Tomorrow

“Your legs look all puffed up! They look terrible! You need to go to hospital right away!” Erwin’s friends said when they saw him. “Not necessary”, Erwin replied. “It is necessary! Come on, get ready, we’ll drive you there.” “Tomorrow, maybe.” “You need to go to hospital. Promise us that you will go!” “Okay. I will go tomorrow.” “Will you give us a house key so we can get your pyjamas and things, in case you need anything in hospital?” Erwin handed it to his friends. Then they left. It was the last time they saw him alive.

Grief

Herr Gundolf said: “Yesterday when I thought of the death of my mother thirty-three years ago, I had to weep.” I asked him: “Does that make you wonder?” He shook his head: “It doesn’t make me wonder. It just surprises me.”

Thought Experiment

Assuming you had died and discovered that there was indeed another life, and that there existed a kind of heaven and hell, but again in between so many other places, as many as there are people, only everything quite different from what the stories of old tell us… and assuming this heaven and hell and the many other places consisted of nothing more than what you have become and so remain, and that there you would constantly live with the love which you have spread, or also with your indifference and your bitterness and your anger…

And assuming that the whole of eternity were nothing more than going for walks in your life which you had and being enabled… allowed… or obliged… to observe your former life quite minutely from all sides…

And assuming you would spend your whole existence in thinking and considering: who you were… who you became… what you received… and what you gave…

And assuming that it were so, and you knew about it – what would that mean for your life here and now?

Clearing Out the Cupboard

I have a large sitting room cupboard. When I moved into my apartment I had carefully cleared it out. Everything had its place. But over the years many things which didn’t belong there – or at least not any more – had found their way to the compartments, shelves and drawers. My life had changed and other things had become important.

Now I cleared out my cupboard. First I took everything out and scattered it on the floor, resulting in a wild chaos – but a chaos that made some kind of sense. All the same, I need time to organise. Some things bring back memories. I have to look at them once again. Others demand a decision. There are things which will be thrown away. There are others which will be kept, not in the cupboard, but somewhere else, for example in the attic. Again others come back into the cupboard, but in another place.

The whole cupboard should be newly organised. But first I will wipe out the cupboard, remove the dust and perhaps also polish it.

My daughter was just here. She looked at the huge chaos and said to me: “I thought you wanted to tidy up?”

Mary

“I won’t die before Mary is in her place again!” It sounded quiet and sure from Erna’s mouth. It was autumn. The pneumatic drills hammered on the street and a sweet, biting smell of tar lay in the air. This was the house of Erna’s parents. She had lived here since she was a small child. She could still remember this place when the horses and carts used to be the mode of transport and then, later the first trams! She hung on to this place which was filled with memories.

But mostly she loved the fountain in the centre, the fountain with the statue of the Virgin Mary. The marketplace had been extensively pulled up. The workers had carried the fountain away. Experts had first carefully marked each stone so as to be able to rebuild it exactly as it was. When the new year came, the square was newly plastered. And finally the fountain with the statue of the Virgin Mary also returned to its place.

For a couple of days Erna enjoyed the new and yet long-familiar view. Then she was ready.

The Little Garden

Mr. Wright lives in Hopville at the river Gies. This is situated near Evenbrook at the Reed, close to the village of Lowfield. Every day, Mr. Wright works in his little garden. He hoes the ground and weeds out the dandelions. He plucks the dry leaves off the sunflowers and waters all the plants in his garden. Two neighbours pass by. They whisper: “Oh, look at him! Does this man have nothing better to do than to water his flowers all day?” The hobby gardener hears their words and says to himself: “I don’t deserve to be considered lazy. I have plenty of work!” The next morning, Mr. Wright gets up quite early. He throws himself into his work and puts in some overtime. He is very industrious. His boss is proud of him. The beautiful plants in his garden dry up however, and after a few weeks, his garden is full of weeds. One evening, he hears his neighbours passing by: “Oh, look at him! How this man lets his garden go to waste! It is an embarrassment for the whole village!”

The next morning Mr. Wright gets up even earlier than before. He takes his job very seriously, working hard without a break, all day. Coming home from work late at night he works in his little garden. While doing so, he hears his neighbours say as they pass by: “Oh, look at him! Hasn’t this man got four children? He spends no time with them nor does he support his poor wife in her daily work. He should be ashamed of himself.”

From then on Mr. Wright gets up even earlier. The break of dawn sees him working in his little garden, just before he goes to his company, where he works like a madman. In the afternoon, he helps his wife, and then he supports his children in any way he can think of. Dead tired he falls into bed. This continues for a while until one morning he does not get up any more. The doctor fills in the death certificate. “Myocardial infarction” he notes. Two days later the funeral takes place. His faithful neighbours also accompany him on his last journey. “Oh, look at him! He could have taken it a bit more easy and lived a calm and pleasant life. Why did he work so hard?”

The Ginnel

I knew a man who told me this story. Someone came to him when he, like you, no longer knew what to do. “There’s nothing more I can do”, he said. “I’m stuck in a dead end”. Then something occurred to him – he who told me this – and he explained:

“This reminds me of the small passages from one street to the next, called ‘ginnels’. You can only get through them on foot. They are not much wider than a man. In the area I live, I know a dead end like you describe. When you go in, it goes no further, as is the case with dead ends. But with this dead end it is different, and I believe there are more like it: When you go right to the end, you find the ginnel somewhere on the side, quite inconspicuous between the houses.”