in a fundamental way

her name was theresa
she would float into me,
crawl into me in the water
and i would melt.

i poured a bit of water on her head,
i told her she was a flower and now she could grow

with every bit of water i sprinkeld on her,
she stretched her little body and grew
with every time she emptied her small watering can on my head, i grew

we grew and grew, and didnt tire
her softness - in word, skin and demeanour - touched me in a fundamental way

street conversations, in spring

tough boys on park bench: hey girl, can i ask you a question?
girl: sure
tbopb: how is it that you are so beautiful?
girl: (smile) I'm not sure. God/Allah must have done it
tbopb: (smile)

girl: can i ask you a question?
tbopb: ....
girl: how is it that you ask such sweet questions?

thanks Ousseni (and thanks Bob) for reminding me today of the simple truth

Not everything that glitters is Gold

as much as i am enchanted by Glitter, I want to be and go for Gold

ok, this is it

never saw it around consciously before, and today saw it twice within the hour! loved it the first time, and the saw it again!
s'gotta be a sign!:)

something to save hard earned money for (ahum)

and/or something to visualise/will into my life? :)

and after cruising in Kim's newly acquired beautiful simple-but-oh-so-stylish racing(?) green on the outside, dark brown leather interior, Porsche 911 just now, i have a lot of will!!

Can you picture it?

Lore of the Snake
The image of the snake has arisen in my life recently and set me to wonder about its symbolism. Thus far I didnt get much further than the practical Tuareg/Niger interpretation that when you meet a snake on your path, or should you be bitten by one, it indicates that a child is coming into your life, or that you might fall pregnant in the near future (hoping that the snake bite wont be the end of you..)
My current favorite reading gave me a lot more the other night, in Ilan's words, it appears the book is coming to meet me, meet my needs..
Follow me to the lore of Africa and Australia, and let me know any (symbolic) association you have or know of with snakes.. my comments box is eager for your thoughts!

"In Nigeria, in many countries of Western Africa, in Mozambique, Namibia, and Natal, there is a story of a great serpent that brougt the Earth Mother to this world, and how that snake was shooting rainbows out of its body. In Western Africa they say that the Godess travelled through the world in the mouth of a great rainbow serpent, creating mountains and valleys and stars. The serpent is sometimes depicted as a great Python. The Vedaps of Northern Transvaal say that it was this python who first taught men and women how to make love.
You see, sir, it is very different from the book of Genesis, in Judeo-Christian culture, where the serpent is the principle of evil (and i think they don't like sex very much either, sir, if you dont mind me saying so). But in African Mythology, making love is one of the greatest of blessings, and so we say that the serpent is the source of blessings, not of evil. He is called Nyoka, 'the instructor'; and so the serpent is identified as an 'expert', the one who knows what is going on, what the truth is.

Likewise I know that for the Australian Aborigines, there is a great rainbow serpent who is often encircling the Earth or bringing the people special blessings, and i also know their sangomas,who are called 'clever men', ride on the back of this serpent, or climb up on rainbow serpents to enter the heavens or the upper realms (Footnote: Such serpents, called brimures, play a very active role in Australian shamanism and may be introduced into the body, or extracted, and are important in initiations).
So in the legends of of the Australians too the serpent is a very benevolent creature, and not at all to be equated with anything evil. "

(p.155, Zulu Shaman: Dreams, Prophesies, and Mysteries; Chapter 6: The Common Origin of All Humanity)

A Child of the Universe
baba ziad favourite song, and the lyrics are well worth posting:

I'm a child from South Africa
I'm a child of Vietnam

I'm a child of Northern Ireland

I'm a small boy with blood on his hands.
Yes
I'm a child of the universe

Yes
I'm a child of the universe -
You can see me on the TV everynight

Always there to join in someone else's fight.
I never asked to be born
I never asked to die

I'm an endless dream
a dream-machine that cannot reason why.
Yes
I'm a child of the universe

Yes
I'm a child of the universe -
You can see me on the TV everynight:
I'm the child next door 3.000 miles away.
I'm a child from South Africa
I'm a child of Vietnam
. .
I never asked to be born
I never asked to die
. . .
You can see me on the TV every day:
I'm the child next door 3.000 miles away.

7 Maart - Zo lang naar uitgekeken
Een paar weken in Nederland en het voelt als of ik er niet veel wijzer op wordt.
Nu, na het concert van Branford, alleen op weg naar huis voel ik me verdrietig, en toch ook weer niet zo verdrietig als verwacht. Ik ben blij dat ik naar huis ga, m'n eigen ruimte in. Als ik nu bij jou zou zijn - ja, wat dan? Mischien hadden we dan een kans gehad om te praten, om dichter bij elkaar te komen. En wat als niet? Dan zou ik me nog slechter voelen. En niet weg kunnen.
Je leek weer hard, je zachtheid was weg. Niet alleen naar mij toe, maar in het algemeen. In afwachting van de muziek, over de politiek. Bart ging tegen je hardheid in, ik niet. Daar had ik geen ruimte voor. Als ik liefde voel en ontvang, dan kan ik er grappen over maken, er speels mee om gaan. Maar nu niet.
Ik kijk naar buiten, het liedje dat ik je heb gestuurt gaat door mn hoofd, en ik voel verdriet. Veel verdriet. Ik snap het niet. Wat is er gebeurd? In jou. In mij.
Ik wil niet rondhangen tot dat jij me weer ziet, weer voelt. Daar hebben we de basis niet voor. Ik ben al bang genoeg, voor hoe dichtbij je komt, slapende angsten worden wakker gemaakt. Paniek, al die stemmen in mijn hoofd, al die onzekerheid. Ik vindt het al zo moeilijk om los te laten, om er op te vertrouwen dat dit goed is, meer dan alleen 'goed voor mij'. Los te laten en een manier te vinden om te geven, te ontvangen, en mezelf niet te verliezen.
Ik zie een man en een vrouw twee rijen voor ons zitten in de concertzaal, zijn arm om haar schouders, zij helemaal tegen hem ingezakt, zijn hoofd rust tussen haar hoofd en nek. Ik denk wel de volledige 60 minuten lang.
Ik kijk uit het raam en zie een jongen die zijn meisje met stevige armen oppikt, van de grond af tilt. Weer op aarde drukt ze liefdevol haar wang tegen zijn borstkas en blijft lange momenten zo staan.
Ik denk aan ons en hoe natuurlijk ons kontakt was, die eerste avond toen we van de boot afkwamen. Ik stond er toen niet bij stil, maar we konden niet van elkaar afblijven. Het viel me toen niet zo op, maar ik wou niets anders dan in je kruipen.
En ook daarna. Thuis, op de grond voor de bank. In Rotterdam. De eerste keer in het Bimhuis. Het eerste weekeinde bij jou, bij de fotos voor de Stopera, in de Engelbewaarder.
Kan het dat dat nu allemaal al weg is? Waar is het heen? En waarom?
Ik wil in dat gevoel groeien, het meenemen. Het hoeft niet allemaal zo uitbundig, maar ik wil gevoed worden, ik wil voeden, niet hongerig verlangen en dromen.
Een dronken man achter me in de supermarkt zucht en zegt tegen de kassiere dat hij in de war raakt van me, betoverd is door mijn lijf en mij. Hij volgt me nog even, zuchtend probeert hij mijn aandacht te trekken. Jij zegt de hele avonds niets liefs.
Ik kan niet naast je zitten, ik kan niet naast je liggen, als er geen ruimte in jou is voor mij.
Het is een slecht excuus om weer te gaan roken. Maar het voedt me. Een whiskey bestellen, naar Tom Waits luisteren die rauw uit de speakers komt, voor me uit staren en schrijven. In een mij bekende omgeving. Mijn eigen ding doen. Waarschijnlijk een vlucht, maar minder pijn.
Het is laat, It's Closing Time, 7 Maart zit er op. 8 Maart is begonnen. Ik ga naar huis.

A friend's mom's bumper sticker:

uproot a Bush,
plant a tree

Although not quite poetry, worth sharing. Go Nynke's mom.

That old Vienna feelin...
different years, different age group, different experience altogether - yet the nostalgia feels the same. Imagine, i had the kid sister of my one time (short time) boyfriend/romantic interest add me on MySpace the other day. Not only was he a year younger, she must have been 5 years younger than him. and still we are connecting, all connecting. the vienna feeling.

a friend said to me the other night - 'i am decidedly unnostalgic'. I am definetely not.
Living in the past isnt all that good, im sure. Investing emotion now in events and moments of the past. Can't be good. Yet when the past appears as special is it does, is it better to let go and forget?

On Idols & Missing the point
(orignially written as a comment to a Firefly post)

never touch your idols, the gilt wil rub off on your hands?

or should we refrain from idolising altogether? we know better than to invest such expectant adoration in human beings, fallable beings.

To love, and not to put another on a pedestal, thereby creating distance, and no longer standing level footed on common ground.
To love, and not to allow intimidation by the perceived perfection of idols made by your own hand, heart and reverence. and insecurity.
To love.

In wise books of old, idolatry is a said to be a Sin.

I dont believe that 'idols' in the gnostic sense refers to statues of silver and gold, that are worshipped above an external allmighty god, but rather any being or object that you put higher than the godliness in yourself.

I don't believe the orginal meaning of 'sin' is "transgression of the law of God (1 John 3:4) and rebellion against God (Deuteronomy 9:7; Joshua 1:18)", but rather in its original (greek?) meaning to refer to "to miss the mark, or "to stray from the path".

And that makes sense to me.
By placing someone or something else above your own Godliness (see Krishnamurti and so many more) you miss the mark, you are bound to stray from the path to self-knowledge and truth.

We shouldnt idolise others, its not good for us, and its not good for those on the pedestal. When they fall off, either by their own doing or by the other's unmet inflated expectation, its hurts. On both sides.

When both parties idolise the other, for whatever reason, as has been known to happen, it can only lead to pain.

I have over the years created a large part of my identity around someone i have idolised, and with sustained physical distance, i have kept the idol on the pedestal, and polished and polished and polished her shine. it has increased my reverence, and decreased my comfort to share daily earthly human fallacies; it has increased distance and insecurity on my part, and decreased the truthful and realistic foundation for friendship.

I don't want to idealise or idolise.
I need to learn to work with what's real.
Because what is real is good, and has enough godliness in it to feed my need for reverence and beauty.

Brave country
(from an email from a friend who works for the dutch ministry of foreign affairs)

"It is grey but not too cold in Kabul. Our armoured Mercedes takes us to the hotel.
On the way a woman crosses the street in a blue bhurka right in front of the car.
“Brave woman” I say.
Then a dog crosses, equally close: "Brave dog" I say.
Then a family of three crosses and makes it against all odds.
“Brave family” my colleague Viola says.
Then our Afghan driver smiles and says: “ Brave country.”
Those words alone were worth this trip.

ben's humour, priceless

lost tribes

a melancholy in the eyes, a recognition.
an almost stranger, a familiarty.

'i believe in lost tribes' he said, people that belong together, people that recognise it in eachother. age doesnt matter, people that have lived full lives, of long full years, younger people, without similar marks of time on their soul. yet somehow, we seem to belong to the same tribe.

biological families are different. you build those with mates that are your opposite in many ways, that way you bring forth socially viable progeny. socially viable progeny.
but others connect to you differently, strangers, by picking up on a look in your eyes. a sadness. a melancholy.
distant yet recognisable.
instant comfort. instant connection. a member of your lost tribe.

nothing wrong with opposites. the world needs socially viable progeny.
its a noble venture. i want socially viable progeny.
but i can't do without my tribe.

did you find a member of your tribe in paris like you sensed you would?

trust or faith?

what is vertrouwen? what is Vertrauen?
trust or faith?
what did i take with me, what intention did i speak out loud.
what did i mean.
and where has it gone.

i said it on sunday afternoon, i felt it on sunday night.
i felt it on monday morning, and it took me places.
i lost it on monday night. i wept for it on tuesday.
i forgot about it on wednesday.
i moved on on thursday.
i longed for it on friday.
i spoke about it on saturday.
i put it behind me on sunday.
i missed it on monday.
i could relativise it on tuesday.
its making me sad again today.

i closed my eyes and thought about trust.
i picked a card. random.
it was Trust.

That which can be taken away from you is not worth keeping, and that which cannot be taken away from you... why should one be afraid of its being taken away? It cannot be taken away, there is no possibility. You cannot lose your real treasure.

The Truth of Cards

On Saturday night I chose a card from the stack - it was 17. Silence. And it was perfect.
I had come back from Ghana, I had been quiet on the ride home, I hadnt felt the need to speak, I hadnt felt the need to be present by way of conversation. I was on the boat, and the exercise made me long for silence, for concentration - the chattering and laughing of fellow seekers was irritating me. Yet i could let it go - I heard it, and could not hear it. I could stay here and now, and concentrate. And lose my irritation, and leave that with them.

A little later that night, i picked this card.
"the energy of the whole has taken possession of you. You are possessed, you are no more, the whole is. This moment, as the silence penetrates in you, you can understand the significance of it, because it is the same silence that Gautam Buddha experienced. It is the same silence that Chuang Tzu or Bodhidharma or Nansen.... The taste of the silence is the same. Time changes, the world goes on changing, but the experience of silence, the joy of it, remains the same. That is the only thing you can rely upon, the only thing that never dies. It is the only thing that you can call your very being." (Osho Zen: The Diamond Thunderbolt Chapter 1)

Commentary: The silent, mirrorlike receptiveness of a star-filled night with a full moon is reflected in the misty lake below. The face in the sky is deep in meditation, a goddess of the night who brings depth, peace and understanding. Now is a very precious time. It will be easy for you to rest inside, to plumb the depths of your own inner silence to the point where it meets the silence of the universe. There's nothing to do, nowhere to go, and the quality of your inner silence permeates everything you do. It might make some people uncomfortable, accustomed as they are to all the noise and activity of the world. Never mind; seek out those who can resonate with your silence - or enjoy your aloneness. Now is the time to come home to yourself. The understanding and insights that come to you in these moments will be manifested later on, in a more outgoing phase of your life.

The next day we spoke of relationships, of ideal partners. We shared and we recognised the obstacle that is the concept of 'ideal'. I spoke of my longing for a shared existence, not in all aspects, but just the basics - participate with me in my dreams, when i talk of the moon; participate with me in work, when i explain my reality. Listen and be interested. Participate, just a little, and I will be open.

Later during a break, with the theme of ideal partner/relationship in mind, we drew another card. I picked 4: Participation
"Have you ever seen night going? Very few people even become aware of things which are happening every day. Have you ever seen the evening coming? The midnight and its song? The sunrise and its beauty?

We are behaving almost like blind people. In such a beautiful world we are living in small ponds of our own misery. It is familiar, so even if somebody wants to pull you out, you struggle. You don't want to be pulled out of your misery, of your suffering. Otherwise there is so much joy all around, you have just to be aware of it and to become a participant, not a spectator.

Philosophy is speculation, Zen is participation. Participate in the night leaving, participate in the evening coming, participate in the stars and participate in the clouds; make participation your lifestyle and the whole existence becomes such a joy, such an ecstasy. You could not have dreamed of a better universe."(Osho Zen: The Miracle Chapter 2)

Commentary: Each figure in this mandala holds the left hand up, in an attitude of receiving, and the right hand down, in an attitude of giving. The whole circle creates a tremendous energy field that takes on the shape of the double dorje, the Tibetan symbol for the thunderbolt.
The mandala has a quality like that of the energy field that forms around a buddha, where all the individuals taking part in the circle make a unique contribution to create a unified and vital whole. It is like a flower, whose wholeness is even more beautiful than the sum of its parts, at the same time enhancing the beauty of each individual petal. You have an opportunity to participate with others now to make your contribution to creating something greater and more beautiful than each of you could manage alone. Your participation will not only nourish you, but will also contribute something precious to the whole.

there are many lessons to learn here for me
much karma that might be coming back my way
jealousy i might have caused in other women
a role i might have played in creating longing for me in men whose women were then made to feel insecure, about their men's love for them, about their own worth, about the ever present battle between attraction based on externalities, and value based on the inside.
its coming back to me now, and as i feel hurt and sad, images thoughts and memories come to mind in which i surely will have played a part in causing hurt and sadness in other women, consciously or unconsciously.
i had always thought that, since i wasnt doing anything on purpose, since was just being expressive, confident, strong, enthusiastic, lighthearted and such, i wasnt flirting or trying to seduce, that the responsibility then lies with the men - that they should keep their attraction in check; that they should consider the women they made committments to, that they should be strong and conscious of whats going on inside them, and to manage it. I didn't want to take responsibility for it, and I still don't think that would be right. To make oneself different or smaller or less enthused by life and conversation, to 'save' the other? Because I have known and felt this genuine way of mine to be attractive to some men, to then stop being genuine?
Men feel attracted to confident, strong, inspired women - yes. And there are many strong wonderful women out there that inspire flights of fancy in men without intending to do so. I know a good many of them myself - beautiful women, in & out, cream of the crop. Should we therefore stop being ourselves? No. The men are responsible for their own flights of fancy, and the consequences thereof. The men should be clear and strong and aware.
And now it happened to me.
Do I blame the girl? No, I saw it happen. She did nothing. She was simply strong and extrovert and bubbly.
But the gnawing question remains, where is karma in this?

i am sure there are also lessons for me to learn about ego, about losing ego or not letting it make an issue bigger than it is, about not letting ego rear its ugly head, and when it has already done so, not to let it keep its claws in my mood or state of mind.
letting ego go, paying it no mind, killing it by ignoring it. i know that you keep alive whatever you feed, and by feeling upset and hurt and jealous, i feed ego.
and i know thats not the way. i know better than that. but still im doing it.
how easy things are to read, to understand, to think about and recognise their truth and value, and then when it comes to applying, the more basic human behaviour takes hold, takes posessesion, despite knowing how it works, despite recognising what is going on.

a book i read while in ghana says that recognising what is going on while it happens, being cognisant of unconscious behaviour when you slip into it, that awareness is the most important bit. its the beginning of change, of coming out of unconscious behaviour to being present, conscious and aware. I am aware of it, so i hope that one day ill be able to let go of ego entirely.

and for the sadness that isnt caused by ego but rather by fear, or is it fear caused by sadness - i need another wise book. Suggestions?

Here comes Ghana (in the words of the sports commentator)
What a night - Bob Marley's birthday and the Ghana-Nigeria game..
and Frieda's birthday, and the start of lady dee's birthdat across the other side of the world.
so many reasons to celebrate, the births of such wonderful people, the stars are promising in this alignment and one should congratulate any new lucky parents :)

after a hot first half that didnt bring home any goals for either side, the great dreams that my temporary fellow countrymen had for the greatness of the Ghana Black Stars did not look promising. 2-1 was the prediction, Sherif had seen it in his dream. I wasn't going to go see him for any sangoma practices..

while swaying gently to some liberation rhyme and rythms, watching denise network her way into the jamaican ladies club, suddenly the first cries of joy of the second half. many raced to the tv screen, the jamaicans stayed put. chatting. not long after another cry, perhaps louder and more sustained. and then more again!
Ghana 3 - Nigeria 0.

~ yoepieeee Ghana Black Stars ~
~ yoepieeee bob marley ~

the thick bass continued to throb, the melody carrying us higher, and the score better than anyone had been expectin.
Laryea Kingston 50min, Sulley Muntari 53min, Junior Agogo 60min made it 3-0 for the stars. Taiwo Taye pulled one back for Nigeria in the 65 minute through a penalty kick, before substitute, JoeTex Frimpong, put the result beyond doubt with a fouth goal in the 74min.

What a night. What fever for the Africa Cup of Nations which Ghana will host in January 2008. I have seen the transformation of the dusty town of Tamale, with it new stadium towering in the bright sunlight high above any other building in town. Ghana, January 2008. Block your calendars. It'll be hot.

Oh and of course, its Ghana @ 50 this year!!
Happy Birthyear Ghanaaaaaaaaa!!!!

There's no poetry between us
Said the paper to the pen
I get nothing for my troubles
But the ink beneath my skin

Yes, it was full moon.
(Thursday, October 26, 2006)







Yes, it was the Palace of a former Warlord, Palazzo Colonna
(family history here)

Check Check.
Though many other questions yet remain unanswered.

Presby's Makin it Work

Up front: What I'm about to say is not founded in thorough research and not meant to inflame the usual heated debates around religions and streams within same religions..

But a conversation triggered me to ask more questions to myself, read up a little more on something I knew nothing about, and kept me intrigued since.

So I will share my intrigue publicly, or well, with my captive audience, since this isnt quite the CNN or Al-Jazeera website..

I was having lunch with staff from a Ghanaian organisation that we work with, which is an association of church-based development projects. They asssist church stations, often located far from district towns or urban centres, who in trun work with rural communities to improve agricutural practices, health services, social services and the like. The association is open to all church-based development projects, and thus has a variety of members - some catholic, others evangelical, other methodist, others presbyterian and so on. Not being familiar with the many differences between the various streams - some significant, others less so - I wondered whether this hub could see whether any of the streams or denominations were more successful at their development programmes than others.

Suspecting that this was a tricky question to ask, i nevertheless wanted to know. So asked it. (I'm an Aries, don't blame me..)

I could tell by my partner's hesitation that there was something to tell, but he was reluctant, understandably so. My one lunch partner subscribes to the catholic church, the other methodist.

The catholic admitted that he could see a clear difference, at least when it comes to the agriculture/livelihoods programmes.

The Presby's take the cake.

The level of professionalism and success of their programmes stands high above similar programmes set up and managed by other churches.

Hmmmm. Now. Why may that be so? What is it about the Presbyterian church?

I don't know the first thing about it, so your thoughts are very welcome!

Some excerpts from the great wikipedia might point to some root causes, although I'd have to investigate all the other streams and compare them in these stances.. (triggers those Phd juices in comparative belief systems again..)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Presbyterian

Local congregations are governed by Presbyteries made up of representatives of the local congregations, a conciliar approach which is found at other levels of decision-making. There are therefore no bishops in Presbyterianism. The office of elder is another distinctive mark of Presbyterianism: these are specially commissioned non-clergy who take part in local pastoral care and decision-making at all levels.

Presbyterians place great importance upon education and continuous study of the scriptures, theological writings, and understanding and interpretation of church doctrine embodied in several statements of faith and catechisms formally adopted by various branches of the church. It is generally considered that the point of such learning is to enable one to put one's faith into practice; most Presbyterians generally exhibit their faith in action as well as words, by generosity, hospitality, and the constant pursuit of social justice and reform, as well as proclaiming the gospel of Christ.

Could the inclusion of non-clergy from the community in the council of elders, and the focus on community well-being aspects that are not necessarily a product of faith in the Christian church (generosity, hospitality..) have anything to do with it? How is this then different from traditional forms of governance, where such council of elders do include persons to represent different aspects of community life and their general common objective is the socio-sentient well-being of the community?
If these are conducive elements in the Presby structure and objective of the church, and they are not or less present in the Catholic, or Methodist, or what-have-you churches, and if these elements are comparable to traditional governance structures.. then can't we assume that working in a similar fashion with traditional societies could have produced similar results? I'm cutting many corners I know, but I am always wondering to what extent the imposition of Western religious (or now non-religious) structures on traditional ones is necessary to achieve what we aim to achieve.
And so i keep going round in circles.

An interesting small book to read about relationships in traditional communities in West African (Dagara) society is this, reminding us that relationships are often not chosen by ourselves, but rather brought about by spirit because the combination of two people have something to offer - not just for ourselves, but for the community, for the world. this relates not only to partners we chose, but to our friends, our family, our working relationships etc. Next time you wonder why on earth this person came into your life and stayed, think back to spirit. I'm not sure what the Presby's woudl think of that though. Unless spirit is god and god is spirit.
I'll stop here.

Full moon
Friday, beginning of February 2007, tonight, will be the first full moon that I witness consciously in this new year. I couldn’t escape it Wednesday night, my first night back in Tamale, this dusty provincial town, when the night approached, and the receding daylight allowed the majesty of the moon to be seen. Without looking for the moon specifically, I was drawn towards it, big and milky white, rising slowly above the Harmattan wind, that has swept up sand and dust from the desertous arid lands in this part of West Africa, and transported it over thousands of miles, heating it up during its travels, causing sneezing, dry throats, and an ever-present layer of red powder on clothes, faces, motorbike and taxi seats, plaguing the residents of these lands.

I wish I were as sensitive to the presence and the cycles of the moon at all times. It had escaped me when encircled by the hustle and bustle of Accra, with its non-stop traffic and built up surroundings, I suspect I never even looked up at the African night sky all those nights I was there. She catches my eye every now and then while coming home late from the office in the hague, walking between the tram stop and my home, past the old oak trees in front of my house, just before I slip into my door and leave the outside world behind me for another night.
Here however the moon caught me and didn’t release me for a while. Seeing her close to full but not entirely, I investigated when she would be full, or if that was a moment that belongs to history already. Tonight, Friday, February 2nd. 2007 she will be full and white and beautiful.

I want to experience the full moon more consciously, more deeply. I wish I were born into a society in which ritual plays a larger role. A moment in which with full awareness and appreciation, you set to pay homage – to a relationship, to spirit, to a longing, to thankfulness. To invest time in planning, preparing, getting excited, getting anxious, executing, and remembering ritual. There are so many events, influences, beings and objects of nature, people – some still with us and some departed for other cycles, that I would want to connect with through ritual. Yet, having been born into a part of the world and a time in our collective evolution in which ritual as an everyday part of life is a thing of the past, I avoid bringing it up, for fear of not knowing what to do,

and for fear of ridicule.

Instead I resort to planting seeds in my dear ones’ mind, being far away and sowing my longing via text messages, at safe distance from having to directly experience ridicule.

The day after tomorrow, Friday, the moon will be full.
Shall we agree to meet here, in Tamale,
And sleep in the warm outdoors,
To hold each other,
And stare at the moon and the stars all night?
Perhaps to make love in the moonlight,
And pay homage to the mysticism of the moon goddess?
Our own ritual of love, imbibed by the strength of her power,
Oh what beauty I would find therein.

the universe conspires
once again
following on from meeting baba ziad that night in the palace
from Ténéré comes the next piece of code
something bigger than ourselves unfolds
i hope i can be strong and wise enough to play my part

written during nairobi - amsterdam night flight..

i close my eyes and imagine myself
walking up your steps, not mine
it'll be early, daylight wont disturb
the romance for another few hours.

i imagine myself lying on your carpet
your house warm and inviting
the heat of your shower and
your smile looking through the bathroom door.
though time is scarce and reality awaits
and commonsense would dictate another course of action,
my returning to my house doesnt offer the feeling of sanctuary
that following you to yours does.
candles and caresses
and a good dose of your skin
the january cold will be biting
nothing but warmth within.

No is comfort, Yes is adventure
Read this and re-found a truth that i had know, and wish to live.
Thanks ilan.

heard while in a taxi to chita lodge, my home away from home:

When I asked my 12 year old daughter to do me one more favour, she said Sure mommy, what is it?
I want to ask you to go for VCT (voluntary counselling & testing) , if you want to that is, to know your status. As hard as it that was for me to ask her, so lightly and easily she responded: Sure mommy. I'll do that. I would be proud to be just like you. Positive. I hadn't expected her to respond like that. It moved me deeply. What's more mommy, I know now what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a doctor. Then I will be your doctor and care for you.

all I could do was look out of the window on the passenger side, breathe deeply and hope Soko wouldn't say something to me that required a response. I wouldn't be able to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and the big chunk of emotion that blocked and pained my throat.

(note: the picture is of Mercy, a Zambian girl that Ilana found, and that was lost to our joint care shortly after when her mother left the shanty town they lived in, and took Mercy with her, leaving Ilana no forwarding address)

Mistaking dependancy for romantic notions
Hoping at every text message received that it is from you. and then it isnt. and then i feel sad. and off I go thinking about you again - about our words, about our differences, about the current lack of understanding.
The real-life messages and their senders dont get my full attention, the Here and Now fades into the background. It's dark outside, its been raining torentially, plots on the right side of the road have water gushing out from under the gate as if pipes have broken in each basement of every house. On the left the fields are flooded, driveways are unpassable, people and cars are stuck, unable to reach their homes.
With me in the little van are three new team members that i hadnt met before today. I have all the opportunity in the world to talk to them, ask them a million things, quench my thirst for learning about all their experiences, knowing all about the project's advances, challenges and lessons.
Instead i stare out into the wet darkness, think about you who are a million miles away, and feel sad. I don't engage with what's around me - as soon as the official discussions are over, I no longer delve into knowing more about, and meaning more for, the project. I retreat into hoping for communication and enter pictures and dialogues in my head, drifting away from reality.
That's not romance, that's dependency.

he says 'go turn inward, yes, that would be good'
i know its true, yet its difficult to hear.
why?

the sun is slowly setting, the mosquitos are starting to bite, a leisurely saturday in Southern Africa.
The rains are refusing to come through, apart from a few drops while driving to the airport picking up our european visitors.
hours upon hours spent behind the building, shoes off, hiding from the sun, heated by the hotspot. no cables, fast speeds, millions of words entering my head, from australia to southern africa, shielded by the straw roof of the traditional insaka.

complexity increases. i look around, and see pumpkin leaves, wood and straw. i open my ears and hear the tinny sounds of Bob coming from laptop speakers which arent mine. i open my mouth and am spoken to in dutch by a dark young african man. i go to look at photos and end up perusing many people dressed in white - i dont know where and i dont know why. But i keep looking, page after endless page.


I call soko, 'do you remember me', he will take me to my home away from home, i will shower, i will consider all the work i wanted to do today which i didnt do, i will feel bad, i will rush because i am late, and i will have to switch my brain to Education. Teachers. Lesson plans. Training. Technologies. I feel the sigh rising. I want to go to bed and read, but i left inspiring books at home. I have too much work to catch up on. Or is last night's wiskey with Sir G catching up on me?
Ilan, I love you.

snippets of reflection

always a feeling of recognition in the sounds and words of L. Cohen
yesterday a feeling of identification, bringing me back to the need to delve inside

' [...] you know that i love to live with you, but you make me forget so very much
i forget to pray for the angels, and then
the angels forget to pray for us [...]'

i need to return to the pearls that happened across my path
i need to write and reflect, and write a letter
'Dear Ziad...'
knowing that i am neglecting what i had just started to find

magical numbers of the soul contributing to bringing me back to me

1 + 4 + 8
13
1 + 3
4

A special number, not the average. not 4 , but worthy of keeping the original

13 / 4 set on this world to continue the work of earlier incarnations
13 / 4 my solutions come from a combination of inspiration, creativity and practical action
13 / 4 be wary of being dogmatic, being fanatic and wanting too much
13 / 4 learn to relax, to let go
for my own happiness and that of the world around me

jazz
autumn verging on winter but clinging on to the warmth in the air
rain
drizzle and wind
herfstbier bij de flipperkasten
warmte ritme en vriendelijke gezichten
kralenkettingen van zachte gele lichtjes in de bomen
hoopjes natte bruine bladeren onder mn voeten
en alsmaar mn hand in zijn hand

... Nuraghe ...

does it ring a bell?

Roma of Antiquities, Roma of Travellers, Roma of Seekers
and did i find
Side sparks and wonderous encounters - uncovering glimpses of that which is covered
Emerging from interaction
High Priestess
White Robe
Majesty and Wisdom snake
Keeping of Secrets






The shining queen, who rules the velvet night,
And nurtures nascent change, concealed from sight,
Transforms and changes, wheeling light and dark,
And seeks the Sun to sire the unseen spark.
The watery depths bring forth the Child of Light

Geboren in het Teken van de Ram

Als ik op straat loop kijken ze
als ik ze aankijk lijken ze op schapen die de slager tegenkomen
ze hebben geen verweer, geen wil, geen spoor van moed
en vluchten voor mijn driftig bloed
dat hun vervolgt tot in hun bange dromen

Maar soms zal ik een nacht
warm zijn als de zon
lief zijn als een bloem
verrukt zijn als een kind
zacht zijn als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram

Wanneer de knoppen springen dan
de eerste vogels zingen dan
begint mijn ogengrijs naar groen te glijden
en soms dwaal ik alleen
door stormen langs het strand
en zoek de warme sterke hand,
die mij zal dwingen en zal leiden
Maar soms ben ik alleen
en eenzaam met mezelf
onhandig met m'n kracht
en bang voor m'n geluk
grillig als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram

Ik zoek totdat ik vinden zal
op alle vier de winden zal ik gaan
tot ik van iemand zal gaan houden
misschien wil ik teveel
misschien blijf ik alleen
voorgoed alleen niet een die ik bemin
en die ook van mij zal gaan houden...
Ik zou zo graag een nacht
branden als het vuur
wild zijn als de storm
blind zijn voor mezelf
onschuldig als een lam...
Ik ben geboren in het teken van de Ram.
- Lennart Nijgh

So much is happening and so little is being written down.

‘Start with words’ – I do that, and my list of words, or combinations of words, gets longer and more diffuse. Pages and pages of nothing but words.
A friend once remarked that the words I write down are scattered all over a page. I start somewhere at the top, or right in the centre, and, as if to imitate the random nature of my thoughts, I will add another at a slight slant towards the top right corner. The next time I am compelled to pick up the pen and jot something down for my own recollection, it will likely find a home at a 90 degree angle from the last word, but then in the bottom right corner. And so on.
My friend looked down at her own writings and found complete sentences, in perfect linear form and sequence, and looked up at me with a somewhat worried look, as if my topsy turvy mono-syllabic mental grunts might be expressions of a more creative mind. I on the other hand longed for full sentences to emerge from my mind – complete statements, well rounded thoughts, to inform myself and others of my position in my head and in this world. Without need for embellishment, not requiring any acrobatic handling of the notebook in order to take in what had popped out.
In light of Umberto Eco’s musing on the ‘Holy War’ between Mac and MS DOS environments and the minds of their corresponding ideal users, perhaps I should leave the Calvinism of MS-DOS (or the Anglicanism of the later MS Windows), fess up to my more Catholic tendencies of linguistic revelling and buy a Mac. Not that I have ever been much good at using that environment intuitively, as my truly creative film-maker/graphic designer friends will surely let you know.

Yoni said everyone should have a little seed garden of inspirations. The only thing you have to do is strew the seeds into the earth. In my mind I saw the words on my pages sometimes burst into colourful flower, or at times fail to surface at all. Sometimes two or more seeds thrown into the top soil close to each other and since forgotten, come out entangled and entwined, and create something that makes sense as I watch them grow into each other, an innocent bystander often not even recognising the seeds as having come out of my hands, or mind.
Marvel at Creation daily. It’s all around us.
I am sure it could work with words. Yoni has a special software application for it. I have a big green book. Which some people mistake for a Bible when they see it on my hotel room bedside table. creation, not Creation. Or is it the same - just a different writer, a different time. Welcome to the Gospel according to Saskia; welcome to SkiSays.

Scratching the scabs of my battle wounds - proof of all the partying we put our bodies, minds and hearts through during those magical days - I am again and again pulled back in time and place, from the red soils of West Africa to the desert landscapes of the Middle East. My current surroundings fade out of focus and recent memories crowd in front of my mind’s eye, showing me the kaleidoscope of colours, faces, and events in which I was utterly immersed not even a week and a half ago. None of those experiences have been written down in full and elaborate sentence form, as they so deserve, and I am afraid that if I don’t take the time now, and force it out, some detail, some discovery, and many lessons might be lost. I stare at my pages of words, and add one here, another there, at an angle to the previous one.

Like standing under the trickle of cold water pumped from a well yesterday, and recalling the luxury of powerful hot showers of the otherwise Spartan hostel in Yaffo. I had thought it Spartan, but in the last two days recalled its luxury in comparison to bareness of the guest house that was my home for two nights in Salaga. In the communal shower room in Yaffo a sign was hung, something like ‘Be careful with using the water, remember you are in a desert environment’. That’s not what it said though, it was a combination of words, full of simplicity and clarity. You see, I need a notebook with me at all time. Even when I am naked in hostel bathing facilities. The sign struck me, I am not exactly sure why. I remember staring at it for a while, and stopping to gaze at it again every time I entered or left the shower room.
I imagined myself standing naked, the surrounding buildings and cityscape stripped away, encircled on all sides by endless dunes and hills of desert sand. Dry, scorched, waterless – as I knew it was, there beyond the reach of the city. It is so very easy to move from town to town, with its roads, skylines and faucets with water-always-on-call, and to forget the environment in which the city arose out of small beginnings, building after building, settler after settler. Transported by that sign into recognising and appreciating where I was, I was forced to recognise how much comfort I had at my disposal in that tourist facility for well-endowed ever-youthful wanderers, more than many an indigenous nomad had at her disposal living in Bedouin tents just a few miles further south out of town.
Standing under the trickling cold tap in the one out of only two guesthouses in the remote African district town in which I found myself two days ago, I was brought back to that Middle Eastern part of my world that I carry with me, that different world that seemed so many worlds away again by now.
Its rainy season here now, this current ‘here and now’, and the rains have been coming on well. Shafiu and I had lifted the cover off the well at the guest house, marvelling at the water level of captured rainwater in this otherwise equally scorched land. Not a desert landscape exactly, not yet at least, what with global warming and the climates changing and becoming more extreme so quickly. But a landscape where growing crops that are thirsty for water is ever more difficult, where the traditional Fulani cattle are thin and bony for lack of luscious grazing ground, and where the Fulani cattle herders are increasingly ignoring the arbitrary European-imposed borders separating the two Nation-States of Ghana and Burkina Faso, in search of true greener pastures.
But the rains have come - the roads are beginning to look like red-tiled corrugated roofs again; the debate among Lelewu and Imoro, whether the wells dug by the Missions using machines are deeper than the wells dug by the people of Salaga without the added hand of technology, had a light, non-urgent air. The debate went on for the majority of the car ride back to the provincial town, with Lelewu’s assertion, that the Missionary wells found in Kpandae could not be equalled by Salaga dwellers, touching a sensitive nerve in Imoro, causing him to raise his voice, turn his head towards our backseat frequently while driving, vehemently accounting of his fellow townsman’s well digging skills, and causing our Isuzu truck to hit potholes created by the previous nights’ showers.

Having come back now from the district to the provincial town, I stood under the hot shower, en-suite to my room, in this Indian-owned hotel, indulgingly for well over half an hour – using my Ahava soap with beneficial minerals from the Dead Sea - washing off the red dirt clinging to my body from the travelling, recollecting the activities, lessons and laughter from the last two days, and moving away again in my mind to the Dead Sea, where I had been soaking these very minerals into my skin by doing nothing but floating, watching ilana’s friends and little brother, my travel companions for that day around the Holy Land, float ahead of me while the sun began to set over the cliffs that house the ancient and history-laden rock fortress of Masada, turning the sky soft shades of purple and pink and yellow…. Where I started singing and chuckling to myself, da da dé da dé, da da dé da dé, little fluffy clouds, little fluffy clouds.. dee duu doo…
’hey mikki, did ilana ever play you that song, where the girl says ‘…I’ve never seen such beautiful skies, they were full of little fluffy clouds and the skies, they were all pink and yellow and red…’ or something like that.. it used to be one of our favourites..’
Mikki looks back bemusedly, not knowing what I am on about, but commenting that it quite seamlessly fits his mental picture of his sister and me in those days, mumbling something about hallucinating, laughing, shaking his head and floating off again. My following uttered-aloud thought about what would come out if you cross-bred a billy goat with a sheep didn’t do much good in improving his image of my sanity either, I would guess.
When the moon started coming up over the sandy cliffs across on the other shore that is Jordan, beautiful and full, coming ever brighter out of the sky which in its turn was falling slowly into night, our little trooper group, that had been light-hearted and überchatty all day, grew quieter and more thoughtful, retreating into our own individual little worlds, that had had little in common but Ilana, but that had been full of love and spirit from the start. Driving back around Jerusalem to the urban and metropolitan coastal strip, past real or imaginary fences separating the Israeli nation state from the Palestinian homelands, the music coming out of Ohad’s iPod via the rental car’s stereo, was bringing me again into different times and places, back to long ago childhood car rides, from one European country we were temporarily calling home to the country where I was born, all the way down the Telegraph Road… That song somehow had felt like another unspoken connection between me and Ohad, unacknowledged apart from a gentle stroke of his hand on my leg behind his driver’s seat while we sang the song’s refrain’s in unison, verse after verse, gazing out over his shoulder at the Israeli highway with its typical traffic of macho drivers, sirens, flashing lights and road blocks, but likely both miles away together in thought. With the bright almost entirely full moon above us. That was the night before the wedding.

I don’t know how I will ever capture all the memories, the thoughts, the emotions, the questions, the fleeting epiphanies, the impressions, the new friends, the moments of withdrawing, the surges of pulling close, all those moments, all those mine, how I will ever capture them all. The full sentences are helping, they are recreating what comes up and what comes out. They are giving shape to the words, giving them body and substance, planting them with meaning in my heart. Descriptions of events and moments leading up to events alone already take me on such journeys, I don’t want to cut corners, I want to follow their lead. But then before I even get to what I want to put down, what I want to put out there, I feel the need to break, to breath and to rest. To pick it up again a little later, with freshness and vigour, to delve into subsequent episodes and emerge with the weeds and jewels found on the sea beds from those deep and mysterious waters.
And then I find myself with a book full of intro’s – winding, truthful, exploratory intro’s, valuable pieces of work within themselves, for this is work for me, that leave so many of their follow-ups untold, and unexplored. My Book of Intros. Sas’ Almost-Loves. Somehow I’m always skirting around the edges. My Lives on the Edges of My Lives.
That reminds me of a few words written down in my GreenSeedGardenBible book, picked out of the cacophony in the ether surrounding my life, noted down for their resonance; unfortunately not really translatable, so here it is in pura forma: Alles wat je half doet, ga je je half van voelen.
I do so much, my life is organised out of doing things, going places, doing things while being in places, yet I feel so half. I don’t do them fully, I don’t do them truly, I am never fully there, or here, there and then. Here and now. Not even in writing. I flutter from one thought to the next, from one place to the next, and back, or onward, or back but just next to the previous moment and place in time, following no real pattern, just following. Not directing. When I first met Arwen and she looked at me and listened to me briefly, she remarked that I might not be very grounded, might I possibly recognise something in that? I float, here there and everywhere, and am afraid of coming down into my body, down onto earth. A fallen angel. Fallen down onto earth, not landed. Still floating between heaven and earth.
Coming down into actions, and consequences, and investments, and losses. Earthing. Rooting. Bringing the ship into the harbour. Building a house out of cement, and opening the door to what follows. No more standing on toilet-cubicles. I am Saskia. In my Slavic root, I am. Protector of Humanity.

More Life-in-Italy
In the words of one of the main protagonists, or shall we say, heroes of the stories..:

[..For those that werent in Orvieto..]You don't know what you've been missing:
The best butcher in Italy with the world's best sausages, salami and porchetta!!!!!!
Eating outside in the Umbrian Landscape.
The best spa in the north with an extremely relaxing aroma oil massage. (Forget about the allergies. : )
Italy's best lake - Lago di Bolsena - with an amazing boat trip around two islands!
Lazio's best cheese shop in a cave with the best Peccorino ever!
Civita, The city that dies slowly!
The greatest duomo with cruel reliefs and an amazing history. Incredible caves with dove cots and old bankers! I love it!
A wonderful view out of Pippa's guest room's window into the great wide open, a lush landscape full of bore and deer. Or the view out of the bathroom window with a beautiful pitoresque ruine.
By the way, the best bore pasta - homemade. Mamma mia!
Our Risotto and long-time-ago-music night was also to remember!
And never be forgotten: The legendary boar walk in the middle of the night in the complete dark!!!
We saw hundreds of wild boar with their huge teeth fearfully threatening us. It WAS dangerous!

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy.... Senza Parole... or.. Life-in-a-roman-fountain-with-roman-dog-in-roman-midsummer-heat

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....Lion of ... !

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....crumbling away... shhh, dont tell lonely planet...

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Originally uploaded by sistaski.

Life-in-Italy....; in between Allerona Old and Allerona New
The site of nightly fires; ghostly noises and fireflies;
regrettably: no boars in sight