Pantomime

Posted on September 30, 2015 by Stefan Hammel

After a while of pausing I would like to continue with some stories…
However, I would like to change the format a little bit and take turns between different languages. So, in addition to therapeutic stories in English there will be some in French and Spanish, as well. But, first of all, let’s continue in English . Here’s one which I have personwitnessed in our local hospital.

“Good morning. My name is … ” he began his speech. “She can’t speak,” explained the nurse. “Stroke… ” The helpless gestures of the young lady patient let him know that she did not understand his words, except for a few, for which he managed to coax from her a nod or a shake of the head. How can you still communicate with such a person? With gestures he painted in the air a steep staircase for her with high steps. But alas he sighed “Too steep!” He shook his head in disappointment. Then he drew with his hands a staircase with long low steps. With his fingers, he went along the whole staircase.
The woman looked attentively and nodded. With his hands he painted a high mountain in the air. A man of two fingers wanted to climb it. But he fell again. Then he found a path with a gradual slope, a zigzag, with many turns. He went this way. The woman’s eyes began to shine. And so the pantomime took its course. “Keep your eye on the goal” and “passion” followed as the next images. The movements of a marathon runner and an upwardly clenched fist; they inspired to perseverance and a fighting spirit.
The turning hands of a clock showed that it would take time. He continued the charade with his hands together on the side of his inclined head. “Sleep” and “wake”, “sleep” and “wake”, and many many times they would have to “sleep ” and “wake” until they would be at the peak, which he kept looking upwards at with his eyes and pointing to with his outstretched forefinger. With hands and feet, with his whole body, he portrayed the picture of how her children would hook into her left elbow, and her parents the right and how they would all go together with her, all the way.
Once again he stretched out his fist to the sky. She would have to fight for all she was worth. Three days later, he again visited the woman. “You know,” said the lady in the bed next to her, “she has been here for four weeks and nothing really happened but in the last three days she has made amazing progress”. He spoke with the patient again and this time she understood every sentence. Then he took his leave. “Goodbye” she said. It was her first recovered word.

Stomach and Brain

Posted on July 7, 2015 by Stefan Hammel

Another contribution by Katharina Lamprecht who will be at the Festival…

“Mom,” my daughter got off the school bus, thinking hard, “ today in Biology we learned something about the brain in that is in our stomach. Now I´m thinking, what if we did not learn to think with our brain in school but with our stomach instead?”

“ A comforting, revolutionary thought”, I answered.

On the excorcism of depression…

Posted on February 19, 2015 by Stefan Hammel

A Rwandan was talking to a western writer, Andrew Solomon, about his experience with western mental health and depression. He said:

“We had a lot of trouble with western mental health workers who came here immediately after the genocide and we had to ask some of them to leave.

They came and their practice did not involve being outside in the sun where you begin to feel better. There was no music or drumming to get your blood flowing again. There was no sense that everyone had taken the day off so that the entire community could come together to try to lift you up and bring you back to joy. There was no acknowledgement of the depression as something invasive and external that could actually be cast out again.

Instead they would take people one at a time into these dingy little rooms and have them sit around for an hour or so and talk about bad things that had happened to them. We had to ask them to leave.”

From The Moth podcast, ‘Notes on an Exorcism’.

Fred

Posted on January 28, 2015 by Stefan Hammel

« Ceci est une poubelle », a déclaré Louise alors qu’elle me remettait le monstre en carton-pâte avec le museau grand ouvert. À partir de ce moment-là Fred, le monstre de la poubelle, s’est trouvé assis dans la salle de délibération en attendant de la nourriture. Au début Fred se contentait des déchets du bureau. Pourtant alimenté par des déchets mentaux de beaucoup de conversations il prenait goût à toutes ces choses dont les clients n’avaient plus besoin et qu’ils voulaient laisser dans la salle de délibération. J’ai pris l’habitude de présenter Fred aux clients. Avec le temps Fred bouffait les mots maladroits du thérapeute et les pensées lourdes des clients. Il bouffait des souvenirs accablants et des habitudes mal aimées. Une cliente envoyait ses pensées dépressives même de la maison à Fred. À la fin Fred mangeait aussi ce qui me pesait lourd. Et la nuit il pouvait … consommer tous les rêves disgracieux.

The White Ceiling

Posted on November 17, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

He looked at the white ceiling. He had been lying here for weeks. He didn’t know for how long. His breathing was laboured. At first this rattling sound had irritated him every time he breathed out. Now he hardly noticed it. Sometimes he tried to cough, but his strength failed him. He tried to lift his arms. He could hardly manage. Everything was tired and limp. Only his stomach cramped, endlessly. This pain made him miserable.

The remedy which he was given helped a little, but not enough. Part of the torture remained. A much too large part. He wished to be finally free. Above all from the pain. He looked up at the white ceiling. How long would he still lie here? He imagined how this ceiling opened and the ceiling above that, and the one above that again. He looked into the blue sky. He saw the clouds floating. He imagined how it would be to fly up there and observe the whole world from above. To see his own life from above. He imagined himself flying through space.

At some point he saw a large, open hand. Something lay in the hand. He went closer to the hand in order to see more closely. In the hand lay a man; in the hand lay he himself. He saw himself, how he was lying there, so protected and quiet. He was amazed. He looked around him. There he saw another hand. Like the first, it was open, and its inside formed a gentle hollow.

He saw how the first hand with the man, who was him, moved closer to the other. And he knew it was all right. Now the two hands lay next to each other. Gently and carefully the first hand tilted and let him slide into the other. Then he woke up. He looked around him and saw, that the white ceiling was no longer above him.

His Last Day

Posted on November 10, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

“That’s that”, said my neighbour when I visited him on his birthday. “Next year we won’t see each other any more”. I was shocked. I didn’t know how to answer. “Don’t worry”, his wife explained to me. “He says that every year. For twenty years now he has been saying to me again and again: “Today is my last day.”

The Victory

Posted on November 3, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

The goal of each life is – in some sense – death. When one among us reaches this point, the others often say he has lost his life. When a person died among the first Christians, they used to say: He has won his life! He has succeeded! And they wove this man a victory wreath so as to celebrate with him! A victory wreath, just as the ones the victors from tournaments had received in those days! The custom of sending a man to his grave with a wreath has remained. The message of this wreath is forgotten. It goes thus: You are a winner!

Putin’s Tears

Posted on September 9, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

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When I saw Putin’s tears I felt reminded of a time 30 years ago, and of this song. Some of you will remember in which situation this song was sung. 30 years later.

Watch this video on YouTube

In Europe and America, there’s a growing feeling of hysteria
Conditioned to respond to all the threats
In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets
Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
It would be such an ignorant thing to do
If the Russians love their children too

How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer’s deadly toy
There is no monopoly in common sense
On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

There is no historical precedent
To put the words in the mouth of the President
There’s no such thing as a winnable war
It’s a lie we don’t believe anymore
Mr. Reagan says we will protect you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
What might save us, me, and you
Is if the Russians love their children too

Sting, “Russians”

Everything Else

Posted on August 25, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

In a land in our time there lived a man, who read a book and found lots of wonderful stories therein. There were true and invented stories, experienced and pensive, enjoyable and painful stories. There were stories which contained stories, and such which were actually not stories. For every story he read, there occurred to him nearly five which he had either experienced or thought up himself. So the thought came to him, that a lot in the world was a story which could be healing for himself and others; he only needed to absorb the healing stories well and to forget the terrible ones immediately. Then he would learn which story he had used when and for what. So he organised his own stories which he knew, and which had become a help to himself and others, or could become so. Sometimes he noted it down when a new story came to his ears and sometimes when a helpful story occurred to him, he memorised it.

Then he saw before him in a picture the storystories of this life arranged in long shelves, as in a large pharmacy. And behind the counter there sat a man who had learnt to listen to himself and others. He was a master of his subjectspecialty. His talent was that he understood how to tell the right thing at the right time to himself and to those who visited him.

Anton

Posted on August 18, 2014 by Stefan Hammel

When Anton was twenty, he travelled around the world. He liked to visit France the most. He left wife and children at home. In his homeland, he mostly spent his time in pubs. Beer and cigarettes were more important to him than both his daughters.

When Anton was twenty-two, he got divorced. He did not honour his alimony payments. He drank his money away.

When Anton was twenty-six, he saw his daughters for the last time. His ex-wife forbade him any further contact.

When Anton was fifty-five, he had a friend who managed his money and kept most of it for himself. Outside of his working hours, he was drunk. As long as there was enough money for alcohol and cigarettes, he was content, he said.

When Anton was sixty-one, he stopped drinking. That was the time he got to know Frieda. Anton adored Frieda. Frieda had spent her whole life in a small house in the country and had never been interested in alcohol.

When Anton was sixty-two, he moved in to Frieda’s small house in the country.

When Anton was seventy, he had already shown Frieda Paris and London, Brussels, Berlin and Budapest. He had driven her to her relatives in Dessau and walked all around the neighbourhood with her.

When Anton was seventy-one, Frieda became ill. He drove with her to many doctors and hospitals in the area. Anton said: “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. As long as I live, you will not end up in a nursing home.” He drove her to the welfare centre, to the medical insurance office and to all public authorities.

When Anton was seventy-two, he married Frieda. He ran the house for her, vacuumed, did the shopping and cooked the meals. When Anton was seventy-five, Frieda died. He lived another one-and-a-half years. During this time he drank one glass of champagne a day. “For my circulation”, he said, “because the doctor recommended it to me”.

HYPS

Blog by Stefan Hammel