famous trombone player was asked about the secret of his art. He answered: “You not only hear the breath that you use, but also the one you retain.”
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Category Archives: Health
Age
“Now I am forty years old. I am an aged man”, he said and nodded his head. He was a man from Kenya, from the area around Mombasa. “But, I beg your pardon, you’re not old!” I replied to him. “Yes, I am old, and don’t you dare claim anything else”, he said. “In Kenya it is good to be old. The older, the better.”
Civil War and Civil Peace
Once there was a civil war in Pampelonia. This is what happened: one evening, the guards on the tower of the royal castle heard gunshots from far away. Somewhere on the western horizon they saw a column of smoke ascending. “A revolution!” they shouted. “Our country is in danger!” A unit of the royal army took their weapons, saddled their horses, and rode away. They followed the direction of the smoke column. Their path went through a deep dark forest. It was already dark when they arrived in the area from where the gunshots had been fired. At some distance, on a forest glade, they saw a fire burning. What had at first appeared to be a burning house turned out to be a very large bonfire. Around the fire, a large crowd of armed citizens had gathered. “Rebels!” the commander whispered. Silently, they surrounded the clearing. Then they stepped forward. “Surrender!” the commander shouted. “We are superior in number!” The men on the clearing were startled. “Robbers!” one of them exclaimed. “Poachers!” shouted another. They jumped up and opened fire. Too late did they recognize the uniforms of the royal army. Slowly the soldiers realized that they had encountered a gathering of hunters, who had come together for a good roast and a drop of wine after a hunt. But they already found themselves engaged in combat, and very soon the inhabitants of a nearby village came with scythes and pitchforks to defend the hunters against the alleged robbers. What should the commander do? “Cease fire!” he shouted. He had the trumpeter sound the retreat, and his soldiers drew back. He decided upon a phased withdrawal of his troops, pulling out half of his soldiers and letting the other half secure the field. He waited until his opponents had understood that they wanted to withdraw and ceased their fire as well. Again he ordered half of the remaining soldiers to retreat while the other half secured the territory. He waited again until the sound of gunshots died down, and repeated the procedure a few more times until he was the only one left. Last of all, he left the battlefield. Back at the royal castle he gave a report to the king about the incident. The king, who was a good monarch, ordered them to go there again, but by daytime and unarmed. He himself accompanied the unit. They arrived at the place of the nightly encounter. The king had the villagers and the hunters of the area gather before him and explained how friends had erroneously mistaken each other for enemies. He pointed out that he saw their very good intention, although initially in misjudgement of the actual situation. A misunderstanding like this was there for being clarified. Whoever wanted to support the common good could contribute to reconciliation here and now. Now the king praised the villagers for having defended the hunters against their assaulters. He praised the hunters for having defended the forest against robbers and poachers. He praised the army for having defended his country against rebels. Most of all he praised the commander of his army for having defended the villagers, the hunters and the army by his cautious withdrawal. After the king’s speech, the hunters, villagers and soldiers asked each other for forgiveness. They pledged to support each other anytime, and to stand for justice and peace in the kingdom as long as they lived. They confirmed this pledge by putting out the fire together.
Unjust
A man from Africa was watching a European farmer working in his field.”When do you plant cabbage?” he asked. “I see. And when do you harvest it?” The man from Africa was disappointed. “They really should grow quicker at home than in Europe”, he said. “After all, we have more sun.”
Ludwig
I was still a child. But even if I had been older, I would not have been able to say how the carp might have explained his peculiar journey. Some friends of mine had played a trick on him. They secretly fished him out of his pond by night with a net. They carried him in a bucket for kilometers through forest and field. The swimming pool in my parents’ garden was supposed to be his new home. I must admit: we were pretty astonished when we saw him swimming his rounds in the pool water.
It was in September. The water was no longer chlorinated. There was no longer much competition between fish and man, and so Ludwig, as we named him, was allowed to stay for the time being. Winter came, and with it a thick layer of ice. But with the coming of spring it was time to change the water. Ludwig had survived the winter well. The family council decided to bring him home. Once again, Ludwig was loaded into a bucket. An empty paint bucket was the biggest suitable container we found. We brought him through the forest and fields back to his friends and family. Ludwig turned his circles in the bucket. Pretty small circles, because Ludwig had grown over the winter, and an old paint bucket is no mansion for such a carp. Aside from that, he sloshed out more than half the water along the way. But finally we were there. A swing of the bucket and Ludwig landed again in his pond with his old acquaintances. What he did then surprised us: Ludwig swam his rounds there, indeed so, as if he found himself not in his pond, but in a small bucket. He swam six or seven circles, with a circumference of not even half a metre. Then the circles became a spiral, first narrow, then wider and wider. Finally Ludwig realised where he was. In one long, straight line, he shot out of his bucket carousel.
The Little Garden
Mr. Wright lives in Hopville at the river Gies. This is situated near Evenbrook at the Reed, close to the village of Lowfield. Every day, Mr. Wright works in his little garden. He hoes the ground and weeds out the dandelions. He plucks the dry leaves off the sunflowers and waters all the plants in his garden. Two neighbours pass by. They whisper: “Oh, look at him! Does this man have nothing better to do than to water his flowers all day?” The hobby gardener hears their words and says to himself: “I don’t deserve to be considered lazy. I have plenty of work!” The next morning, Mr. Wright gets up quite early. He throws himself into his work and puts in some overtime. He is very industrious. His boss is proud of him. The beautiful plants in his garden dry up however, and after a few weeks, his garden is full of weeds. One evening, he hears his neighbours passing by: “Oh, look at him! How this man lets his garden go to waste! It is an embarrassment for the whole village!”
The next morning Mr. Wright gets up even earlier than before. He takes his job very seriously, working hard without a break, all day. Coming home from work late at night he works in his little garden. While doing so, he hears his neighbours say as they pass by: “Oh, look at him! Hasn’t this man got four children? He spends no time with them nor does he support his poor wife in her daily work. He should be ashamed of himself.”
From then on Mr. Wright gets up even earlier. The break of dawn sees him working in his little garden, just before he goes to his company, where he works like a madman. In the afternoon, he helps his wife, and then he supports his children in any way he can think of. Dead tired he falls into bed. This continues for a while until one morning he does not get up any more. The doctor fills in the death certificate. “Myocardial infarction” he notes. Two days later the funeral takes place. His faithful neighbours also accompany him on his last journey. “Oh, look at him! He could have taken it a bit more easy and lived a calm and pleasant life. Why did he work so hard?”
The Ginnel
I knew a man who told me this story. Someone came to him when he, like you, no longer knew what to do. “There’s nothing more I can do”, he said. “I’m stuck in a dead end”. Then something occurred to him – he who told me this – and he explained:
“This reminds me of the small passages from one street to the next, called ‘ginnels’. You can only get through them on foot. They are not much wider than a man. In the area I live, I know a dead end like you describe. When you go in, it goes no further, as is the case with dead ends. But with this dead end it is different, and I believe there are more like it: When you go right to the end, you find the ginnel somewhere on the side, quite inconspicuous between the houses.”
The Sea Dog and the Land Dog
One day the old sea dog received a visit from the land dog. They both had known each other since puppy school. Then the sea dog had left and travelled the world far and wide, and had survived many adventures and finally returned home, rich in treasures and experiences. The land dog had remained in his native cave. He had found a land dog wife, and had land dog children. In the meantime, he had grandpuppies and great grandpuppies, and they had all become genuine good land dogs.
“Sometimes I wish I could live all over again”, said the land dog to the sea dog. “I feel exactly the same way”, the other answered. “I would do a lot of things differently”, said the land dog. “Yes, me too”, answered the sea dog. “I would go to sea”, dreamed the land dog. “I would get married”, sighed the sea dog. “I would have adventures”, explained the land dog. “I would have some pups”, stated the sea dog. “I would be a rich dog. I would experience terrible and wonderful things I could tell stories about”, enthused the land dog. “I would have grand-puppies and great grand-puppies who would love and take care of me when I became old and sick”, declared the sea dog. “And I would now sit with you in this sea dog lair”, continued the land dog, “… and I with you …”, it occurred to the sea dog. The land dog nodded: “And then you would say to me now: ‘Sometimes I wish I could live all over again”, and I would answer: “Yes, I feel exactly the same way.”
Imaginative Remedies
He was an experienced physician. “At times it happens”, he reported, “that I cannot give a medication to a patient because it is too expensive or too hard to obtain. How, may I ask, can I provide a remedy made out of lion’s milk? In some of these cases I tell the patients to write the name of the remedy on a sheet of paper, and to have a close look at it. The startling thing is: for those who follow this advice, the effect of the paper is about the same as the effect of the remedy, had it been taken.” A woman who heard this story laughed about it. She had been working for years as a nurse in the intensive care ward of a hospital, and had helped to save more than one patient’s life by giving himthem the right medication at the right time. What would have happened if she had handed himthem a sheet of paper instead, showing the name of histheir medication? Some days after this conversation, she woke up with a severe headache. She knew it was nothing serious, only this well-known pain, which a doctor had once described as being there simply for the sake of being. She knew that she did not have any pills at home. She imagined putting a glass of water next to her bed. She envisioned how she would throw a pill in the water, and how it would dissolve. She pictured herself drinking the water in little sips how the water would be absorbed by her body, and how the medication would become effective.
She fell asleep for a few minutes then woke up again and went to work. Everything was as usual. When she looked back on her day late at night, she noticed that her headache had vanished in the minutes after she had taken the imagined remedy, and that she had completely forgotten about it for the rest of the day.
The Landfill Harmonic Orchestra
Sometimes clients who come to therapy describe themselves or each other as broken, as rubbish, as worthless… and sometimes they may not use such words but treat themselves and others like rubbish. Some injure themselves, some try to suicide. And possibly all of this is happening because they didn’t learn to discover that they are valuable themselves. I believe that everything in life can become valuable and can be seen as a value. Anything, even the most unuseful things in life can be utilized for making life precious. I don’t mean that this were an easy task. The contrary is true: “To turn shit into roses” (Virginia Satir) is what the Germans call “Lebenskunst”, meaning, the high art of living a fulfilled life.
This short documentary is telling a story on this art, a story on how to turn rubbish into music and rubbish lives intoproud, happy beautiful lives!
Have a wonderful day, all of you!
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