The world has changed its face.
It’s the ugly face of truth that we can now see everywhere. No, it’s not that of people behind masks, not of those afraid of what’s going to come, not of those turning others in for alleged misbehavior.
It’s the ugly face of truth we’re beginning to perceive —globally and unprecedented.
It feels like spring today in the middle of northern European winter. A welcoming break from the chilly and suffocating gloomy days many of us spent in forced hibernation for reasons we may never entirely come to understand. …
Intuition was a puzzle throughout my life. I knew nothing about it — leave alone anyone who did — and never really bothered. Until I could no longer dodge its existence.
It was April 2015. I was exiting the airport building in Kathmandu when out of nowhere, a strange thought protruded. That I’d miraculously never experienced an earthquake in all those years I had lived in Nepal. Ten, to be precise.
The fact that I did anyway after years was just because of some friends in Kathmandu and their persuasive powers. …
I choose freedom, embracing each part of it
I choose freedom.
Because that’s what I came here to experience. The art at heart to saunter through this existence called life most uniquely.
I choose freedom.
Because that’s the only way my soul yearns. And even when frustration, fright, or loneliness tries to pull me back to the shackles of delusion.
I choose freedom.
Thank you for reading.
© Kerstin Krause
18 March 2021
Hope’s a frequently used term of which I’m admittedly guilty. Many of my prospects start with … “I hope”… It’s like a dull plea that endlessly sails off my praying lips. Like a craving for a lost jewel, I don’t seem to own anymore. When I’m in need of hope, I’m blinded by my faith in lack rather than feeling blessed with knowing.
Hope’s a misused word which I, too, have abused at times. Because I often dive in with … “I hope” … and then proceed … “that it’ll get better soon, that it won’t rain, that people…
The word “Thwarted” popped up in a recent meditation. I didn’t know where it came from or what it meant. Yet, there seems no better term to explain the present blues. Because we’ve literally been thwarted from our well-trodden way of existence.
Within a split second, we’ve been derailed from what has defined our lives to this very point. From the urge to pursue whatever we felt like doing—jointly or alone—whenever. Instead, we suddenly see ourselves exposed to an overpowering and paralyzing force. Some call it bondage; others control. …
Camila was tossed into life in a small village at the foot of the Himalayas without grasping what to do with it other than following her mother’s example. It was a gloomy existence that would eventually belong to an abusive husband.
The way things were.
Gradually, she started to discern something very remarkable. Void of any formal education, she realized she held a power that came from within, like a beam of light. A power that would bring healing instead of more misery.
If she stood up together with the other bleeding souls in her village. If they united in…
A foul-smelling witness meanders through the valley — the Bagmati, a once sacred river. Today, it’s no more than lifeless, seeping black-brown sewage. A large water treatment plant is currently under construction on its southern banks — a desperate attempt to turn the tragic broth into something useable in the future.
City sounds penetrate the concrete jungle. The chiming of a temple bell can be distinctly caught from afar. Otherwise, it’s surprisingly calm in this part of the populated and battered Kathmandu valley in Nepal.
My heart is bleeding at the dilapidated state of this river; my nose is creasing…
Cockcrows cut through the early morning moments.
Wavering between the many stubborn walls, the vulgar sounds of an awakening juggernaut, the sights of a paralyzing concrete desert. They holler through the urban canyons and around their various corners.
Recounting stories of times when empty space was still the roosters to claim. When they joyfully fluttered around and fought each other in their own grace and style.
Today, their early daylight tales are barely discernable. The cockcrows have been dimmed by metropolis noises so that its tenants no longer gather their songs the way they used to. …
“Fear has a large shadow, but he himself is small “— Ruth Gendler
Sun, a red balloon plunging into the horizon, erasing the day’s few scintillating moments. Growing darkness swallowing the closing beams of light. Now airing the pulse of fear, around for long or even longer.
Nights progressing fast with worse for most of minds to come. Hideous news on square cold screens feeding no more than the same old awe. A dilapidated plight harboring near to no hope in sight.
Sleeps like minor reefs in between long spans of agony and fright with celestial bodies flickering above, preparing…
A seasoned traveler who’s walked her talk, a passionate writer on the stuff life teaches us, an aspiring motorbike rider and some more