vrijdag 25 december 2009


Today is the last day of my meditation marathon. This morning I did a writing meditation, at the kitchen table with two yellow candles, while outside it was snowing. Somehow I had the feeling that I entered a lighter place in myself.
Eventhough I did not even know I was in the dark.

I wrote about the power of limitation. How it helped me to write on this blog, because I had one topic. Meditation. When I can write about Life, words block, it is too big. Before the meditation marathon this blog was almost empty. But a small entrance gave me space to write. And actually meditation gives a broad terrain - it includes whole life.

So I will keep filling this blog with limitation. And I will limit myself in the new year. These last days I will think how. Which limitations make me grow? Which theme gives me space to write about life? Which commitment, like meditating every day, helps me to go deep?

Limitation as a gift, as an entrance for a broad terrain like a new year.

May you all limit yourself in a deep and meaningfull way ;)!

dinsdag 22 december 2009

Low sun and long shadows

It stayed with me the last days, the subject of light and shadow.

It occurred to me a week ago. It was midday. The sun was shining, but low in the sky.
This gave the big oak in my garden a huge shadow on the fresh snow.

When the light is low, the shadows are long.

Midwinter is a time that shows us our shadows. Shadows show you who you are on this earth. Your bare form, reflected on the white earth, as an almost too clear mirror. No leaves, no flowers. When the sun is low, there is space for reflection. It can be hard to see our dark side; old patterns of impatience, old habits of feeling lonely.

But actually it is a gift. By seeing it we have the space to let go. Because we can only let go of things that are visible.

Yesterday we celebrated midwinter in my house. We built a snow igloo. And in the igloo a fire. The igloo reflected the orange fire. We were standing in an orange circle amidst of snow that made the shortest night light. We through in the fire a Branch of holly (the tree of letting go) and of oak ( the tree of building up) and a note with a word that we wanted to let go. Our shadow was eaten fast by the fire.

By seeing you shadow, you can let go. You can see you are not only this shadow. By burning it we became our own light, shining from within.

From the flower that I planted after burning my shadow Impatience, already grows some Patience. Patience with the sun rising within.

woensdag 16 december 2009


The snow shines as if
the full moon has fallen
from the sky on earth

Guided meditation

A small circle
of new people
on brown leather couches

I lead them to
a situation of joy
of nourishment

The circle gets wider
in between us
are acres of land
covered with fresh snow

We are hold by space
the world fits in our circle

With eyes open close together
around a candle
new to each other

With eyes closed
long familiar
floating in spaciousness


Yesterday morning. With 5 friends in front of my new kitsch Christmas altar. Full of lights, angels and maria's. The garden white from thin snow. Half an hour of deep silence. Strong silence, because we are together.

Yesterday evening. I was alone in my atelier. Nobody came to the Open meditation evening. I felt alone. I did not meditate, but, as a way of distracting myself, I put some more Christmas decoration in my shop-window. Hanged around for half an hour. And than my good friend A. showed up after all. We nestled us on the electric blankets while outside it was freezing. We listened to Jaya's talk from Tiruvannamalai. A. and I were there five years ago. And now again. We heard the rickshaws on the background of the recording. The chickens and the cooks. We stayed longer in our warm nests than planned.

Friends help.

zaterdag 12 december 2009

Free forest?

Walking meditation with my little chiwawa. The sun was sinking. The top of the trees were orange. The sky pink. I left everything at home. My wallet, my bag, to let go of all commitments, only my phone I could not leave behind, as a last piece of busy market mind.
Step by step I slowly arrived in the cold winter air. My dog was happy running really fast on the path before me. Almost there was peace.

Until a policewomen with a gun on her belt walked in my direction.
'Is that your dog?' pointing to a little white point running further and further.
I felt almost proud when I said Yes. So much joy in such a little animal.
'That will cost you 40 euro.'

Gone with the peace. There was no compassion, no love, no patience. Only anger.

'We're in nature! Dogs have to run now and then.'I said it with a red head of blood rushing.
'It is not allowed, he will disturb.' When I stared in disbelief at the police woman I saw she wore blue make-up.
'Did you see my dog, you think this little animal will disturb any one?' I asked.
'I want to see your ID'
'My ID? I am in a forest!'
'You are obliged to bring it anywhere. I want to see you bankcard.'
'Also at home.'
'Your phone?'
'Yes,' and I showed it. The police woman seemed relieved. Ha, now she could identify me.
She asked my number and called me. My Hindi song-ring tone that certainly disturbed more people and animals than my dog that still was dancing around us made her finally believe I was somebody. Nanda with a phone number. Not a human walking freely.

She wanted to join me to my home, but I could not handle the thought of having her in my house. I crossed my arms and fiercely said 'no way.'
It worked. She would send me the penalty. 40 euro for a free walking dog, plus 20 euro for me not having an ID.

I walked away full of tension. I hated Holland. Stupid rules.
Yes, she could me symbolic for my inner censor - fining me when I get too free.
Yes, she could teach me to love and accept every human being.

But she did not. I was just angry. Pfff.

But I have to admit - she gave me a good story after all.

vrijdag 11 december 2009

Market meditation

I have been standing on the christmas-market this week, selling book and Indian blankets. 'Real Kashmiri blankets!' I was telling every just a little interested by passer. And to any one slightly more interested 'A part of the money goes to Sister Mary's micro credit project.' I told it so many times, that I lost the meaning of it.

With my meditation marathon I had to be creative. There was not much time and space. Just that one minute that no one came by and I could sit on my chair.
I tried to concentrate on my breath, my heart, any inner space that I could find amidst of selling marketmen. 'Everyhing half of the half price!' yelled the men selling Christmas ligts. It started my business mind again. Maybe I should also lower my prices. I did not sell enough.

But happily I had a neighbor selling sausages. And in the time that he did not have enough customers (and I was sitting on my chair, trying to meditate)he was yelling: wake up! wake up!
With my eyes closed it became a spiritual message. Wake up. Wake up to the light in yourself! Wake up to what is really important! To support single Indian women! To pass on their stories. Wake up. Do not lower your prices as if the women are sausages. Wake up.

He is still there in my head, this sausage-seller, that by the way was very smart in selling and told customers every story they wanted to hear. Yes horsemeat! No horsemeat! He sold twice as much as me.
He does not know it. But the sold me a very TASTYTASTYTASTY spiritual sausage.

I woke up. And sold some more REAl KASHMIRI blankets. To pass on the light.

zaterdag 5 december 2009

Madonna meditation

This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

At home. Tired. Heavy.

Don't talk to me. Talk to me. Leave me alone. Don't leave me alone. Not tonight. Yes tonight - she wakes up.
In an instance she gets up from my bed. Instead of sitting in front of my altar, she walks to the stereo. She puts up Madonna. She takes of my dirty working jeans, puts on her new pink dress and starts to dance. The music loud. A party for two. For her and me. I missed her. We are on the beach. It's full moon. A sensual night. Together we meditate on the beats. This is who we are.

At home. Alive. Light.

donderdag 3 december 2009

The other side

Today I had an appointment so sit at 7.30 am.
My alarm clock waked me up roughly.
It was raining. I was tired. I went to the toilet.
Took my cushion. Wanted to walk to my housemates room. Turned around, dropped the cushion, went back to bed and slept.

It was the second time this week I decided NOT to do something. Tuesday evening I had a party in a city one hour away. I biked to the station. Bought a salad to eat in the train. On the platform I turned around and walked back to my bike and went home and to bed early.

I always teach my students to also write about the backside of things.
Write what you remember, but also what you do not remember. "I remember it was hot last summer and that I swam a lot, I do not remember if I did this naked."

Natalie Goldberg says in her book Wild Mind: 'Sometimes we write along one highway of "I remember" seat-belt ourselves in and drive. Using the negative, 'I don't remember' allows us to make a U-turn and see how things look in the night. What are the things you don't care remember, have repressed, but remember underneath all the same?'

So here I was. Racing on my highway of commitments. Stopping. Making an U-turn. Seeing the other side. The other side of meditation is sleep. The other side of a party is rest.
I rested in the shadow side. It was the same road. I just took a different direction.

dinsdag 1 december 2009


This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

Sunday I walked with five writers in silence through the forest.
We were walking words on the path. To write steps on paper later.
We made haiku's next to the wood stove. Writing as a way of meditating.
Counting syllables, in stead of breaths. 5-7-5.
Practicing in observing, in being present as a human, as a writer, but not to interfere. That is Haiku. To give the reader a visible piece of autumn.

Still and straight tree trunks
with black bare branches bowing
softly in the wind

zondag 29 november 2009


Yesterday late evening I had a poetry-reading-meditation in my bed.
Two poems from Rilke (Rilke's book of hours - love poems to God) stayed with me during the night:

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them grattefully
into a single cloth -
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a differend celebration

where the one guest is you
In the softness of evening
it's you who she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking centre of her monologues.
With each disclosure youo encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.


Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you.

donderdag 26 november 2009


This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

That is how it goes. Every time I write a definition about meditation, it will proof me next day that every definition is too small.

The other evening I wrote about softening. About a resting body and an open heart.
The next morning I woke up tensioned and full of the nightmare I had. No softening at all.
In my awakened heart were no blue flowers and pink hearts. Darkness was there.
I did not want to lie down anymore. I wanted to sit. I needed to be alert. Clear. Together with my housemate I sat in front of her window. I saw the candles on her altar, but outside it was dark. It was 7.30 am in the morning. I closed my eyes. Saw the night images coming by. A house full of small rooms where I lost my way. A phone call where I could only hear but not speak. A friend that was there but I could not see.

Breathing in, breathing out. Having a straight back. Going back to my sitting bones. Seeing the images passing by. But not drowning in them. Breathing.

The alarm clock rang. I opened my eyes. I was light. I was the bare oak in the garden. I was grey, but day. The sitting helped me to overcome the night.

woensdag 25 november 2009


This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

My meditations the last days are very laid'back.
Staying in bed ten minutes longer. Floating in between sleep and being awake.
Going to bed half an hour earlier. Taking time to soften before falling asleep.
A few years ago this would feel like fooling around. Like not REALLY meditating.
Meditating is being alert. Awake. Is to sit. Straight.
That is true. But it is not the only way.
For me meditation is more and more a way of softening. Of being really gentle to myself. To make a way free for the heart. A heart that awakens when my body and mind fall asleep.

maandag 23 november 2009

Autumn time

This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

The other day I wrote about my ten minutes practice. But after ten minutes I want more.

After writing wildly for ten minutes I touch I a deep voice that wants to speak, scream and dream only more.
After meditating ten minutes I touch a deep rest that wants to sink only more.

So yesterday I could not stop with a ten minute meditation a day. I did three.

In the morning I guided a dance meditation during the writing day for my Writing-Companions. I planned to use the kundalini-meditation cd of Osho, but I forgot it.
But nature came and helped. When we shake up our bodies, we did this on the music of the rain falling on the attic-roof. When we moved our bodies, we did this on the sound of the autumn storm racing around the house. We were really like trees in the wind. And when we rested, the sun came through and warmed our backs.

It feels like the autumn-time is supporting my meditation marathon. The wind shakes of my dead leaves and blows me inside. Literally.

In my lunch break I laid down on the bed next to the window and meditated on the clouds that sailed by. In the evening, wet of the storm I biked through, I went to bed early and sank deep into my roots.

Autumn makes from ten minutes an hour. And is still whining for more.

zaterdag 21 november 2009

I am my best idea

This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

Maybe I am my best idea.

This was a thought during my evening meditation.
Meditation can be painfully confronting with the working of the mind.
And my mind has many ideas. Great ideas. Such great ideas that I immediately want to act upon them. Want to post that new amazing course on my website. Want to invite my friends for that original party. Want to change the outline for my workshop to make place for that new, buzzing exercise.

I fully believe in my ideas. For a while. They can take me over. Until, paf, I awaken from them. After getting out of mu bubble I sometimes see my ideas are just air, sometimes they have potential.

Also during this evening meditation I was caught up in a new idea. Than I woke up and laughed. About this thought: that I am my best idea.

I saw a soul, a mind, an essence - however you call it- floating through the universe. A soul with a Great Idea: Lets have a life as a creative woman with a million ideas! And plop: there I was. Nanda. My soul's best idea.

Sometimes I awaken from this idea that I am. Than I can feel the essence of my soul. I float through creativity. Need no names. No ideas. No form. I am all ideas.

Teachers often said to me; the moment you REALISE that you're thinking, are moments you awaken. Short enlightenment's.

I am an idea where I can awaken from. To discover my real potential. Creativity.

Ten minutes

This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

Internet is a strange thing. It makes you act really fast. Dangerous for people like me with a thousand ideas. An idea like: lets write every day about my meditation marathon.So now I did not only commit (online) to every day meditating, but also (online) to every day writing. AND told all my friends about it...

Actually I did already commit to my morning pages. And to my morning yoga. So I was a kind of busy this morning with all my commitments that are supposed to bring me peace.

An American friend once wrote me that it is typically Dutch to use to word 'busy' so much, and also for the activities that you must not do, but actually like to do. Busy with friends, with meditation, with parties. Like that.

So this morning I was busy with all my new commitments. I was in the internet-acting-fast-mood. Ten minutes of writing, ten minutes of yoga, ten minutes of sitting. The ten minute style for writing is not new. I do it a lot. I take a subject and freely write about it for ten minutes. This can go really deep and is often surprising me with unexpected turns.

The ten minute meditation I did not try yet. But it was a kind of freeing. It makes it light and easy. I just sat for ten minutes on my pillow in front of the window. The autumn sun came just above the bare trees. I closed my eyes and let all my leaves fall. Ah. Breathing to my roots that were suddenly there. Commitments can be good. Even though they keep you busy. Even though you made them impulsively online. They make me act. Not only to wish. In ten minutes a whole world can change.

vrijdag 20 november 2009

First day visitor

This is part of my journal about my 40 day meditation marathon

This evening I was hanging on my couch as a meditation. I was tired from working, but felt relaxed. With my hands on my belly I sank into the pillows. Ah, at home.
Than a visitor came. It sat on my hand and bit me. A mosquito! In the middle of cold rainy Dutch November.
It was big, like the Asian ones.
It is buzzing around me. Eating my hands, feet.

It brought me back to my first meditation retreat ever. I was 20. It was in India, Bodhgaya. The hardest things of that retreat were not my obsessive thoughts or my changing emotions, no it were the mosquito's that I was not supposed to kill. Although they were all over me. My instinct was too big. Before a thought could stop me I already hit the poor animal. Dead. No peace. War.

Yes, later in the retreat I realised that I did the same with my thoughts. Instinctively I killed them.
A new thought came: I could be light. Raised my hands and hit it hard: nonsense. Bang.
A sincere thought: I am love. Bang: too soft.
A deep thought occurred to me: I am not the one who thinks. Crazy! Kill it.
Sitting with mosquito's, can be as sitting with yourself. I killed new thoughts before they could itch.

And now 13 years later I look with wonder at this strange, not expected visitor. I raised my hand, but stopped on time. No war. Peace. Let it itch.

Meditation Marathon

I committed myself. To meditation. For 40 days. Until Christmas. It happened online. Before I knew what I did I said Yes. I clicked and bought every day meditating like I impulsively buy books online.

We were in a Skype-meeting with friends from the international meditation Sanga, Open Dharma. Most of them I know from retreats in India. Because mysteriously my connection at home broke down at the time we would meet, I raced to an internet cafe in the 'bazar' of Utrecht, on the Kanaalstraat. Sitting amidst smoking and shouting men, it felt as if I was in India. My connection was also really bad and I could only hear some words in between a lot of noise.

So I heard: Christmas. Meditation. Together. Every. Gift. Peace. Yes?
And than from all directions, from the US, from Canada, from Spain and Amsterdam; yes, yes, yes, I commit, I do, I want, I will.
Nanda? You hear? Kind of. You join? Eh well, yeah.

Later I pasted all the words together in my mind.

Until christmas we all would meditate every day. By meditating together, we connect. By meditating during Christmas season, we give a gift. To ourselves; some inner peace. And as a small gesture to world peace.

So there I sit now, on my cushion. Before my online commitment I used to sit there a lot, but it feels different now. More important. Bigger. As if sitting is not only sitting anymore. It is part of a world wide intention. An intention to go deep, to find peace.

And to confirm this feeling of importance, I decided to write regularly about my meditation marathon. To bring what is inside, out there.

I write in English, so my Open Dharma friends can also follow.

If you feel, you can join. Just sit/ lie down/ walk for (inner) peace.
If you feel, you can support.
Open Dharma could use your gift.


maandag 12 oktober 2009


Met deze tekst ben ik een van de winnaars van de Trouw-schrijfwedstrijd geworden. Thema: Wortels.

‘Kijk, daar heb je de Spes Mea!’ roep ik naar Bram, die opkijkt van de waddenkaart en meteen de verrekijker pakt.
‘Veel groter dan ik me had voorgesteld,’ zegt hij.
‘En veel lelijker ook,’ zeg ik teleurgesteld als ik de verrekijker overneem. Hoe dichterbij de witte tjalk komt, hoe meer roeststrepen ik zie. Het zeil is verkleurd en de hoge railing breekt de lijn van het schip. Ik ga op de achterbolder van onze aak Marius zitten, die er opeens veel sierlijker uit ziet.

‘s Avonds als we in de haven van Schiermonnikoog liggen, zie ik de roodharige schipper lassen aan het roer. Gegeneerd kijk ik vanaf de kade toe. Ik zie de fok die mijn schommel was. Het kluivernet dat mijn klimrek was. De schipper ziet me niet staan.
‘Ik ben op dit schip opgegroeid,’ zeg ik.
Hij antwoordt niet.
‘Heb je dit schip al lang?’
‘Drie jaar,’ mompelt bij tussen het lassen door.
‘Ze is wel veranderd.’
Ik kijk naar het scheefhangende roer, naar de versleten ankerlier.
‘Als de bodem maar goed is, meissie, daar gaat het om.’
De bodem. Tja.
De schipper gaat alweer op in zijn laswerk. Ik ben zomaar een voorbijganger. Niets meer.

Ik keer terug naar het donkere stalen ruim van de Marius. De olielamp schommelt boven tafel, het ruikt naar teer.
‘De Marius lijkt meer op de Spes Mea van mijn jeugd, dan de Spes zelf,’ zeg ik tegen Bram die zit te lezen bij de houtkachel. Ik ga naast hem zitten.
‘Ik herinner me de Spes als de mooiste tjalk van het wad. Tot mijn derde, sprak ik met niemand. Alleen met dat schip. Ik had genoeg aan het geluid van brekende golven tegen de boeg, het suizen van de wind tussen de lijnen. Mijn lievelingsletter was de O, die vond ik overal aan boord: in de fok, in de trossen in de wolken. De Spes was mijn veilige burcht.’
‘En die is nu weggeroest,’ zegt Bram.

Een week later vallen we droog op de Engelsmanplaat. Om zes uur in de ochtend, een paar uur voor hoogwater, loop ik naar de oostpunt van de plaat. Mijn vader en ik hadden daar mijn eerste hond Huntje begraven. Hij was een echte waddenhond, hij wist precies wanneer het water opkwam en wanneer hij weer terug moest komen aan boord. Langs de vloedlijn zie ik hondenpoten in het zand verschijnen. Kleine meisjesvoeten ernaast. Ik volg ze. Ik zing een simpel lied van één lettter. OOO.
In de verte ligt de Spes Mea. Een zwart witte hond verdwijnt net achter de boeg.

Het water komt op. Meeuwen pikken hun laatste buiten van het wad. Kindervoeten veranderen in maatje 39. Huntje weet dat hij weer terug moet keren. Ik ook. Ik klim op de witte tjalk die in een blauwe aak verandert.

Het wad verdwijnt onder water. Het heeft even mijn wortels bloot gegeven. Dat is waar mijn oorsprong ligt, niet in een verroest schip.

‘Als de bodem maar goed is.’ Die roodharige schipper had toch gelijk.

maandag 14 september 2009


Deze zomer was ik de manager van een meditatieretraite.

De nacht voordat de retraite begon, lag ik piekerend wakker. Had ik wel genoeg auto’s geregeld? Hadden we voldoende eten? En had ik wel duidelijk genoeg gezegd dat de deelnemers zelf hun meditatiekussen mee moesten nemen?

Het was net alsof ik aan het werk was. Niets geen retraitegevoel waarbij ik ruimte in mezelf voelde.

Tijd voor een gedachte-experiment. Wat nou als de hele retraite eigenlijk al georganiseerd was? Dat alles al stond. En dat ik alleen maar hoefde te volgen, alleen maar een kleurplaat hoefde in te kleuren.

Inzien dat niet alles in mijn handen lag. Dat ik niet de kleurplaat hoefde te tekenen. Mezelf een iets minder grote rol toebedelen, maar wel gewoon te doen wat ik moest doen.

Het hielp. Ik viel in slaap.
Natuurlijk verdwenen de zorgen de week erna niet. Door een gedachte-experiment verander je niet meteen je manier van denken. Een manier van denken waarin Ik centraal sta. Als ik het maar goed doe.

Maar midden in de week, terwijl ik aan kop van een lange sliert wandelende, zwijgende mensen liep, zag ik mezelf plots als paard. Het was nog maar een uur of zeven, en de ochtendzon viel net over de heg heen. Ik zag in dat lage ochtendlicht de lijnen waarmee de groep achter mij, mij mende. Ik was helemaal geen leiding. Ik was een paard in dienst van, die trouw haar klus deed. Ik zou daar niet lopen, als zij er niet liepen. Zij hadden de teugels in handen. En ik werd niet alleen gemend door de mensen, maar ook door de ochtend, door de weilanden en goudgroene bomen. Overal liepen dunne, dauwige spinnenweb draden. En ik wist: dit organiseer ik niet. Dit wordt georganiseerd. En ik hoef alleen mijn eigen voetstappen te volgen, naar daar waar alles al is.

dinsdag 1 september 2009


Nothing needs to be it

Nothing needs to be found

Two spiders
their web

The morningrain

A candle
flickers and

Here, here, here
is everything
that wants
to be seen

maandag 24 augustus 2009

Ocean of words

Wise, sincere words
hang on top of the wave
as white water
about to break
into my heart

Splashing water
and opening shells
on the flat coast
of my lower belly

The sand
fills itself
with salt tears
rising up

I hear
break, break, break.

dinsdag 7 juli 2009

Dansen met de handen

Vorige week had ik Dansconditie. Dan dansen we onze spieren soepel op wereldmuziek.

Tijdens het dansen ben ik vaak afgeleid. Ik denk aan de verhalen die ik straks wil schrijven, over een workshop die ik zou kunnen geven. Ik zit dusdanig in mijn hoofd dat mijn voeten de weg kwijt raken. Ik zie mezelf in de spiegel naar links gaan als de rest van de groep naar rechts gaat. Mijn arm omhoog zwaaien als die opzij moet.

Totdat Karin ons de opdracht gaf onze handen te blijven volgen. ‘In India ben je pas een goede danseres als je met je ogen perfect je handen kunt volgen. Waar de handen gaan, volgen de ogen, waar de ogen gaan, gaat de adem, waar de adem gaat, gaat de aandacht, waar de aandacht gaat, gaat de liefde, waar de liefde gaat, gaat het gemoed en daar ontstaat Rasa, Duende: Flow. ’

En opeens was ik helemaal daar. Was er geen workshop, geen verhaal. Was ik bij mijn hand die over mijn hoofd naar mijn heup ging. Was er de vinger die naar buiten wees.
Was er Flow. Was er Focus. Je kunt dansen, maar toch afwezig zijn. Maar als je op je handen moet letten, moet je hier zijn en nergens anders. Handen zijn altijd aanwezig.

En zo is het ook met schrijven. Door te schrijven focus je jezelf, terwijl je in gedachten alle kanten uitwaaiert. Het is die hand, waarin de pen zit, die je in het moment houdt. Die twee handen op het toetsenbord die voorkomen dat je in gedachten verzinkt.

Ik zag de rest van de dag schrijven als een dans. Als een dans waarbij ik mijn hand is het vizier hield. Als er een verbinding is tussen de hand en het hart, dan gaan de woorden stromen.

vrijdag 26 juni 2009


Ik schrijf om te onthouden dat ik piepklein ben.

Een piepklein schrijvend mensje.

Als ik schrijf, verbind ik mezelf.

Met mezelf, met anderen, maar voornamelijk met de Grootsheid van het leven.

Ik zou deze week de hele week gaan schrijven, maar het lukte niet. Daar zat ik dan in mijn kersverse roze geschilderde atelier. Zonder woorden.

Pas toen ik door mijn oplaaiende onrust mijn laptop dichtklapte en met een rugzakje de heide opliep, wist ik weer wat schrijven was.

Ik zat tegen een krom gewaaide den in de zon. Schapen graasden om me heen, los hangende dennenappels vielen naast mijn voeten, op mijn papier.

Plof, dit is waar het om gaat.

Om met je pen en papier in de wereld te zitten. En me te verbinden met de wind en op te schrijven wat ze te vertellen heeft.

Klein meisje in een grote wereld. Kom maar woorden, kom maar. Waai door mijn haren.

En ik verbind me niet alleen met de wind en met die boom. Maar ook met mijn lezers. Ik zoek de juiste woorden, toon, invalshoek zodat de dennenappels ook ergens anders kunnen landen.

Plof, op een blog.

vrijdag 5 juni 2009


Mijn dierbare iup-blog, vier jaar lang mijn trouwe berichtgever, is plotseling heen gegaan.
Ik had dit verlies niet zien aankomen.
Wij schreven levendig samen.
Maar sinds een maand, is mijn blog niet meer te openen. Verdwenen. Zomaar.

En daarmee zijn vier jaar aan verhalen,columns, gedichten en mijmeringen ook overleden.
Ze zwerven nog ergens her en der op mijn harde schijf, maar in cyberspace zijn ze in het niets opgelost.

En wat doe je dan?

Alle oude teksten bij elkaar zoeken en in een nieuw jasje op internet zetten?
Oude inzichten als nieuwe verkondigen?
Restjes Nanda bijeenscharrelen en dat presenteren als zijnde mij?

Nee. Opeens leken alle oude woorden niet meer de mijne. Had ik de neiging al het geschrevene te herschrijven. Was alles te lang. Te lyrisch. Te, tja, te oud.

Daarom bij deze ook een GEBOORTEBERICHT.

Er is vandaag een nieuw blog geboren.
Het is een meisje!
Ze is roze en ze heet Wonder-word-woman.