Category Archives: Communication

The Tale Explainer

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A fairy tale! The children’s eyes lit up. The tale explainer began: “Once upon a time, there was a mother goat. She had seven little kids. As this prototypical introduction shows, this is obviously a fairy tale. In this kind of literature the number seven is the number of completion. Later on it will become important that not all of the little kids are eaten, but instead that all will be saved. We do not know why the father of the goats is not mentioned. The subsequent eating of the little kids can be understood as a violent or sexual act. When you later divide the story into five main paragraphs, you will confirm that the tale follows a graded pattern…” And the lights in the children’s eyes went out.

Window Cinema

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It was raining. No school today. Like every Saturday morning, she stood behind the counter where the bread rolls and cakes and other pastries were displayed for sale. Through the shop window she saw the leaves swept from the trees by the wind swirling through the street. In front of the shop, a woman was struggling with her umbrella. Above the lady she could read the inscription “Miller’s Bakery””, in mirror writing, of course, for anyone looking at the pane from the inside.

When she was alone and did not need to attend to any customers, she liked to imagine that this shop window was a cinema screen and that what she could see behind it was a film. In her imagination, she would alter the scene. The cars would become stage coaches, the leaves would become birds, and the lady with the umbrella could become her mother fighting a wild dragon. Now this image amused her especially. Her mother, who habitually misunderstood her, who could misinterpret any word she said in a splitsecond, who could turn good into bad and bad into good – she would probably win a dragon fight, or at least go for a draw. Until the next fight.

The lady with the umbrella was long gone. Now she imagined what she would write on the shop window, replacing the boring sign “Miller’s Bakery”. How about “You mean a lot to me” or “I like you anyway”? Or “I tease you ‘cause I love you”?

She grinned at the thought. She imagined what these inscriptions would look like on the large shop windowpane. Anyone passing it would be able to read it, including her mother, of course. In her imagination, she saw the inscription “You mean a lot to me”. Would her mother finally understand her if she read those words?” She saw her mother standing in front of the windowpane with a furrowed brow, slowly shaking her head. Then the thought came to her mind: “You need to put your words in mirror writing.”

The Swop

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They both heard it. A quiet coughing and then a snapping for air. The owner of the kiosk had just placed the illustrated magazine on the table while the woman searched her purse for change. She looked down. “Tommy, what’s the matter?” she called, startled. Her Yorkshire terrier lay, lifelessly, on the ground. “That can happen so fast”, murmured the shopkeeper. “Probably a heart attack”, he thought, “too well fed”. The dog was dead, no doubt about it. But what to do now?

The lifeless body could certainly not remain in the shop. But neither did the woman want to carry her dead dog through the village in front of everyone and get caught up in a conversation on every street corner. “Have you perhaps got a box?” she asked. The shopkeeper went into the back and returned. “This is all I’ve got.” He handed her a printed box which had contained a small portable television set a few days earlier. After the dog was packed away in it, the woman left the electronics shop. In front of the shop she met a young man who, loudly and with a distinct foreign accent, shouted: “They all racist, hate foreigners! No one will change!” Angrily he waved his fifty Euro note back and forth in front of the old woman’s face. “But that must be possible!” said the woman. “Come, I’ll change it for you in the electronics shop. Just hold the box for me please while you wait.” The young man nodded contentedly. When the woman returned with the money, he was gone. To her shock, there was also no sign of the box.

“I would like to hand in fifty euros here”, said the old woman later at the police station. “Where did you find it?” asked the police officers and listened to what had happened. “Keep the money”, they said. “It will be difficult to find the right owner.”

All by Itself

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A man stood at the glass door of a department store early in the morning, with the intention of entering. The door wouldn’t even open an inch. He tried to push against it, but nothing happened. He could have knocked or called. He could have tried to open the door by force. The man did none of these. He looked at the sign with the opening times, looked at his watch, and then went for a walk for about ten minutes. Then he came back and stepped in front of the door. The door now opened all by itself, automatically and as if from the hand of a ghost.

The Empathizer

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There are people who can listen well. And there are others who can observe well. I knew a man once who could do both really well. More than anything else, he was a good empathizer.

When he met another person, in thought or in action he took on his behavior. He looked as the other did, he breathed in and out like him, he moved like the other, and also took on his voice. He felt how a man felt, when he expressed himself and moved in such a way, as the one he met. Then he often asked himself, how a bridge could be created which led away from this experience to another, to a much more powerful, free, and liberated existence.

This man understood many languages. He not only understood them but he spoke them too, at least when he wanted to. Sometimes he spoke the language of an offended person who kept a tear in his voice and held his left hand at his throat, who rubbed his eye after a painful word and coughed at upsetting words. Sometimes he spoke the language of a melancholic person who breathed as if drawing deep breath caused him pain, who spoke of all the things which are lacking, and who almost unnoticeably and yet persistently, shook his head from side to side. He spoke the language of an angry person whose jaw is as hard as a fist, and in between whose shoulderblades one could effortlessly crack nuts. He spoke the language of a sick person, to whom all talk of health seemed disrespectful towards his suffering, and the language of one racked with pain who, for a long time, had no longer searched for words for joy and desire, enjoyment and well-being. He knew the languages of the body, the voice and the breath, and also the ones of the organs, which indeed have their own words. From time to time the empathizer also told a story to the people who came to him. And such a story began, without fail, in the language of those with whom he spoke.While the empathizer spoke in the language of the stricken, flowing from his mouth came the air of the daring. The language of one who no longer cared became the language of one who is propelled by curiosity, and the expression of the suffering became the gesture of the calm and relaxed, who, minute by minute, forgets his pain. And the strange thing was that the people who listened to these stories changed with them. Sometimes this happened secretly and unnoticeably, and sometimes surprisingly, yet the changes had been long on the horizon. Such a story often became a bridge, widely stretched from the suffering of the people to their longed for goal. For the people around him it was a miracle – he simply called it a transformation. This transformation succeeded because the empathizer always secured the first pillar of the bridge near the cliff of their suffering – and never forgot the second pillar of the bridge on the side of desire.

Easter Eggs

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How does one find Easter eggs? And why do some people search but not find? In case you are searching and have not yet found, allow me, as well as I can, to give you some hints.

Possibility one: very small children will not find any Easter eggs because they do not know what Easter eggs are. Sent off without a guide, they will most likely return with mushrooms and tufts of grass.

Possibility two: slightly biggerolder children know what Easter eggs look like but do not yet understand how to actually “search”. There are different ways of searching. And in case one himself isyou are an Easter egg, one yourself, you must know: A good way to find is to allow oneself to be found.

Possibility three: somewhat biggerstill older children know what Easter eggs look like and how one looks for them, but they possibly search at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Have you ever searched for Easter eggs in places where there are no Easter eggs anywherenone? Then you know what I mean.

Possibility four: the Easter eggs are there, but they look a bit different than they did the previous year. Perhaps one knowsyou know them as being red and blue, and this time they are dyed in camouflage green. The inner image of the eggs does not correspond to the outer one. A frequent reason why people do not find what they are searching for is because it does not look like what they are accustomed to.

Possibility five: the Easter eggs are there and look as they did the previous year, but they are covered by something else. For example, clumps of grass, a piece of bark or an old drainpipe are lying on top of them. What is truly valuable oftentimes hides itself. OneYou must search for it.

When one considersyou consider all these possibilities and still doesdo not find any Easter eggs, there is only one thing that can help: pick up a paint brush and paint, and colour your own Easter eggs, red, yellow and blue, and hide them all over the place. Preferably so that a small, colourful part always peeps out from the green meadow!

Political Solution

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One morning the old storyteller said to his apprentice: “As you know, the king will be a guest in our town today. I have received a letter stating that he has heard of what I do and would like to hear a sample of my art himself. The king is in great worry, because the monarch of our neighbouring country demands from him a personal apology for some uncouthness, which truly he has never committed. By expressing this apology the king would be stripped of his dignity in front of his own nation and the neighbouring people. If he does not apologise, the other ruler threatens to ravage our land with his strong army. What is our king to do? If he apologises, he loses the respect of our people and of the neighbouring people as well, and maybe even his self-respect. If he does not apologise, the other monarch will take this as an excuse for starting a war. Then our king will lose his land and possibly his life, and our people will suffer great harm. At noon, I shall be at the town hall, in order to tell the King a tale which may give him a helpful hint for making his decision. I feel more feeble now than ever in my life, and I wish you to accompany me on my way.” The way to town seemed longer than usual to the apprentice. They had to pause many times so his master could regain his strength, but finally they arrived. They were guided to the king and all the dignitaries assembled in the town hall, and they were seated among them at a large table. After a number of high and important people had spoken, the storyteller was also asked to speak. He said: “In our town, there once lived a well-known man who was to hold a speech for many people, and even for the king. Now as he looked around, he saw such an abundance of wise and educated people that he himself did not feel wise at all. He forgot how at other times he had known to help himself out of any difficulty. He would have wished to sink into a deep hole in the ground. As this is impossible – what did this man do?”

After these words, the old man fell silent. Despairingly he turned to his apprentice with an inquiring look, as if he were uttering some wordless plea. The young man rose to speak and said: “He fell silent. He let his apprentice speak for him. His apprentice delivered the message to the king and this abundance of wise and educated people which his master would have told if words had not failed him. The apprentice said: ‘My master asks your pardon that he cannot address to you the words that you desire to hear from him. Yet he lets me speak for him. May I express his deep regret.” The people heard the apprentice speak for his master, and no one could decide whether the apprentice truly spoke for his master, but neither could anyone deny it. For his master’s mind seemed absent, and neither did he show approval nor reject the words the apprentice spoke on his behalf.”

The apprentice ended his speech. The listeners looked startled at him and his master. Then some of them started to laugh, while others clapped their hands, and a very odd atmosphere of tension filled the room. The mayor called for the next speakers, and the rest of the day passed by with music and festivities. Finally everyone went home. The king, however, sent heralds out on this very day. In all the towns of his empire they proclaimed the following message: “Tomorrow at noon, the king will abdicate because of his feeble health, and leave the royal throne to his oldest son. The speech of the king on passing over the crown and sceptre must be called off due to his sickness. His son will speak for him instead, and will truthfully state what his father would have said if only he had been able to speak as the king of this land for the very last time. The king knew well that his court would be bewildered at this curious message. But the ruler of his neighbouring country also could not easily decide what had been said by whom, and what was meant by the words that had been spoken.

On the way home the old storyteller seemed more tired than usual. He said to his apprentice: “Tomorrow I expect that a lot of people will come to my house wishing to hear a tale. It is impossible for me to do so. I would like you to take over.” The young man assured him that he would do so. After the apprentice had gotten up and had washed and clothed himself the next morning, he looked for his master. There in his bed lay the storyteller – dead. “What shall I do?” the young man asked himself in utter terror, and looked out of the window. His terror was even greater when he saw a vast crowd of people approaching the house. He went outside. “What do you want?” he asked the first ones who came toward him. “Your master has saved our land – or you and your master. We will live in peace, and we wish to tell him our words of gratitude. We also would like to ask your master to tell us one of his tales.” The young man shook his head: “The storyteller is dead. He asked me, though, to speak to you, and tell a tale on his behalf.” “But do you also know what the master wanted to say to us?” asked the people. The young man nodded. “Every single word.”

Reality

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“Where are the stories when I close my book?” George asks his father. “In the book.” “But Andrew is reading the same book. And in his story the baron is living in an old fortress and in mine in a beautiful castle. But as it is the same book, you know…” “Well, then your inner images are different…” “And these inner images are created in my head?” “Yes.” “And the stories consist of the images in my head?” “Yes” “But then, why do you claim that the stories are in the closed book?”

Spinning

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Do you know the Grimm’s tale of Rumpelstilzkin? Here’s an article that Kathy published today in her food blog… And maybe you will find another thing… or person… in it that seems familiar to you… have fun reading it!

And… thanks, Kathy!