Sometimes I let my gaze wander throughout the day. Sense perception becomes speech, and secret compositions resound in the events of the day. Who creates these images for me? Here are ten notes on the day from the last three years of repeated days on Earth.
I. In the clear First Advent light, close to heaven. Nearby, the ever-warm-brown Earth, a wide field. Above, the most delicate flowing light, shimmering along the cobweb’s netting in the surrounding landscape. Minne refuses to wear gloves. She keeps stretching out her small, bare fingers—her little feelers—bends down to the Earth, feels around, looks with her finger-eyes at oak leaves, a last dandelion flower, ice-crystal grass, and an old heap of horse apples in the middle of the path. All is dear to these little fingers. And how dear it is to the oak leaves, dandelion blossoms, ice-crystals, and horse apple heap to see this child, to be touched by these little fingers.
II. So near to a secret of rhythmic repetitions. Digging in deep like a worm of words, like a worm of gold in my day’s earth. I start audaciously but enjoy doing it badly rather than well. Our garden—more overgrown than ever… wherefrom all the thorns?
III. After a fitful night, fell asleep again early in the morning. In the middle of the dream’s events, squeezing through the slats of a fence, a fox appears. He rushes past and disappears again, as if he’d just used my dream as a shortcut. Planning the day: following directions, only to find myself completely lost because reality looked so different.
IV. In the dark, through mud and rain, we trudge to the sandbox. Vanya wants to dig deep, because who knows? Maybe St. Nicholas hid something there. St. Nicholas, with his big book, where he writes down all our deeds. He already put a bounty of fruit in our shoes this morning, the shoes that carried us to our deeds. And, through our house, St. Nicholas left a trail of golden stars. Now we dig and dig and see nothing, but we find a pine cone that smells quite wonderful. How did it get there? Vanya smiles knowingly, or rather, I sense his knowing smile, because I can’t see anything. “I told you, Mama!” And again I see a golden trail of stars. You can see them even when it’s completely dark.
V. In the evening—surprise for making it through the day. I long to be fresh, clear. How does it come? At night, the surrounding space revitalizes with a rosy caress. So tomorrow, when I steel myself again, I’ll still fall softly into you. And you. And…. Dew upon my temporal skin! The dishwasher runs, wonder persists.
VI. Just a little step back. Our old front door glitters, light leaks in, flows, rainbow stars. Minne and I sit on our not-so-old, very comfortable stairs and find it beautiful. Vanya is afraid of the figure that lives in the basement, in Grandpa’s old metal workshop. Vanya wants to fetch wood for the stove. The way leads past the figure. I suggest wearing the crown of Michael and explain to him that if he shines brightly, the figure will become very small and funny. And when you’re afraid, it gets bigger. Today was Michaelmas at kindergarten, hence the crown. Vanya’s really shaking, so I slip on my mysterious crown, shine as brightly as I can, and go down the stairs. Not much more grown-up than Vanya, just more experienced in dealing with figures.
VII. The evening dissolves the pictures of the day, lifts them up, ever so light, and paints them with light. I no longer find the words to grasp them, let them float away, and hold with me only a faint feeling—as a seed for my tomorrow. The open blossom of the morning glory sucks me into the inner side of the world.
VIII. Last night, a secret room, still dark. On the floor, mandala streams flow between sandy paths. My eyes become more light, and I more and more sense the grandeur and majesty here. A woman’s contours brighten: a birch tree has fallen, she says. I think of fetching it, the bright white branch from the dark woods. I want to ask her the way, but the room fills with more and more people. In their hands, they each carry a stick and a violin bow. I weep with beauty as the bows begin to stroke the wood and heavenly music resounds.
IX. With the fingertips of my words, I wander over the rough ridges and through the deep furrows of a black locust trunk and observe how the dead bark of the tree comes alive under my touch.
X. Our kitchen dusted white with powdered sugar, two happy little patting hands, mischievous squeals when caught. And a grape-juice waterfall on our carpet, another successful coup, and a celebration when Mama gets angry! The first chestnuts shucked from their hard, white shells, wonders of maple, elm, and linden seed pirouettes, sucking on tender rosehips, and fluffy little feathers found again and again, which we let fly from the palm of our hand.
Translation Joshua Kelberman
Image Ice crystals and dandelion; Photos: Laura Liska; Collage: Fabian Roschka.
