All thoughts
recycled in an endless stream
tell me the same old stories
I know for such a long time

I look at at all these friends
and when I ask them to go back
to their original origin
they go and go and go

And when they go
the light breaks through
and I can see the precious gift
inside, no longer covered …

Wonderwalk one year

Little paradise 

I breathe the thoughts
that surface from my soul
and with surprise and still
I see what comes on screen

Out of the depths they come
on their soft feet, so light,
move cautiously the searching hands,
whisper words in hearing ears

I pass in gratitude
what no one ever owned,
what rustles there in every soul
when it is touched one day

The stream inside seems endless now
has no beginning, is still the same,
keeps whispering
until it stops …
perhaps …



Walking through the dripping forest, abandonned by people, I walked my way. Raindrops on my hair, silent noice of rain falling upon the leaves, putting one foot in front of the other and some old friends payed me a visit.

The forestpath was filled with thoughts, old familiar thoughts, from long ago, my old familiar friends.

 “I am not good enough”, kissed me tenderly and disappeared into the rain.
“It is not there for me”, came  to me, with hesitation, looked at me, a little shy and dissolved in the wind.
“Nobody loves me”, looked at me, so penetrative, lovingly; she was with me for so many years. It was hard for her to go. Slowly she turned around, looked upon me for the last time and merged with the air.

I stood and saw them go, tears in my eyes. They were so familiar to me; they had given me so much. It was time for them to go. Silence came upon me. I put down my backpack and sat on the moss. One by one they passed, the people who helped me say goodbye to these old friends. Deep gratitude came over me for them, who helped me and still do.

At home, dry clothes, tea, woodstove on, I still feel the gentleness of the rain, the forestpath and the forest. The forest that is my home, that cherishes me, gives me my answers. The forest that is there, unmovable. The forest that I am.