
‘Water, ever yielding, is not destroyed. Although it does not linger, it lasts forever’
I love how the light and mood ever changes on water. Even the mountains in the background can disappear and return so quickly; I’ve seen thunderstorms brewing over lakes and utter calmness.

I remember being told to come out of the water after maybe hours in the sea; blue lipped, wrapped in a big towel and happy I sat shivering in our Strandkorb, the colourful engulfing seats so typical for the German North Sea coast.
Snorkelling in the Mediterranean sea in the first crystal clear water I knew I swam for hours and crossed a small channel, maybe an hour’s swim each way, accompanied by my mum in our little inflatable boat, allowing me to feel adventurous and free, yet save.
And yes, there was the time when I swam out far too far in Sweden and could have been swept out to the open sea and drowned- this taught me utter respect for the sea!

Writing this something scratches my grey cells wanting to surface: a quote I read a long time ago by Margaret Atwood about time and water from her novel ‘Cat’s Eye’. After much searching I found it in German in one of my old diaries and I apologise for the coarse translation:
‘One doesn’t look backwards at time along a straight line, but rather into it and down as through water. Sometimes this comes to the surfaces and that, sometimes nothing at all. Nothing ever goes away.’
I want to return to some calm and rhythm in my life here after this adventurous journey into my past and the ripples it made. I like the image of the pond, letting my mind settle like its surface.
It is difficult to be still. Difficult just to be, but the lakes help. The memory of the lakes inside of me.