No sé si ya alguna vez hayas visto un águila. Claro, en el parque zoológico, pero en eso no estaba pensando. Si uno ve un águila en el zoológico, esa parece sin ganas, cansada y medio dormida. ¿Pues qué debería hacer? Un águila fue creada para volar, y eso no lo puede hacer en una jaula, en todo caso no verdaderamente. Lo que a mí me impresiona de las águilas es su fuerza y como la manejan. Se podría pensar que un ave tan grande también aleteara fuertemente cuando vuela. Pero eso no le hace falta a un águila. Traza círculos en el cielo, y aunque solo pocas veces mueve sus alas, puede subir hasta que la perdemos de la vista. ¿Cómo es que el águila sabe que es capaz de volar? Si un semejante animal pudiera hablar – creo que no empezaría a cuestionar la existencia del aire antes de ponerse a volar. Las águilas no necesitan pruebas. A ellas les basta de ser sostenidas. El resultado les sirve de prueba.
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.
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.”
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.
„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.
“In a land deep in your heart, there once lived a people which was as happy or unhappy as any people, and as rich or poor as any people, and as satisfied or longing as any people, and among them lived a boy who had a dream which many boys have: He wanted to search for a hidden treasure. Now this may not seem so peculiar, but this boy was lucky enough – or would you not call this lucky? – not only to have the dream of such a treasure but in fact to have found, in a secret hiding place in the garden, a key to just such a treasure. He had the key, the treasure belonged to him! But how should he find the treasure now, since he did not know where it was hidden? The boy sat down pondering.”
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?
How does one find Easter eggs? And why do some people search but not find? In case you are searching and have not yet found, allow me, as well as I can, to give you some hints.
Possibility one: very small children will not find any Easter eggs because they do not know what Easter eggs are. Sent off without a guide, they will most likely return with mushrooms and tufts of grass.
Possibility two: slightly biggerolder children know what Easter eggs look like but do not yet understand how to actually “search”. There are different ways of searching. And in case one himself isyou are an Easter egg, one yourself, you must know: A good way to find is to allow oneself to be found.
Possibility three: somewhat biggerstill older children know what Easter eggs look like and how one looks for them, but they possibly search at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Have you ever searched for Easter eggs in places where there are no Easter eggs anywherenone? Then you know what I mean.
Possibility four: the Easter eggs are there, but they look a bit different than they did the previous year. Perhaps one knowsyou know them as being red and blue, and this time they are dyed in camouflage green. The inner image of the eggs does not correspond to the outer one. A frequent reason why people do not find what they are searching for is because it does not look like what they are accustomed to.
Possibility five: the Easter eggs are there and look as they did the previous year, but they are covered by something else. For example, clumps of grass, a piece of bark or an old drainpipe are lying on top of them. What is truly valuable oftentimes hides itself. OneYou must search for it.
When one considersyou consider all these possibilities and still doesdo not find any Easter eggs, there is only one thing that can help: pick up a paint brush and paint, and colour your own Easter eggs, red, yellow and blue, and hide them all over the place. Preferably so that a small, colourful part always peeps out from the green meadow!
“Your new Mercedes has arrived. You can pick it up from us straight away.” Brief and businesslike, the voice on the telephone reported this occasionevent. For the Brüderle family this was a day of celebration which they would spend with the whole family. One didn’t buy a new car every day! They decided to celebrate by visiting the safari park next to the motorway on the way back.
They drove through the compound in their shiny new car. A highlight was the elephants. They could see them from quite near. Mr Brüderle wound down the window in order to photograph them. One look through the open window and: Slap! The elephant had already knocked the camera out of his hand. Then the beast stretched its trunk deep into the vehicle. Was there something to eat in here? Mrs Brüderle and the children were thoroughly examined by its soft, smelling apparatus. The mood in the car alternated between disgust and horror. Something must be done! But what? Mr Brüderle had an idea. Quite slowly he wound up the window so as to give the elephant a gentle warning to pull back its trunk. However, the elephant did not follow this hint, at least not before giving the car a good kick.
When they got to the exit of the park, the Brüderle family regarded the damage. A huge dent had appearedwas to be seen! In order to soothe themselves the parents drank beer and the children had ice-cream. Then they made their way home. After a while a car followed them which drovedriving zigzag like a snake. The vehicle drove off the road to the right and after a short drive across a field, came to a halt. The Brüderle family stopped to help. It just so happened that the driver of the car had had an epileptic fit. Mrs Brüderle took care of the patient while Mr Brüderle called the police and ambulance.
“Were you also involved in the accident?” asked the policeman, who recorded the accident. “No”, replied Mr Brüderle. “Where did this huge dent in your car come from then?” the policeman wanted to know. “An elephant kicked it in”, was the answer. Dumbfounded, the policeman looked him in the eyes. “Blow in here please…” That day Mr Brüderle lost his driving licence.