Category Archives: Communication

Margarita y Lucía

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En la rendija de un muro vivían dos lagartijas, Margarita y Lucía. Lucía estaba todo el día echada en el muro tomando sol. Margarita pasaba la mayoría del tiempo buscando insectos para sí misma y para sus hijos. Cuando veía a Lucía echada en el muro, se enfadaba.
“¡Tú cómo gastas el tiempo! Si fueras lagartija decente, por fin te preocuparías del bienestar de tus hijos. ¿Qué es lo que haces todo el día allí arriba?” Lucía pestañó y dijo: “Recupero energía. De esta manera sí que hago algo para mis hijos.”
“Lo veo diferente”, gruñó Margarita. “Y un día te llevará el águila ratonera o el halcón.”
“Esperemos a ver qué pasa”, opinó Lucía y se desperezó en el sol. Margarita prefiría buscar presa en la sombra de los arbustos bajos. Pasaba mucho tiempo cazando hormigas. A menudo parecía cansada. Su vida estaba cada día más amenazada: Ya no tenía nada que contraponer a la rapidez de los gatos y a la de las comadrejas.
Los hijos de Lucía se volvieron fuertes y despabilados, todo como ella misma. Pronto empezaron cogiendo las arañas más gordas, los cárabos más rápidos y aun grandes libélulas. Pero lo que les gustaba lo más era echarse en el muro al lado de su madre y estirarse a la luz del sol.

La brizna de pasto en el desierto

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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.”

Pantomime

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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

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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.

Fred

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« 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.

Everything Else

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

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

What God has Joined Together …

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This is now many years ago. My grandmother told me the following story. And this story had come about when she herself was young and still lived with her parents. A woman often came to her mother – my great grandmother – and poured her heart out. A neighbour who had many woes. My great grandmother was always there for others. She was a good listener, and she had a deep Christian faith. She often advised others and helped where she could.

This neighbour told her about her marriage. It must have been a terrible marriage. Her husband was often drunk. He hit her, he abused her. The woman was desperate. It occurred to her to get a divorce. A brave decision for a lonely woman in a village in Bavaria about eighty years ago. She shared her thoughts with my great grandmother. The latter advised her against it. “What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. So hath our Lord spoken.” She should try somehow to make it work with her husband. And so it continued for a while, again and again. Then one day it was said that the woman from the neighbourhood was no longer alive. She had hanged herself.

To Save the Goat

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“Turn around at the next junction! We must help the baby goat!” she insisted. To the right of us was a high supporting wall behind which, in a field, was a herd of grazing goats. One young goat stood lost below the wall. Had it fallen? It obviously could not get back to the others. It stood, helpless and lonely at the edge of the road. We turned around. Prohibitive signs and one-way streets directed us to a long diversion, but finally we arrived at our destination. The goat still stood at exactly the same place. Slowly we came closer. It looked at us, looked up – and with one, nimble leap, was back with the others.

Lumbago

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„Witch’s shot“, that’s what they call a lumbago in my country. And indeed, it is like a curse! This pain whenever I move! “It would be best not to move at all any more”, I thought. “If I just keep my arm in front of the body, pull my right shoulder up, let the left shoulder drop down, and bend a little bit forward, I can stand it.” If I were to move very cautiously, I could even go to the door. But how should I press down the handle without changing my posture? Any wrongfalse movement was causing terrible pain.

On the other hand: What was a “wrongfalse movement” in this situation? The longer I stayed in my unnatural position, trying to protect myself from the pain, the more my muscles tensed, and the worse they would ache afterwards. If my means of escape were actually my trap – what could I do?

I decided to do an experiment. Instead of trying to find a comfortable position for my body, I went into the most painful position I could stand for a prolonged time and I stayed like this. Surprisingly, my pain became less after a few minutes, and my ability to move increased. Once more I leaned back into the pain – the worst I could bear. And again the pain decreased after a while and I could move more freely. I repeated this procedure another six or eight times. The curse lost its power and turned into bliss.