RED CROSSING

Well, here I am back after some weeks of silence: after spending our late ‘summer’ holiday in Cornwall and weaving three days on a bridge as part of ANTI Contemporary Arts Festival in Koupio, Finland. Cornwall charmed me again with it’s gorgeous coast-line, ever changing weather, stone sites and earth that somehow feels magnetic, deep, strong and welcoming.

Then ‘Red crossing’- a single red thread woven over a bridge, back and forth over three days, gradually transforming the bridge into something else: a sculpture, a ‘line of joy’ or a ‘red route home’, a ‘light in the dark’, as people called it. I felt happy and privileged to be there on this bridge, surrounded by stunning nature, ever-changing weather and glorious autumn light, meeting so many people and hearing stories, questions, vignettes.
How to condense this experience into some scibblings?
Maybe just some distilled snapshots:
The sound of the bells of my costume clinking against the barrister, like ship bells, creating a steady rhythm, a base note, accompanying me on my long walk;

The feeling of the thread running through my hands, eventually becoming like an extension of me;

The old man who found a spider on the red thread and brought it to me saying: ‘there’s another weaver!’ – and indeed this is the closest I have felt to a weaver: single pointed repetitive action, purposeful layering, building… I loved the simplicity of it! I also met some ‘real’ weavers on the bridge who told me how much this reminded them of preparing the loom; except for me all this WAS the woven piece, the fabric;

The crossers: streams of fit Nordic walkers with their sticks walking purposefully and very fast, many of them older; the number 1 bus, crossing many times on Friday, delivering and picking up from Rönö island, waving and smiling at every crossing; the police in their truck, the huge blonde police man saying how much he enjoyed the festival, being able all day to drive around patrol but catch some art on the way!

A fifteen year old boy who told me how he grew up on the small island opposite Rönö and how before the bridge was there they had to row to school and in winter cross on skates. There was a special time every year, when the ice would be too dangerous to cross and the rowing was not possible yet, so they were stuck with three week’s worth of homework! They even had a special finish word for this in-between time;

A newly wed couple who had read in the local paper about the ‘red bridge’ came especially, smiling broadly into the wedding photographer’s lens and wanting to pose with me;

The older women who went home again bringing back a pedometer for me as a present, to count my steps!

Then there was the woman who lives on Rönö island, which is the island that the bridge links with Kuopio, who offered me coffee at her home; I thanked her and told her that I wasn’t able to leave the bridge- so she turned up two days later with a basket full of tea, coffee, freshly baked sweets called ‘pulla’, infused with cardamon and she laid the table in one of the sitting areas, shortly before the end of the performance on Sunday! What a wonderful surprise! It was utterly joyful and celebratory and a big crowed gathered. A bit later we walked together on the bridge, while I was still weaving and she told me how she was deeply moved by this piece bringing ‘life and something joyful to the bridge’; then she shared the tragedy of a friend’s son who, only 21 years old had jumped from the opposite side of the bridge about two years ago…

The performance created its own ending; I was meant to end at 4pm on Sunday; at around three when people gathered around the pulla and tea, I put a big wool ball aside for a moment to speak to someone. When I turned back, I saw the ball like a florescent buoy floating on the dark water, a thin thread tying it to the bridge- it had fallen, jumped, made its way to the island! There was a moment of silence, a sharp in-breath. We watched the ball float further and further away, the tread moving slightly in the wind…so beautiful, so fragile; eventually it disappeared from our view. I don’t know whether it reached the island or sunk, but the red thread leading into the water remained until the next day. I remember the strange weight when pulling it slightly, this mysterious line leading to another story, leading down somewhere else…

One single thread, thin and fragile, woven over three days 130 deep, crossing after crossing created an impact over time, a field of red, a line clearly visible even from afar, stopping people in their tracks. I heard ‘kaunis’, beautiful! so many times! I had not considered that this would bring so much joy and happiness to people!
Also there was a sense of tapping into something old, archetypal , Ariadne’s thread, the Nornes, spinning the thread of life, red, endless stream of life, blood, life force and people connecting with this somewhere, somehow.

At the end of the second day my legs started to buckle after I had spend eight hours weaving the lower part of the bridge, continuously kneeling down, leading to a ‘John Wayne on eggshells’ walk for the rest of the time!

I had two wonderful assistants, Taina and Tania who tirelessly translated, taught me about the Fins and Finish history and at 5 each day the sauna was ready for me in Taina’s house- a beautiful and invaluable life and muscle safer!!!

Shortly before flying back on Monday I went out to the bridge again, this time in my blue coat and without my wig. I met an older man who told me in German about what had happened here: ‘there was a woman on the bridge making this for three days; its not normal, but its beautiful!’ This left me smiling inside with a good feeling and a good motto!

I am curious where ‘Red Crossing’s red thread will take me!

SHIP OF FOOLS...

‘ O ship aboard the ship! Ship of the body, ship of the soul, voyaging, voyaging, voyaging’
Walt Whitman

At the end of this wettest summer in 60 years, I am about to go off to Cornwall for our ‘summer holiday’, and … I found a great bunch of creative folks who are willing to set out on a journey with me into yet unknown territory: a ‘Ship of Fools’!
Over the past two weeks I have sent out invites to people to come aboard a project which I have been dreaming about for some time, and what a great response!!
In my call-out I wrote that as a project I envision ‘The Ship of Fools’ to ‘explore connections between the historic reality of the ‘Ships of Fools’, the archetype of the sacred Fool/ Jester, the artist, shamanic experience and psychiatry’s definition of madness’.
Gosh! That’s quite a menu! Where to start?

I think it all started when I was running a weekly Art Therapy group for people with long-term and enduring mental health problems, together with Mikhail Karikis, who offered so generously his time as volunteer with our arts therapies team. It was like finding gold dust in this hospital, which seemed to fall apart on all ends: plaster peeling, leaving little piles on the corridor floor, water dripping from ceilings, looming restructurings within the NHS trust, staff-cuts, uncertainties…Still, we were a team of strong Arts Therapists trying to keep our spirits up despite this climate, offering a service despite…always despite…
Mikhail and I held the group in a large, quiet and well stocked art therapy room with a wonderful view into a garden and out to some majestic chestnut trees.
The room and group was often commented on: as a refuge from the anonymous metropolis; a space to just be, to find companionship and some relief from a pervasive sense of loneliness and isolation; a place to try things out, to take risks, to be as creative as possible…over time many references emerged of ships and boats in most of our images. I had made images of boats from the beginning and often I felt as if the room was one large boat, that carried us across often quite choppy seas during the three and a half years. Through spring storms, lulls, fresh waters… and through so many seasons!




There were boats with proud flags, and some with frayed sails; ships on calm waters, with no breeze in the air and struggling in turbulent seas; a fleet of boats sailing down a river and a lonely one out at sea. There were ships sailing under a sunset, lost in the fog, moving under a moonlight, waiting in a harbour; a boat propped up on an island or even one stuck in a tree.
It was such a rich symbol and metaphor which held me and all of us and allowed us to express, communicate, process and grow. Of course ‘relating’ and ‘ships’ belong together in the English language- companionSHIP, friendSHIP, and relationship!!

I feel blessed having been able to run this group, I was deeply moved by the commitment of its members, by people’s courage to venture out into new territories, take risks, discover- the group taught me so much and it was very difficult having to close it down as part of a` so-called ‘restructuring of services’, which really is such a euphemism for changes that are purely political, not taking into account the grass-roots level, service users needs and are not even economical and have caused many service users such pain and loss!

It was during the time running he group that I learnt about the ‘Ship of Fools’: the popular satire and allegory of the same name, published by Sebastian Brant in 1494 in Basel, which inspired also numerous artworks, but also shockingly, the fact that the ‘Ship of Fools’ was a reality during the middle ages, where people who were deemed mad, ill or simply ‘other’ were put on boats and floated downriver: the crazy, queer, difficult, creative folk left to their own devices, afloat!

The ship as has always been a complex symbol of transition, containment, community, confinement, freedom and displacement. As a liminal space, the boat carries us between countries and worlds and it’s symbolism connects with possibilities, dreams and fragility. In shamanic societies shamans would get together to form a ‘spirit boat’ in times of need, to journey into other realities in the service of the community.
As artists we are often involved in actions and gestures which would be seen as crazy, compulsive or even psychotic in other contexts. To explore these threads in more depth and in a community of creative people is what I am after!
Having left the NHS after over 7 years last December has given me well needed breathing space and distance. From here I hope to make new and different work.

Foucault states that ‘in civilizations without boats, dreams dry up’. So, lets counter this dryness of dreams and create spaces that allow us to dream and celebrate the liminal!

The ‘SHIP OF FOOLS’ can be anything we make it! As grand, small, intimate, challenging or funny as we like: a ‘Voyage of Fools’; a boat of bread or paper; a journey down river with performances, film, installations and intimate encounters; a showcase or one-off spectacle of work created in workshops addressing the stigma of mental health;
local, national, virtual or taking to the seas; I envision this project to change shape, scale and location over time, inviting different collaborators for various projects.
I am excited and can’t wait to set sail!
PS: All painted pics are mine except of course Hieronymus Bosch’s!

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.

SHEDDING...

SHEDDING… ‘The act of shedding, separating, or casting off or out;’

There is a big eucalyptus tree in our neighbour’s garden, growing next to, and partly hiding, what used to be a radio tower. Over the two and a half years we’ve been living here we had seen the tree grow increasingly weaker. Some of the branches were completely dead and the rest of it looked weak, dry, brittle and lifeless, even in spring. It felt as if something was sitting on top of this tree’s power, like the frog in the fairy tale that sits on the source of the spring. Then this spring I noticed there was ivy growing up its bark, green and lush, forging its way upwards in rapid speed, living off the last sap of this tree ; a lot of crows and doves of the neighbourhood came to break off dead branches and build their nests with it- useful and yet sad. Every day I looked out and felt I was witnessing a slow death. I was not sure whether the ivy was the source of this slow dying process, but it’s suffocating and weakening growth couldn’t be good for the tree, so one day in spring I ventured to the neighbours, introduced myself and asked whether they would mind cutting the ivy so the eucalyptus might have a chance. They were friendly and concerned themselves about the tree, and half an hour later they cut down the ivy by its roots.
Then the rain started – over weeks we had rain, storms and strong winds. And then one day we saw big pieces of the bark come off, in the middle of a storm, flaking, flapping and then falling! Within days most of the bark had shed! The tree was alive and shedding it’s skin!! The most amazing thing is that it is now as green as ever and looks actually alive and kicking. I am not sure whether it was the ivy, the draught of the year before last, a lack of something in the soil that weakened it, but it is back in it’s juice and I believe the shedding was an important part of this enlivening process! What helped we don’t know: water, wind and storm, the release of the ivy, the attention given or simply time?

And then there are the snakes….
When a snake starts the process of shedding its colour begins to dull down and she might become very still and even stop feeding. A fluid is produced under the old skin, which will eventually help the old skin to be shed. Before the actual shedding of its skin, snakes become almost blind because their eyes are covered by a scale that is actually shed too in the process of shedding and the fluid is clouding her sight. During this time snakes feel particularly vulnerable and hence, more unpredictable and sometimes aggressive. Then there is the rubbing: the snake rubs her skin against something, a branch or stone to break the skin. The snake then passes between rough objects until she can move out of it, leaving her old skin behind: inside out, crumpled and in a heap, with her new skin glistening. The actual shedding might only take a few minutes, while the whole process takes between seven and ten days.

So, like everything else, shedding moves in phases. We say we ‘need to shed our skin’, our old lives, jobs, attitudes, things we don’t need anymore. We shed layers that have become useless and restricting for the new layers of our soul to come through. We know instinctively that we need to shed SOMETHING in order to make space for something new and to reveal something new about ourselves, like a new sparkling skin, a deeper, clearer layer of our soul…
It is comforting to see that sometimes, JUST BEFORE this crucial moment of shedding, all might look very difficult: we might feel edgy and unpredictable as a snake; we might seek solitude and feel almost blinded by this confusing process; we might feel dry, scared, itchy or even as if we are dying. And it is good to keep in mind that indeed SOMETHING is dying! And like a birthing process we have really no choice of reversing the process if we want to live: we NEED to shed to reveal the new! This new self cannot show through, nor shine underneath the old; so we need to find the right environment through which we can move, against which we can rub, that will help us to slide and glide out of this old skin- if we are lucky it will be even graceful and ultimately quick at the last stage. Once shed, it seems easy to slither away from this heap of old skin; it moves back into the earth, becomes useful only as fertiliser or as an item for a collector.



Here two poem about shedding, one from Iwano Arashi and one from me.

Shedding

Brushing a cat who sheds
mountains:
It's an endless task, but
she becomes quite beautiful --
upon completion.
Iwano-Arashi

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

Slowly, like icicles dripping
years of winter melt
and morph into something like home.

A phantom, almost lost
like treasure hidden under a heap of coals
I remember a place, somewhere
of belonging.

When I return
riding with my hand in the water over a glittering sea,
I step from the plank
onto my old country
in my new, shimmering skin.

PS: You can see some beautiful pictures and videos of snakes on this site:
http://www.arkive.org/species/ARK/reptiles/Coronella_austriaca/ARK005125.html?offset=0pt