El cine a través del escaparate

Llovía. No había clase. Como cada sábado por la mañana, ella estaba detrás del mostrador de cristal donde se exponían panecillos, pasteles y otros productos de panadería y de pastelería para la venta. A través del escaparate veía como el viento barría las hojas de los arboles revoloteándolas por la calle.
Delante de la tienda una mujer luchó con su paraguas. Encima, en el escaparate, había una inscripción con letras gruesas que decía: “Panadería Müller”, en escritura invertida, desde luego, para alguien que lo leyese desde adentro. Cuando ella estaba sola y no tenía que atender a clientes, le gustaba imaginarse que este escaparate fuera una pantalla de cine y que lo que veía detrás de él fuera solo una película.
En su fantasía entonces cambiaba la escena. Los coches se volvían en carruajes, las hojas en pájaros y, por ejemplo, esta mujer con el paraguas se convertía en su madre luchando contra un dragón furioso. Especialmente esta imagen le divertía mucho. Su madre, que lo entendía todo mal, que malinterpretaba sus palabras, que sabía convertir lo bueno en malo y lo malo en bueno, probablemente también hubiera podido superar un combate contra un dragón furioso o por lo menos hubiera conseguido un empate. Hasta el próximo combate.
La mujer con el paraguas había desaparecido hace tiempo. Ahora ella se imaginaba, pues, qué le gustaría escribir en el escaparate en lugar de la palabra aburrida: “Panadería Müller”. ¿Qué tal si fuera “eres importante para mí”, “de todas formas te quiero” o “me enojo contigo porque te quiero”? O quizás también: “Te enojo …”. Sonreía un poco pensando en esto. Se figuró el efecto que tuviera esta inscripción en la gran luna del escaparate. Toda la gente que pasara por la panadería podría leerla, también su madre. Ella se figuraba entonces la inscripción: “Eres importante para mí”. ¿Podría su madre finalmente entenderla entonces a ella? Se la imaginó parada delante del escaparate, frunciendo y meneando la cabeza. Entonces se le ocurrió la idea: “Tienes que colocar tus palabras en escritura invertida.”

(Por Stefan Hammel, traducción: Bettina Betz)

Midsummer Night’s Dream

Another beautiful story by Katharina Lamprecht

One day, it was Midsummer and the Swedish days where as long as the dinner table for the king’s birthday. A wise old moose on his evening stroll met a young boy, sitting on a moss covered tree trunk, sobbing deeply. The old moose stopped and looked at the boy who did not notice him because of all his despair. Not until the moose nudged him with his soft muzzle did the boy raise his eyes. And just in front of him he saw the big brown eyes of the moose. He saw in those eyes all the stars in the heavens that he could not see before on this Midsummer night. So big, so deep and so endless the eyes seemed to be that he got the feeling he could just take a walk right into them. The stars where so beautiful, like jewels, iridescent and glittering in all colors he could imagine, scattered like the crumbles on grandma’s apple-pie, big ones and small ones, thick and thin ones, each of them meaningful and unique. At the sight of all those treasures the boy got the feeling he was surrounded by good friends, who bestowed upon him potency and love.

So they stood for a long time and looked at each other, the young boy and the old moose. Then the moose blew his warm and soft breath through the boy’s hair, turned around and faded into the forest. The boy looked after him for a long time, as if in trance, and only after a while did he discover that his infinite sadness had transformed. It was still there but all of a sudden there was also a happiness and cheerfulness. And he somehow felt that this had something to do with the stars he had seen in the fathomless eyes of the old moose.

He turned around and walked back home. And whistling happily away he kicked at the stones that laid on his way.

Le village de montagne

J’ai demandé à un client : « Si vous voulez, imaginez-vous une fois votre vie comme un village de montagne, dans lequel le fleuve a débordé et a amené beaucoup de boue et d’éboulis. Après ce malheur le conseil municipal se réunit avec les villageois, les pompiers et la protection civile et ils discutent de ce qui est à faire. Il arrive tout d’abord des gens avec des pelleteuses, des bulldozers et des camions pour enlever le plus gros des éboulis. Pouvez-vous vous imaginer cela ? » « Oui. » « Vous pouvez voir comment ils déblaient tout ça. Après l’équipe de rangement il arrive des gens avec des tuyaux et des balais. Ils enlèvent toute la boue et le sable du village, toute cette saleté qui est venue de l’arrière-pays. Vous pouvez voir comment ils font tout couler vers le bas dans la vallée. Vient ensuite l’équipe des artisans. Il y a des maçons, des plâtriers, des peintres, peut-être aussi des électriciens, des installateurs, des stucateurs, des restaurateurs. « Que font-ils d’après vous ? » « Ils peuvent plafonner ou cloisonner. » « Exact. Quoi d’autre ? » « Poser une moquette. Câbler. Placer des tringles à rideau. » « Exact. Après les artisans arrivent les jardiniers. Ils aménagent de nouveau les parcs et les jardins. On rajoute peut-être un puits au village ou un tilleul au village pour améliorer encore plus le village, pour qu’il soit mieux qu’avant. Et un monument commémoratif. Peut-on imaginer cela ? » « Pas très bien. » « Eh bien, vous n’avez pas besoin de vous imaginer tout ça. Dites bonjour à votre âme, pour qu’elle fasse ça pour vous, comme ça vous n’avez pas à vous en occuper. Après il y a des personnes très importantes qui arrivent. C’est l’équipe de prévention. Ce sont eux qui veillent à ce que cela n’arrive plus. Ils peuvent planter la pente au-dessus du village par exemple, pour que les racines des arbres fixent la terre. Ils peuvent construire des murs et des grillages dans le style d’un paravalanche. Ils peuvent creuser un lit plus profond pour le ruisseau, peuvent construire des marches de barrage et des bassins de retenue ou même une déviation pour l’eau du ruisseau qui est de trop. »

The Wash

This is another story by my colleague and friend Katharina Lamprecht

Once there was a little ghost, who felt so down and out that it could not even find any pleasure in haunting its tiny world. The days seemed to be like huge impassable mountains and even the tiniest movement was too much for it. It felt so run down that a gust of wind was able to grab it and sweep it into a washing trough, where linen was being soaked. Too wet, too heavy in body and mind and too tired the little ghost sighed and sank to the bottom of the trough.
Now because it looked exactly like a linen, the washer women took it through the whole procedure of wringing and mangling and put it on the clothesline in the end. There it was, hanging down from the line, flabby and damp and drifting feebly in the summer breeze.
The more it dried, the more effortlessly it flapped around on the clothesline but in its sad and doleful condition it could not feel or sense its lightness. But then a little girl walked by, stopped and looked at it for a while. Then, with a yearning in her voice, she said, “Oh, if I were able to fly so easily in the wind, I would laugh and sing and enjoy my day”. She went off but the little ghost looked after her for a long time and thought, “Oh, you would, would you?” and started to move just a tiny little bit on its own.

To Fail with Enthusiasm

In a professional forum a colleague asked, if anybody knew of a certain therapeutical story. He remembered one that he once heard and thought that it was from a famous storyteller. Until then I never had actually written in this forum but now I wrote on behalf of this colleague’s question that I thought it was the famous story about a tiger. I was quite happy that I was able to contribute something at last until I read the response of another colleague. “I don’t know anything about a tiger”, he wrote, “but I guess you may have thought about the famous lion story”. I instantly sank into a hole three miles deep, full of shame and embarrassment. Now wasn’t that just typical of me and my incomplete knowledge? Shortly afterward I told a friend of mine what had happened, still very ashamed. But he hugged me and said “But you gave that wrong information with much love and enthusiasm”. I looked at him and began to work my way out of that hole.

Des pieds engourdis

Un jour d’hiver alors que tu as fait une longue randonnée, il peut arriver que tu ne sentes plus tes pieds. Et au début quand tu arrives au chaud tes pieds sont encore engourdis. Peut-être les poses-tu sur un radiateur – ce qui est bizarre c’est qu’ils commencent juste à faire mal une fois que le froid est passé et non avant dans la glace et la neige. Un fou pourrait dire : je ne décongèle pas mes pieds alors ils ne font pas mal. Pourtant celui qui a de l’expérience sait : La chaleur endolorit les pieds froids seulement un moment. Il faut dépasser cette phase. Une fois la douleur surmontée on passe à un moment de chaleur agréable.

Le nom sécret

Quand un enfant indien arrive au monde il reçoit un nom de ses parents. Ce nom n’est que provisoire, c’est-à-dire il peut changer ou être complété par un autre nom. De la part du sorcier de la tribu l’enfant reçoit en outre un nom secret qui est son vrai et propre nom et connu seulement de lui. Personne ne peut toucher à ce nom. Personne ne peut en faire un mauvais usage. Son vrai nom n’appartient qu’à lui. L’enfant indien reçoit aussi une pierre de la part du chamane. Si le sorcier meurt avant que l’enfant ait appris son nom de sa part, le jeune indien se retire à un endroit désert. Il reste à cet endroit jusqu’à ce que la pierre lui dévoile par un rêve ou une autre révélation son vrai nom. Dans beaucoup de ces pierres il y a des druses, ce sont des cavités avec des pierres précieuses. Dans d’autres il y a de l’or, et dans toutes il y a un enchantement curatif et la force du nom clandestin.

After the storm

I’m using this story with stroke patients, with those who suffer from Multiple Sclerosis and with traumatised persons, including certain situations of separation and berievement. Most of all, it can be useful to support persons who want to recover their memory and access to their abilities.

The storm has done its work. The trees lay criss-cross in the forest. Their trunks block paths and streets. No traveller can make progress here. But when the storm is over, then comes the time of the lumberjacks. With their saws they cut free the paths, lift away the barriers and clear all the streets, starting with the outermost edge of the forest all the way to its innermost core.

Pantomime

After a while of pausing I would like to continue with some stories…
However, I would like to change the format a little bit and take turns between different languages. So, in addition to therapeutic stories in English there will be some in French and Spanish, as well. But, first of all, let’s continue in English . Here’s one which I have personwitnessed in our local hospital.

“Good morning. My name is … ” he began his speech. “She can’t speak,” explained the nurse. “Stroke… ” The helpless gestures of the young lady patient let him know that she did not understand his words, except for a few, for which he managed to coax from her a nod or a shake of the head. How can you still communicate with such a person? With gestures he painted in the air a steep staircase for her with high steps. But alas he sighed “Too steep!” He shook his head in disappointment. Then he drew with his hands a staircase with long low steps. With his fingers, he went along the whole staircase.
The woman looked attentively and nodded. With his hands he painted a high mountain in the air. A man of two fingers wanted to climb it. But he fell again. Then he found a path with a gradual slope, a zigzag, with many turns. He went this way. The woman’s eyes began to shine. And so the pantomime took its course. “Keep your eye on the goal” and “passion” followed as the next images. The movements of a marathon runner and an upwardly clenched fist; they inspired to perseverance and a fighting spirit.
The turning hands of a clock showed that it would take time. He continued the charade with his hands together on the side of his inclined head. “Sleep” and “wake”, “sleep” and “wake”, and many many times they would have to “sleep ” and “wake” until they would be at the peak, which he kept looking upwards at with his eyes and pointing to with his outstretched forefinger. With hands and feet, with his whole body, he portrayed the picture of how her children would hook into her left elbow, and her parents the right and how they would all go together with her, all the way.
Once again he stretched out his fist to the sky. She would have to fight for all she was worth. Three days later, he again visited the woman. “You know,” said the lady in the bed next to her, “she has been here for four weeks and nothing really happened but in the last three days she has made amazing progress”. He spoke with the patient again and this time she understood every sentence. Then he took his leave. “Goodbye” she said. It was her first recovered word.