L’interrupteur d’arrêt d’urgence

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« Vous travaillez avec la méthode de l’hypnose ? », m’a demandé l’homme. « Alors vous pourriez tout simplement enlever-hypnotiser mon problème ». Il rigolait. Sa femme l’avait amené, il n’avait pas une grande envie de faire une thérapie. Je lui ai demandé « Quelle est votre problème ? ». « Il m’a frappé » a répondu la femme qui était assise à côté de lui. « En plus à ce moment-là j’avais notre fils sur les bras. » « C’était comme si quelqu’un avait appuyé sur l’interrupteur d’arrêt d’urgence » a-t-il dit. « Ca a été une réaction automatique. Cela n’aurait jamais dû arriver ». « Vous n’avez pas besoin d’être hypnotisé » ai-je répondu. « Vous pouvez faire ça vous-même. Est-ce que vous connaissez ces boîtes en verre rouges qui pendent dans les hôpitaux et les édifices publics avec un interrupteur qui déclenche une alerte incendie ? » « Bien sûr » a dit l’homme. « « Pourquoi y-a-t-il un verre devant ? « « Pour qu’on ne la déclenche pas par erreur ». « Et si on prenait une vitre très fine comme une lame porte-objet pour un microscope ? » « Elle casse quand on se cale contre ». « Qu’en est-il du verre blindé ? » « C’est trop épais. » « Réfléchissez à l’épaisseur pour que votre femme ne puisse pas la défoncer. Regardez cette vitre et mettez-la en place. »

The Wash

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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.

Africa

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This therapeutic story can be used for supporting learning in general, as well as re-learning abilities after a health problem. For example, it can be applied quite beautifully with stroke patients. Obviously, it is also indicated as a story supporting change and developement with anyone who has got a strong biographical link to Africa. Of course, instead of Africa, other continents or regions of the world can be used, in order to adapt the story to individual needs. The reason why I chose the mapping of Africa as the key focus of this story is, that on maps Africa has the shape of a head or scull and thus points to brain functions.

Maps have existed for millennia but there a big differences between modern maps and those from dating from earlier centuries. For example, three hundred years ago, if a publisher printed a map of Africa, it had big white patches on it. ‚Terra incognita’ was marked on it; unknown territory. The coasts were then largely free of such white spots, but the interior of the continent was still a single, large white patch. However, many researchers undertook trips into the heart of Africa and what they learned there, they reported to the cartographers who diligently recorded everything. Land and water routes were discovered. The turns of each river were researched and drawn. The names of the settlements were recorded and the names of the tribes written down. The white patches on the map became smaller and smaller. The parts of the country that were explored and known steadily grew. Finally, the white spots disappeared completely. The whole of Africa was mapped.

To Fail with Enthusiasm

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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.

The Zen Cat

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“Mom, in my next life I´m going to be a cat”, my son said, “look at her. She eats when she eats, she purrs when she purrs and she sleeps when she sleeps. She is always self centered”.

“Good idea”, I answered, “ you can try to find out how that feels in this life already, if you want to”. My son glanced at me knowingly and smiled.

Coger zarzamoras

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Cuando era niño, a menudo ayudaba a mis padres en el jardín. Me acuerdo de como mi padre me instruyó a cosechar zarzamoras: “Toma una mora en la mano y tira un poco de ella. No fuertemente, solo un poco. Si está madura, cae en tu mano por sí misma. Si no se suelta por sí misma, déjala. Todavía tiene un sabor agrio.”

Le gramophone

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J’ai un phonographe à la maison. J’y fais passer des chansons comme « Nur nicht aus Liebe weinen » – Seulement ne pas pleurer à cause de l’amour et « Ich weiß, es wird einmal ein Wunder gescheh’n » – Je sais qu’il y aura un miracle un jour. Zarah Leander chante ça avec sa voix basse – c’est magnifique ! Puis j’écoute la voix de corbeau de Louis Armstrong, et pour moi c’est une rencontre avec lui-même, avec lui tout personnellement. J’écoute Caruso, il chante avec son vibrato depuis la nuit des temps : « O sole mio… ». Leurs voix volent vers moi des rainures du disque, sans électricité. Elles arrivent vers moi comme les voix de ces personnes même. Quand leurs voix retentissent du pavillon, les chanteurs sont des hôtes dans mon temps. Je les rencontre dans la même pièce. Puis le gramophone se tait, leurs voix retournent dans cet autre monde séparé du notre, là où habitent les anciens possesseurs de ces voix.

Explosion

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This is a story by my colleague and friend Katharina Lamprecht from Bruchköbel near Frankfurt, Germany…

One day an old Sufi master came through a little village, where just previously a big blast had occurred. In the middle of the village square was a huge hole in the ground and stones and lumps of mud and earth scattered everywhere. „Master“, the people cried, “look at the disaster that happened to us.  The center of our village, our village´s pride and joy, is destroyed. What shall we do?  Please, advise us.” „Dig“, the old man answered. „Dig? But there is already such a big hole. Wouldn´t it be better to fill it up“?
“If you have to overcome an obstacle, there are different ways to do so. You can either ignore it, remove it or use it. You never know if there is a treasure hidden”. Pondering these words, the people began to dig slowly, deeper and deeper until they hit upon a natural spring of pure sweet, delicious water which in time brought trees and flowers to their village square.