KLAGESANG

De lukker sig om livløse rum.

Hvor alt glæden er blevet tabt på gulvet i midten af forsamlingen. Ind i tomheden. Og der ventes utålmodigt, frustreret og lidt bebrejdende på at nogle tør at samle dem selv op.

En der tør at træde ind i stilheden... det explosive rum hvor alt begynder påny. Og friske øjne ser. Det er en jammersang, der har gravet sig dybt i menneskets folder, et sørgelsesspil, der stille venter sin forløsning. Et brag, en explosion, noget nyt, uventet.

Find på en leg siger han eller hun eller det... I virkeligheden venter vi på os selv her. Ingen anden.

Kun vores egen indre kraft. Skabelsen der lever os og som blot er et øjekast fremfor udad, indad.

Vi lever indefra. Hvis vi vel at mærke vælger. Og sommetider i dyb forvirring, frustration, og sorg over øjeblikket i hvilket vi ikke møder og træder frit, ufortrødent, ærligt ind i os selv.

Selv sorgen over det tabte møde med os, er porten til det største af alle riger.

Alle verdens rigdomme samlet dette ene hellige sted. Det ene uforanderlige øjeblik.

Hengivelsen til os, er hengivelsen til nu. Hengivelsen til det dybt forankrede, dybt forvirrede, dybt foranderlige, dybt sorgfulde, dybt sårbare, dybt begejstrede, dybt alt...

Selv håb kan ikke stå fast her, har ingen ben at gå på. Og hverken før eller efter findes rigtigt... alligevel drives vi af noget større end og samtidig selve livet, os selv.

Gnisten tænder i midten. I det indre rum. Og vi kan kun mærke det herfra. Kan ikke nå herhen fra grænselandet der omslutter tomheden.

Og det der føltes tomt engang, er selve rummet hvor essensen bliver synlig imens vi lever den.

Alt andet er en ubetydelig streg tegnet rundt om os.

En fest rundt om denne form for tomhed er ikke en fest, medmindre den hylder døden af jammerspillet hvor alle venter.

MOURNING SONG

They close themselves around lifeless rooms. Where all joy has been dropped to the floor in the midst of a party.

There´s an impatient frustration, a sort of slightly blameful awaitening for someone to daringly pick themselves up.

Someone brave enough to enter the silence...

the explosive space, where everything begins anew. And fresh eyes see.

It's a mourning song, that has burried itself deeply into the ridges of humankind. A tragedy that quietly awaits it's absolution. A bang, an explosion, something new,

Something surprising, ...Something utterly unknown.

Silence.

Propose a game he says, or she says, or it says.

In reality we are waiting for ourselves here. Not anyone other than.

Only our own integrity, our love, our own inner power, space.

The creation that lives us, and only ever is found a blink of an eye inwards, rather than outwards. We live from within, if we so choose to.

Sometimes in deep dispair, frustration and sorrow for the moments in which we were unable to meet, and step freely into ourselves.

Even the sorrow for those moments in which we didn't meet ourselves, is a portal to the biggest of all kingdoms.

All the worlds riches united at this one (w)holy place. The one unchanging moment.

The surrender to ourselves, is the surrender to Now. Surrender into the deeply anchored, deeply confused, deeply changeable, deeply sorrowful, deeply vulnerable, deeply exited, and awe-inpired,

deeply everything...

Not even hope has feet to walk here. And neither, before nor after are really real...

We are driven by something bigger than us, the same as us, by life itself.

The spark ignites within. The inner space. We can only feel it from here. It's unreachable while residing in the borderland around the emptiness.

What felt empty once, is the space in which our essence unfolds as we live it. Everything else is a shallow line drawn around our being. A belt around the waist suffocating the life within.

A celebration around this hollow, is not a party at all, unless it celebrates the death of the tragedy, in which everyone waits.

THE DREAM

No dream is to big too be dreamed into existence.

Too big to be lived. In fact maybe the dream is rather than an illusive future, the tiny first seed of our presence... of existence planted firmly in the ground.

Made visible and alive slowly.

Similarly to the first longing for someone we recognise as ourselves, as the moving waves of our hearts. And which only we recognise with the ripening of our hearts.

We are here prior. Witness to the big spectacle of life and all worlds colliding.

Perhaps if we've stopped dreaming - rather than a sign of great sensibility, and rationale - it's a sign of having lost faith in our fellow humans, in the companionship with nature, and union with life.

It's a great blessing to be reminded and live our dreams through the dream of another. If we let it touch us right, we will know that we are ripening the seeds of our own dreams.

Living into existence the trust in support, companionship and value of our own contribution in life.

And that no dream is too big to be lived. In fact it is just right.

DANCE OF THE SOULS

There's a much wider place we go, when we begin to listen. Deeply, gently listen into the stream of our own sensations. The vast field of our body, as it unfolds, and un-toils itself. When force, the need to release, wish to control, or to keep it together subsides into the same stream of sensation. Into our listening.

When a faint voice in us begins to speak and be heard. This is where the dance of the souls start.

The dance that moves the universe. For a while we come along for the ride of our pain primarily, to serve its need to be expressed, and be there for it, nurture it, live it, sometimes coil up around it, and sometimes move to the edges and beyond consciousness. Into God and the goodness of it all. If ever there were anything like edges to be found, maybe we could than find ourselves as solid.

Maybe for too long we didn't feel. Maybe because we were ripped in two as children, maybe because we have come to know ourselves as pain better, than ourselves as all the other things that we are too. Maybe as a means to scream you fucking violated me, not knowing how to protect and honor ourselves otherwise. But the question is not again, or when. We only have this moment.

So we ride the waves to ride us closer to ourselves. And with every heartbeat we win ourselves back a little more. In this instance we are.

Free.

All states are states of being. States of ourselves. Phases our nervoussystem travels through, which subsequently we travel as. And reside in for a while. Who are we to judge ourselves for it? Or the pains and joys deriving here? There's no doubt that we are all of it, so much yet to be born.

Like a garden, we move in spirals through the span of a lifetime. Growing wider, and bigger and more beautiful come spring, or a new dawn. We don't need to follow the seasons, as long as we follow our own. And we will live grey and dormant times, deep-dives, and the recoiling into our pains and memories. Until again we expand to harvest the ripe fruits of our becoming. Who are we to judge...

There's no shame in recoiling, recalibrating, in changing. But possibility, potential, grace, they all remain...

TRAINS IN THE DISTANCE

We are here to encompass so, so much. So much light, so much darkness. We stretch oceans in this endeavor. The pebbles on our ways reflect it, and the sunlight too, to blind us.

Sometimes with beauty.

...sometimes just blind.

We have mountains to climb.

Wander in worlds unknown to man, prior to their becoming. Prior to our becoming. Only alive by all things journey. And our own.

Indeed we are grand beings, holding all that is, within the depth of our souls. However unbeareable, we bear witness to the grandure of our capacities. The holding of it all. Holding on to nothing.

As soon as it is, it passes.

Cannot be retrieved anywhere other than perhaps in slight memory and an echo.

Silenced.

Always moving foreward. Even during the visits and visions of memory, of story.

So much to tell in the whispers of the night.

Nothing can be contained. Or ever held on to.

So it goes. Travels through.

Like trains crossing the wide stretches of a land and nature.

Monumental, powerful nature, a peace of unfiltered potential that’s beyond awe-inspiring.

Where horizons melt in the distance, and wash both heaven and earth into unison.

Reminding us of the grandure of our being and life.

Washing over us with the clearity, that's given only by the recognition of peace recognising itself.

Claiming itself and its children eventually.

Until only the echos of trains in the distance remain.

And the silence of our grand selves.

THE WORDLESS REALMS

Where do we enter when we fall silent?

Which is it, that speaks the language of the wordless realms? Where all stories end, and only space emerges.

Where we emerge, as the same wide open space we sense, and hear, and feel...

And the knowing, THIS is where I belong.

Is anything calling for you here?

A heavy heart?

An ancient story, that's been told too many times?

Accustomed to the costume.

Something to taint this world and life a tad greyer than it is.

The realm of peace.

Put a veil on, and a lid and a smile perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps contract a little.

To not show how beautyful we are.

What power, and that stunning light.

Because God forbid they shine.

It was never God that did forbid though.

Anything!

But the fear to not fit, did.

Understandably, because really, we never did, fit.

No-one ever did.

Not into the concepts, the ideas, the costumes, or names, the big disguise.

Even our bodies, however grand they are, and oh my God they are… grand!

Even they are tiny in comparison.

Nothing can contain us.

What are we here?

If not container to the incredible unfolding of us?

The ever expanding movement that initiated aeons ago pulsing through us. That we get to glimpse at throughout the span of our short lifetimes.

We always grow bigger!

Our beautyful bodies at the gateway of our being, center to express and sense it all.

We stretch ourselves to bridge the biggest of paradoxes, and all kinds of contradictory sensations.

All directions at once, sometimes.

Sometimes just one, sooo strikingly clear.

No, we are rarely afraid of being small.

It's the recognition of the grand shoes we are wearing, that renders us wary at times.

Because of them, we know how big we are in essence.

This is where we are more likely to faint and freeze, make ourselves a little smaller. Contract, and block, and hold back a little.

Taking on a costume that was forever too tight.

And life only knows, it will strip us of this one too.

THE DANCE

When the world dissappears, and the only thing left is the raw throbbing of rythm, and a dance so powerful and passionate as when oceans collide.

Heartbeats, and a surge of energy lets floors and body tremble. They reach eternity here. The beginning of all things.

She brings it all to her dance.

Always.

The shiver, the hurt, love, all the love. Nothing less. Nothing more.

They know it, she knows it.

When we bring ourselves, we bring everything.

The awkward, the deepest yearnings, lost and newfound dreams, home, and the recognition and longing for home. Excitement, beyond excitement, and sorrow beyond sorrow. The close and the so very far away.

Memory and the dance of untold stories.

Touch. One touch, to change everything. To change the room, the atmosphere, direction, and a meeting forever. A touch from one soul to another.

It's her Yes.

Her eyes are of all things. Love and sadness. Far beyond the space they see, yet so very clear and present in this intimate space of the dance. Wherever space takes her, and heart, and rythm.

There's no space to fight our inner space. What fills our souls is the direction we must wander.

Is the dance me must dance.

UNTAMED OCEANS

Surrendering into the moist darkness of this season. Into the stark contrasts formed by dimmed light and a shallow sun setting in the horizon.

I breathe in miniature raindrops that have sprinkled the air by millions. And I enjoy their company, as I do the company of those that have ventured into the autumny wet grounds too, from afar.

The wet, and grey accompanies our journey inwards, riding the last rays of fierce fire, suspended halfway, mid air somewhere, held motionless in space and time.

My in-breath moves me up, and up, and out, resting there for a while... Until another drop lands to melt me into the depth and bittersweet darkness of myself, into the ground.

My breath releases slowly, long and heavy. Sad, but content. And there's relief as I stand here, thoroughly planted like the old oaks rising to my right. Yet flexible to move through the landscapes of my inner world.

In this moment they are a mirror image of my surroundings. Gently winding hills, deep forests, old growth, wide meadows and views of an unending sea. It's like a dance on the ocean. Spectacular and beautiful.

Some parts of me too well tamed. They yearn for the wild, unbroken nature of themselves. A little less spoiled by societal interference, but mainly my own beliefs and disbeliefs.

Some parts more free.

And there's the all so familiar whisper of autumn. The companionship, to envelope life in silence.

FORLADTE RUM

Med skammen i livet og i stilhed.

Nogle af de indre rum ligger i tusmørkets spæde lys og mørkets endnu ukendte drømmeverden.

Lidt forladte,

afventende,

med kølighed, og en fugtig, lidt vammel lugt der breder sig når lys og varme er slukkede.

Ventende på at vi træder ind, med et stearinlys eller en fakkel i hånden. Med kæmpe laser beams og stadion belysning der udraderer selv skyggerne i den sidste lille sprække.

Men mere endnu end skarpe lys, med vores guddommelige moders kærlige blik. Og en hånd der siger "kom, læg din hånd i min... når vi er her sammen jeg med mig og du med dig, er vi sikre.

De rum er nemmere, eller hellere glemt. Imens de råber - men i virkeligheden kalder - allerhøjest på os.

Kalder på vores indre, og tålemodet med og til os selv.

Hvis man kender mit hjem og mig her, skulle man tro man var trådt ind i en anden verden.

Et spøgelseshus.

Ligeså stille og beængstende kan der være i et endnu ukendt hjørne, en krog eller et rum jeg ikke vidste fandtes.

Og måske har du dine rum. Spøgelsesrum.

Med vidt udspilede øjne, og åndedrættet snøret sammen i halsen. Skuldrene trukket op til øretippen, skærende tænder og to stærke arme snoet og viklet rundt om dig selv, hvor vi nærmest ikke kan bevæge os i vores eget faste greb.

Rum.

Rum og tyngde er hvad jeg har brug for her.

Rummet og pladsen til spøgelset og tyngden, som et varmt tæppe af sten der krammer fremfor maser, imens det siger "du er lige her".

Der er ikke meget vi behøver.

Kærlighed, og nu, og sommetider at stå omringet af bjerge i en dal.

Hvor tyngden til at mærke os selv falder over os, og lys til ikke at skræmmes af skyggerne. Så vi kan favne os kærligt.

HUSH, HUSH

Hush, hush

Life changes rapidly
Stirring reflection and wonder, and thinking back.
A morning coffee, a fresh breeze, and an ever so frosty, autumny, but soft atmosphere. As if I was lying in a bed of leaves. Gently held and covered.
Hush, hush they wisper. While wind and birds talk slightly louder.

Who am I hearing when I'm hearing you and me
Crosses my mind, as it did a day ago
Am I hearing me or you
Maybe a little bit of both
Or the echo of what we both are made of
Once brother willow tree told me, I see you differently than you see me

I see me as you, and you as me
And I told him with tears in my eyes, and longing,
I feel not ready for your kind of love
Now I know I felt not good enough,
And what I really felt, but didn't know, was that I felt not whole
I had lost a part of me
My brother taught me as part of me and us
That even when we are far away, we are never really lost
My brother taught me, where ever you are, you can always get in touch.
You can always find me here
reside inside you
He said you need not ask permission to greet my kind
They hear you just as you and I hear us

Hush, hush they say
Just listen,
...
listen, listen

FREEDOM OF CHOICE

Some things we learn to do, not to do them. But to be free to choose to do or not do them.

MØDER I RUMMET

Min sofa er blevet de smukke gæsters hvilested. I morges kiggede to søvnige, salige katteøjne på mig. De havde afløst den vidunderlige kvinde med det lange dansende hår og blid stemme, hvis sang er selvsamme lange omfavnelse som hun selv. Nogle møder er af helt særlig karakter. For min smukke, stærke, varme katteven er og byder jeg rummet som hun er og byder rummet for mig i øjeblikket hvor den indre verden rumler og ramler sammen. Rystes lidt imens fundamentet bygges på ny. De særlige møder der tillader os at være hele os. Møderne hvor hvad vi var det ene øjeblik allerede er stoppet med at eksistere.

THE LIFE OF DEATH

Now true to our nature we discover, true to our form we see.

In distance rising visions,

slowly breaking free.

Dawn in springtime living,

falling dead of time.

Perception growing widely.

The dialogues of space and life.

From one form springs another.

Birthing breath and name.

A border, misconceptualized.

It's the life of death

Not the end of life.

Through pieces came your name alive as life.

Uniquely, wildly lived, and loved your form.

The animating force of life.

You came as a fragment to it all.

You passed as sorrow for the loss of you.

You passed as the wisdom for the teaching of you.

You passed as the knowing of connection with you.

You passed as the living death of you.

You passed as the moving grief of you.

You passed as the not letting go of you.

And as the tears for the loss of you.

You are here as the longing and missing of you.

As the memory and spirit being of you.

You passed as the incredible aliveness of you.

You are the incredible aliveness of you.

It's the life of death that pulses through our veins, roars in our hearts and blood.

With clear as starry eyesight we might see the life of you.

The animating life force and intelligence you are

The inspirational creation that you are.

Death isn't the end of life

It's the transition of fragments arriving back home.

Being birthed into other forms.

The movement of being and wholeness of all.

I LYSMÅNENS SKÆR

Stjernestøv drysset over himlen

i hellige nætter og dage.

Vinden, røgen og lyset sender klæbrige tråde,

hænger fast længe efter tidens gang.

Følger med i nye oplevelser og ad nye veje.

Lyden klinger ud i stilheden og fødes påny.

Det hellige skabes ikke blot på dage som disse.

Men vokses muligvis større i dette kontrastfyldte rige,

hvor reflektion har holdt sit indtog.

En gen-passeren af månederne bagud.

I lysmånens skær er det blidhed der holder dem,

men når tabet raser, raser jeg.

Her er selv skoven og lyset ingen trøst.

Til gengæld byder Alt, rummet til at skabe sig åndssvagt, og giver både tilladelse og tilgivelse for ikke at være korrekt.

Til fred igen kan indfinde sig.

Måske skal jeg tænke om visker min fine stemme indeni.

AUTUMN AFTERNOON

Look, look, at all your nooks and crannies

As if a sculpturer once shaped you

You tease me, tease my curiosity

Exquisitely

The way you´ve grown in a sort of unexpected manner

You are unparalleled

Entirely unique, your own

How you can teach us...

Remember, you say, all the ways in which you move from

Move

Navigate but follow, mostly

Swim along these crooked lines of mine

Not a straightforward path to find here

The lines were made up, slipped, turned, ended

Began anew

We curve, snaking along your bones, change direction, adapting, exploring an unknown

world at every turn

To the light that´s peeking through

Lighting up clear minds

Letting children shine through

Senses sharpened, yet wide

Grey skies

Blues and purple

Way beyond that milky white vail

Golden yellow pencil strokes surround me

Until they as well are let go to fall

Covering the ground

As my naked feet are touched by your softness

They dance in and with you.

So is the rest of me.

Touched and moved by you.

Thank you for allowing, thank you for simply letting be.

You demand attention, equally as wonder

For if I do not tend to your bones and bends, your curves,

I may slip

And like this, we play a game in which both hands and feet melt into you

Our boundaries are fading with the dimming lights of this

exquisite autumn afternoon

TOUCHED

Late summer is bringing edge to her wind.

Coldly touching my skin.

Nibbling and biting my cheeks a little.

The horizon feels deeper as the polarities of warmth and cold meet.

In this deep dive I feel inspired and inquisitive...

I stretch myself thin to enter through that sharp line at the edge of this world

Wondering,

what's there?

Bursting into another one here.

Where hands can't touch, mind may as well.

Or soul.

Beauty intrinsically woven into it all.

What can't we touch?

If not our hands are made subject to be touching

or see,

if not our eyes are destined to make visible that which is unseen?

There're qualities in the forms of touch.

Flavours of sorts.

And layers,

Flavours in the qualities of meeting and melting.

I can be wowed by the touch of a man, or my own,

as I can be by the ocean.

In moments

time stands still,

is unending nor beginning.

Never stops.

And never stopped.

In the embrace of sky and earth, I feel myself touched by the arms of existence.

Surrounded,

Tugged in

amidst the playgrounds of multiverses.

I marvel at the sensory experience that's unfolding

wordless and silently,

yet full of sounds and things.

Where noise becomes a somewhat quiet undercurrent

while white steaming rapids at surface level are looked through.

I'm amazed by the place of earth and ocean,

by mother and by creation.

In awe of the vastness experience holds,

in awe of the vastness of the sky and the waters

My own vastness too

Looking into eternity,

And this ever-changing sky.

Through a peak hole of consciousness and ever-changing life.

Side by side they stand,

with themselves and as mirrors floating somewhere in space as space.

Indescriptive, timeless.

I begin seeing our words for this world as almost belittling in the vast none conceptual understanding of this.

As if every conceptual understanding we might try to form, were to push vastness into a tiny container.

Birthing it into a sort of skin that eventually must crack,

like snakes shedding skins and never growing skin back.

While I ponder this place

And the relation to all things they seem to fade into nothing.

Yet they remain and turn into something all the more powerful.

Perhaps of even greater value.

Or perhaps they are just taking their rightful place.

Like wind touching skin.

And skin touching wind.

NØGEN

Jeg vil ligge nøgen med dig til jeg glemmer hvem du er

Til jeg glemmer hvem jeg er

Til ønsker, håb og længsel til fulde finder sit udtryk i hvad er

I bar hud og i nøgenhed

Hvor projektionerne får lov at neje til de nøgne fødder

Og knæle til øjeblikkets fuldkommenhed

Til upyntede sandheder

Råt

Hvor jeg ikke er kvinde og du ikke mand

Og din krop, dit sind og hvad du indeholder ikke alene objekt for min lyst

og omvendt

Men også, hvis vi skal gå her sammen

Vil ikke lænke din frihed eller din skrøbelighed

Heller ej min

Jeg vil lade min krop og hjerte tale ærligt uden at skræmme

Lade mig flyde i oplevelsen af mig selv

Og lade hengivelsen til dig være hengivelsen til mig selv

Jeg vil ligge nøgen med dig

Med mig

Til vi er et

Ligge nøgen imens skamfuldhed trækker tråde igennem underliv og bryst

Hvor historier der har tegnet og tegner vores kroppe og sind kan falde hen og dvale

Jeg vil ligge nøgen til jeg har glemt hvad historien handler om

Til jeg har glemt hvad og hvem jeg har gjort dig til at være eller nogle

Og glemt hvem jeg har gjort mig selv til

Jeg vil ligge nøgen med dig

Til dine drømme ikke afleder overvejelser om vores drømme kan forenes, eller frygt

Men skaber nysgerrighed

Jeg vil ligge nøgen med dig til vi ser vores nøgne potentiale som at skabe nyt

Jeg vil ligge nøgen med dig med en hånd i din hånd eller på dit bryst

Trygt

Uden forbehold, uden krav

Jeg vil ligge nøgen sammen til vores uskyldighed er landet fyldestgørende i os

Og tvivlene er udviskede til sagte stemmer langt borte

I vage erindringer der krydser bevidstheden i et moment

Endnu forhandler jeg med min egen splittethed

Nøgternt og bestemt

Blidt

Jeg vil lade tilliden til vores uskyldighed favne verden og mig selv

SJÆLSØ

Nøgen.

Med en flittig spætte der hamrer løs.

Det knitrer og bruser fra bålet som vinden suser igennem det.

Huden er stadigvæk kølig efter at være nedsunket i den gennemsigtige, grønlige

masse der bevæger sig sagte foran mit åbne vindue.

Naturen er mit spejl.

Og vandet.

Sjælens sø for at det ikke skal være løgn.

Der var et øjebliks sammentrækning i maven imens jeg ikke kunne bunde og der

i stedet var noget slimet der rørte mit ben.

Pludselig så jeg for mig, som du fortalte om frygten for vandet og hvordan jeg

straks tolkede det som selvsamme frygt for sjælen og sit eget dyb.

Spøjs er jeg sommetider og hurtig på mine og andres vegne også sommetider.

Besynderligt som vandet nu mindede mig om det, men det er vel ikke uden

grund at det er sjælens spejl.

Jeg forstår...

ikke nødvendigvis korrekt.

Men måske at jeg ikke forstår...

heller ikke nødvendigvis korrekt.

Jeg gad godt at se verden som den er og ikke som jeg tænker den.

Træet siger omsorgsfuldt, ikke endnu.

Eller ikke lige nu...

måske aldrig tænker jeg nu, et rum tid senere.

Meget blev sagt men jeg husker det ikke så godt.

Der var blevet så stille at ordene forsvandt.

Nøglen til vandet er tålmodighed, omsorg, kærlighed og medfølelse især med

sig selv.

Det er jo trods alt sjælen vi taler om.

Og der ligger længsel.

Portene åbnes ved at bede om lov.

Sjældent vil de forblive lukkede når det der ønskes er forbindelse.

At spørge er at lytte. Uden, forsvinder spørgsmålene i sig selv.

I vandet folder poesien sig ud i bølger og dybet åbenbares med lange dragere i

det fjerne.

Træerne, porten der skærmer dette magiske land har givet deres samtykke til at

se og tanke lidt af denne skønhed.

SENSOMMERVARME

Når hjertet banker lystigt i brystet. Blikket vandrer opad... Til en lyseblå himmel, spækket af hurtigt forbifarende mørkegrå plamager.

Farves hvide, og øjnene blændes af endnu varme stråler.

Vinden blæser lystigt som hjertet slår, stærkt og umættet. Forkynder insisterende om årstidernes skiften.

Lyset står lavere i horisonten nu og der ligger en frisk duft og mør fugtighed i luften.

Sen-sommerens skiftende gemyt bredder sig i vindens susen, folder sig ud igennem dagen, og holder indtog også i mig.

Jeg mærker lysten til at vende indad mere og dele rolige stunder. Og min store termoskande er igen begyndt at følge mig oftere.

Der er en ubeskrivelig blidhed i denne tids varmende stråler når vinden lader dem hvile her øjeblik.

BRODER PILETRÆ

Imens jeg sidder her og mørket stille falder på, fuglene synger de sidste strofer af deres vuggeviser og summen bredder sig ud for mine ører, mit indre, da tænker jeg på dig min kære bror og ven. Jeg ser dine artsfæller imens summen bliver til brusen som ville havet åbne sine porte gennemsigtigt. I jeres stille væsen ser jeg bindeleddet, mægleren og spejlet. Forbindelsen imellem moderen og faderen. Ikke at symbolet behøves. Der bor i genkendelse. Dine rødder trækker mine med i dybet, hvor vi forankres fast og sammen, så bror og søster kan løfte hovedet højt i det her finurlige univers. Og hvor din top nok oftest er roligere end min. Din stilhed smitter og jeg kan ikke takke dig nok for alle de gange jeg har fået lov at ride med i dybet ad dine rødder og for de gange du nøgternt har spurgt om jeg nu også er sikker på at jeg ikke lige skal sidde lidt. For øjeblikket hvor al dysterhed blev jaget bort, sluppet, blev modtaget, aftaget, frataget, glemt eller bare forsvandt... Og boblen forplantede sig i stedet og indtog kroppen som frydefuldt nærvær, varme og ubeskrivelig kærlighed. Tak kære bror og mor for visdom. Jeg vil tanke jord.