Dust dance in the wind

All is in darkness, all around me is like in grey, thick, cold winter fog. Has anybody, except me, ever honestly inquired facts about our family history?

From where root all these dark secrets around my life? Who has tried in our family history, to explore these hidden mysteries?


The facts are summed up in a few sentences: Father met Mother as high officer in WW2 the year 1943 in Paris. Mother worked for father as his secretary. Father was married, has two boys. Father's wife died - mysteries start. How did she die?

After the war father married my mother, who gave my life February 1948. My oldest half-brother, born 1939, shot himself 1961. That are the facts.

One night again these nightmares hunt my dreams and wake my woman Mima up with my lamentably cries for help: ''Help! Help me!''

Mimamai takes my hand and consoles me, crawling from my subconscious dream into a more conscious reality: ''Everything is allright, don't be afraid, I'm next to you.''

In my dream mixes the murderer from the Roman Polanski film ''Oliver Twist''. This criminal hanged himself in an accident. In my parents home I had to solve a most difficult assignment. After long calculations I find a solution. I want demonstrate the results to my brother. My brother has hanged himself. Disappointed I ask myself: ''Has here everybody hanged himself?'' In my despair my father threatens with a pistol to shoot me.

In this disastrous night Mimamai wakes up from my whimper: ''Help! Help me!'' Mimamai consoles me: ''Everything is all right, don't be afraid, I'm next to you.''





Father's Old Dining-Chair - for eBay sale



I guess these ongoing nightmares motivate to write endless stories.
Is this my way, to clean up the mess inside? Who is interested?
Seldom I read my fauntasies again.

The ones from my family are the last, who participate in these intimate, torturous stories. I guess, my brothers in daily life, judge my public confessions as my craziness. Maybe they are right. At least my brother has with hundreds of eBay sales a social achievement as ''Power Seller''. My most mean provocations admire my brother - a bit.

Everyone in our family pretends, to play a successful ''normal'' life. The ''Black Sheep'' is the scapegoat. This 'Agent Provocateur' has to carry the collective failure of the group. This theory is my experience from my rule as ''Black Sheep''. Watch out, to contact me can be polluting!

The protective curtain around the cruel facts from our family past is a smile, slime friendliness, talks about all and everything - except the facts! Bad ''Black Sheep'' mocks about white sheepish Blablalbla.

White sheep mock vice versa about bad Black Sheep Blablabla, but the wind of the white crowd blows louder. The louder this sheepish Blabla sounds, the more successful the crowd seems to be. But bad Black Sheep mocks: ''Nothing fails like success!''




Brother Uli, Mima, Mother, Uli's Wife and
her second son Max
Father left after his dead 1997 half a million Euro behind. From where does this money come? Has my father saved from his high position as Vice-President in the post administration year for year hundreds and thousands of Euros? Has the growing stock market enriched father? Have the rich ones ever betrayed, from where they got all their money? As students we have been convinced: ''Possessions are robbery!''

Tonight I speak with my Old Mom about her money. There's enough left, that she can not spend all in the simple Hotel on the country side the next coming 100 years! But in her age of 85 she's not more capable, to arrange her financial affairs.

These days past Christmas are her first insights, where she admits her deficits. On a first evening she is ready, to let my brother and me handle her financial affairs.

Isn't it difficult to trust my brother, when my nightmares mistrust my own parents? Isn't it difficult, to trust existence, when your own brother killed himself?




Brother and Mother enter the treasury chamber
in the savings bank
How can trust be easy for my Old Mom? Her 85 years finally force to surrender to existence and trust. Master LIFE takes over, has to take over. What a relief! Suspicion can change into confidence. Old Age comes as Sister-of-Mercy. Existence breaks down the armour with her facile brain stroke, with loosing memory, with loosing ears to listen, with eyesight to read, with loosing mobility to climb stairs.

Sounds cynic? In a warrior's life comes death as relief? What else is life but troubles and worries? Where else is are the enemies but in- and outside?

Mind, flesh and EGO die hard! Melts the death process egoistical longing into existential truth and trust? Sounds so simple, but.... But what else?

Experience and observation teach, there is no other chance to realize truth but by ''grace-of-existence''. Grace-of-existence like Old Age, severe sickness, grace-of-existence can be an individual or collective disaster too.



n0by, Mother and Brother Uli
at the savings bank account
Experience and observation teach, ''I'' have no chance, to realize ''truth''.

Experience and observation teach, ''I'' have no chance, to listen to the guidance of my ''Inner Voice''.

Experience and observation teach, ''I'' have no chance, to get the gift ''grace-of-existence''. Maybe some are born with this grace, maybe some die with this grace, maybe life gives ''grace-of- existence''?

My subjective survival instinct judges all-and-everything as ''good'' or ''bad''. On my subjective survival instinctive level my little, lousy Inner Politician claims with enormous rightness: ''Who is not for me, is against me!''

As far experience and observation teach, grace-of-existence streams opposite to this subjective survival instinctive animalistic level. Is Grace-of-Existence like an uplifting ''art-to-die''?

Is Grace-of-Existence like a heart feeling art beyond my subjective survival instinctive animalistic level?

Melts Grace-of-Existence into the mysteries?

Do mysteries ''under-stand'' - even miseries?



Mimamai: winter walk around my Mom's
old day Hotel
As far experience and observation teach, ''under-standing'' is no theory but a heart reality. An open heart feels from the Inner the Outer, feels from my inside your outside. Feelings ''under-stand'' and are pleasurable and simple. Love is.

My mysteries under-stand mass murderers like Hitlers as well as the Buddhas like Bhagwans. How can mystical under-standing judge anyone-anything as right or wrong?

For my personal political advauntage my subjective survival animalistic instinct hunts the best possibility.

Does natural existence equip all creatures for a hidden ''Master-Plan''. Who am ''I'', to judge? Where else root my judgments, when not in my personal subjective survival animalistic instinct? Calculate not all my judgements personal preferences with my ''ego-istical'' mind? Or are you ''beyond mind''?

Old Age forces my Old Mom to surrender to her sons. Suspicion finally grows into confidence. Grace-of-Existence cares for my Old Mom via her sons. Two loving, grown-up sons, my brother and I, we care and shelter my Old Mom. Like she has cared and sheltered us as babies, kids and youngsters. With love.



Our beloved parents brought us up in our dining-room.
Opens grace-of-existence finally a door to a realm, where my nightmares are left behind? Is there finally after five, six decades a heart-oasis to reach, to deepen peace with my family roots, to deepen peace with myself?

The night questions, the day answers. Isn't life an exciting adventure? Aren't stories boring, except the ones you celebrate - or suffer - alive?

Celebration or suffering is not even the question: dead or alive is the challenge. The holidays from Tuesday to Sunday with my Old Mom and her sister my Old aunt, are an inner adventure.

The rhythm of these old people is slowing down, down, down. After a while I feel a deep relaxation, to dive deeper in this slowness. Slowliness is holiness. Doing nothing, spring comes, grass grows by itself.



My Mom - on New Year's Eve Celebration with her sister
The memory of my Old Mom has big black holes. She has no idea, where her 89 years brother lives - in the University town Muenster, one hour drive nearby. On Thursday the daughter of his my mother brother's wife brings her mother in a rehabilitation centre, seven kilometres nearby. My Old Mom has forgotten on Saturday, where her brother and where his wife are.

Nevertheless the old people celebrate New Year night with jokes and little games. It's hard for my Old Mom, to stay awake till 9.00 p.m., when the feast is finished.

Drunk from a bottle of beer Mimamai and I bring Old Mom in her room, where she lives now in this beautiful hotel for more than one year. She will stay here as long as possible. Finally these days she gave up her apartment, where she can not climb up the stairs anymore. In the hotel she uses the accelerator.

Dust in the wind, we are. All we are dust in the wind. Meetings with old people leave no trace of doubt, what I am like everyone else: dust in the wind. The difference between words and experience is a hurtful experience. After a while the proud, cunning mind starts to relax. Dust dance in the wind.



Dust dance in the wind.

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