La brizna de pasto en el desierto

Un hombre estaba atravesando el desierto. Al rededor de él no había nada más que arena, piedras y rocas, el cielo azul reluciente y el sol ardiente. En la mitad de su camino se le ocurrió descansar y buscó un lugar adecuado. Un poco lejos del camino encontró un peñón que le podía ofrecer sombra durante su descanso. El hombre se acercó. Al llegar vió algo raro: En la sombra de le roca crecía una brizna de pasto, de hecho.
“¡Qué sorpresa! ¿De dónde vienes tú?”, le preguntó el hombre. Después se rió de si mismo:
“Estoy tan solo que empiezo hablar con la hierba. Será mejor examinar de donde viene ella.”
Excavó la plantita de la arena y la puso al lado cuidadosamente. Después empezó a cavar más y más profundamente. Aunque no tropezara con un manantial brotante, en ese lugar el suelo estaba verdaderamente mojado. Cuando el hombre de nuevo se puso en camino no olvidó de reponer la brizna en la tierra mojada. Con unas piedras construyó un pequeño muro para proteger la planta contra la desecación por el viento caliente del desierto. Después siguió caminando.
Al regresar pasó por el mismo lugar. Por supuesto miró si su pequeña planta estaba viva. Se alegró mucho: La brizna se había vuelto en un verdadero pequeño manojo de hierba. El hombre cavó un poco más profundamente y llegó a una parte aun más mojada de la tierra. Con un pañuelo, dos palos y unas piezas de cuerda, que había traído para el regreso, mejoró la protección de su planta contra el viento.
Muchos años después un amigo del hombre tuvo que atravesar el mismo desierto. Entonces le pidió a su amigo: “Pues mira qué fue de mi planta – si todavía existe.” El amigo se lo promitió. Cuando éste volvió del viaje le contó: “Tu manojo de hierba se ha vuelto en una pequeña pieza de prado. Otros viajeros han encontrado el lugar. Han subido el muro y puesto más palos con pañuelos. Alguién ha cavado un pozo y lo ha cubierto con una pieza de cuero. Al lado del pozo crece una hermosa higuera . En sus hojas canta un grillo.”

Le myome

J’ai dit à l’amie « quand tu te réveilleras cette après-midi » l’opération sera passée et le myome sera parti. Tu t’es demandé s’il y a eu un élément déclencheur pour son origine. En fait peu importe ce qu’il y avait à l’origine. Ce que tu peux faire c’est la chose suivante : Rappelle-toi des expériences accablantes et peut-être traumatisantes et d’autres choses que tu veux lâcher et dont tu veux te débarrasser. En pensée, mets tout ce dont tu n’as plus besoin dans le myome. Et quand tu te réveilleras cette après-midi tu les auras toutes envoyées sur le chemin. » L’amie a déclaré plus tard qu’elle avait réalisé la proposition et avait transféré dans le myome ses réactions aux différentes expériences accablantes de son passé. Elle a vécu cette approche comme libératrice. Après l’opération elle s’est vite remise et s’est sentie plus forte et plus active que dans les mois précédents.

Pour cette intervention thérapeutique il y a beaucoup de variations dependant sur la situation unique d’une traitement : On peut mettre le trauma en cas de gastro ou de boulimie dans le contenu de l’estomac, en cas de chimio dans les cheveux, le libérer pendant le passage aux toilettes …

Pantomime

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

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…

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

« 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

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

“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

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


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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.

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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”