The Art of
Yvette Endrijautzki
Written Art
Der Geist offenbart sich durch Blicke und Worte. Die Seele ist unsere Bleibe.Unsere Augen sind ihre Fenster und unsere Lippen unsere Boten. Khalil Gibran
'Alchemie der Erde und ihre kostbare Flamme'
ein Werk, das die tiefgreifende Symbolik des Feuers und uralte Weisheiten der Transformation erforscht.
Geschrieben von Yvette Endrijautzki
Illustriert von Asti Pfannkuch 2025
(in german only)
weitere Kurzgeschichten
Short Stories
Die Sache mit dem "S" und mit dem "Z" Etwas zittrig, balancierte ich den von süßen weissen Schaum überquellende Becher Macchiato zielstrebig auf den einzigen noch nicht besetzten Tisch des Ladens zu. Und genauso wie mein Becher, quoll auch dieser Laden über. Und zwar mit einer lauten Anhängerschaft von Kaffee-und Frappuccino Trinkern. Ein kleines verschlafenes Straßencafé oder eine langweilige Cafeteria wäre mir in diesem Moment lieber gewesen. Aber aus zweckmäßigen Gründen landete ich hier an einem mit weissen Zucker berieselten Tisch, vor einer riesigen Glaswand, die durch schmierige Kinderhandabdrücke künstlerischen Wert gewann. Der Blick nach draussen war einer Liga von Kampfrauchern gewidmet, die sich gnadenlos eine Kippe nach der anderen anzündeten, um ihren so lebensnotwendigen Atem mit Nikotin zu veredeln. Zwischen den aufputschenden kaffeehaltigen Getränken und den Selbstgesprächen im Twitter ihres Phones, war es das A und O und auch das E, eines jeden Rauchers. Wobei das E für E-Zigarette stand. Eine 1A ausgestattete moderne Flüssig-Dampf Zigarette, mit eingebautem Akku, Ladegerät, Sparmodus, USB Kabel und weiterem mechanischem Schnickschnack. Gott sei Dank sass ich, wie im Zoo, von aussen betrachtet, hinter der Scheibe. Und es kam mir affig vor, denn hier befand ich mich tatsächlich in einem Starbucks. Was ist das eigentlich? Eine Cafeteria? Ein Kaffeehaus? Ein Coffee Shop? Es war mir selber nicht ganz klar, und was ich vor allem nicht verstand, war die Beliebtheit dieser Art von Handelskette hier in Wuppertal. Ich kannte ihn sehr gut, diesen multinationalen Konzern: eine Aktiengesellschaft, die sich auf Kaffeeprodukte spezialisierte und nebenbei auch noch sowas wie Kaffee andrehte. Schliesslich kam ich gerade frisch aus Seattle angereist, wo Starbucks vor langer Zeit geboren wurde und sich anfänglich als Gewürzgeschäft einen Namen gemacht hatte. Die Anlehnung an Steuermann Starbuck aus Herman Melvilles "Moby Dick"war anscheinend doch die Bohne wert. Ich stocherte in meinem völlig übersüßten Macchiato herum, als würde ich Moby Dick selbst in ihm jagen, wischte dabei den verstreuten Zucker vom Tisch und klappte dann endlich meinen Computer auf. Hier gab es, wie fast nirgends wo weit und breit, öffentlichen Internetzugang. Und dies war auch der eigentliche Grund, warum ich überhaupt hier war. Aus verzwickten bürokratischen Gründen steckte ich gewissermassen in Wuppertal fest. Über 15 Jahre war ich nicht hier gewesen. Und plötzlich brachte mich, kurz nach einem Urlaub in TelAviv, eine heikle Angelegenheit mit den deutschen Behörden dazu, in meine Geburtsstadt zurückzukehren. In meinem Reisepass wurde nämlich mein recht komplizierter Familienname verkehrt ausgedruckt und stimmte nun nicht mehr mit meinem gesetzlichen Namen auf der Greencard überein. Somit wurde dieses Dokument zu einem ungültigen Wisch, der mich bereits hunderte von Dollar und mühselige Gespräche mit der deutschen Botschaft gekostet hatte. Demzufolge konnte ich nun nicht wieder zurück in die USA einreisen, wo ich bereits seit 14 Jahren lebte, denn wie man die buchstabengetreue Bürokratie ja so kennt, hält sie sich gerne an jeder Ziffer auf. In Seattle versuchte ich dieses Problem noch vor meiner Abreise zu beheben. Wegen einem "S" machte ich mich tatsächlich zum wiederholten Male auf zur Botschafterin, die aus irgendeinem unerklärlichen Grund, trotz strenger Dokumentüberprüfungen, das "Z" in meinem Namen vermasselte. Die Zweigstelle der Deutschen Botschaft sass ein wenig östlich von Seattle. Dort machte ich immer einen Abstecher auf einen Macchiato in einem Cafe namens"Kaffeeklatsch", dass von einer deutschen Familie betrieben wurde. Ein interessantes deutsches Cafe mit Bäckerei, direkt am sehenswerten Lake Washington. Die rustikale und etwas in der Zeit stehengebliebene Innenausstattung erinnerte mich sehr an das, was ich vor geraumer Zeit hinter mir gelassen hatte und auch das handwerkliche Angebot von diversen Stullen und traditionellem Strudel bis Hefezopf, weckte die schon fast verblasste Erinnerung an meine ursprüngliche Herkunft. Hier sassen Touristen und amerikanische Deutsche. Businessleute und Familien mit Hund zum Sonntagsfrühstück. In Dirndl oder Joggingkluft. Im Anzug oder mit Yogamatte. Hier traf sich alles was Lust auf echten deutschen Kuchen und Stullen hatte. Auch die Botschafterin, die in einem von Gartenzwergen geschmückten Gebäude, zwei Meilen weiter hauste, war zweifelsfrei eine waschechte Deutsche. Und wie der Zufall es so wollte aus meinem vertrautem Wuppertal stammend. Da die Schwebebahn nun unsere gemeinsame Schnittmenge war, erhoffte ich mir wegen der Dringlichkeit, eine schnelle und kooperierende Hilfeleistung. Doch nach einem gescheiterten Gespräch, wurde mir sehr schnell klar, dass weder Tuffi, der berühmte Elefant aus Wuppertal, noch die Schwebebahn zu einer Annäherung beitragen würden. Neue Anträge wurden gestellt. Neue Warteschleifen ertragen. Der bürokratische Fortlauf waltete, und das "Z" blieb erstmal ein "S". Ich reiste am geplanten Tag ab. Und zwar mit dem Dokument, dass nicht mehr auf die Korrektur warten wollte. Und genau dies wurde mir später zum Verhängnis. Ein sogenannter "Catch 22", wie die Amerikaner es nennen würden. Während meines Urlaubs in TelAviv, überlegte ich kurzerhand einen Abstecher in Wuppertal zu machen, um den amtlichen Schluder des fälschlichen "S" in meinem Namen unmittelbar korrigieren zu lassen. Trotz unheilschwangeren Vorzeichen, befand ich mich kurze Zeit später im Einwohnermeldeamt von Wuppertal. Tatsächlich wollte mir auch dort niemand mein "Z" zurück in meinen Namen setzen, denn es hiess nun, dass ich meinen Reisepass nur an der deutschen Behörde korrigieren lassen könnte, an der ich sie ausgestellt bekommen hatte. Und diese war über 8000 km entfernt und befand sich nicht am Kap der guten Hoffnung, sondern in dem Land, in welches ich nicht einreisen konnte, weil ja ein "S" fehlte. Derweil sass ich dort, im Starbucks Wuppertal, und schrieb der deutschen Behörde in Washington State per email, die wiederum von mir verlangte sich telefonisch zu melden. Das ging natürlich ebenfalls nicht, da Behördennummern nur vom Inland aus angerufen werden können. Ich stocherte verzweifelt in meinem Macchiato. Der süße Schaum war mittlerweile verpufft, sowie meine Hoffnung auf einen Ausweg, genauer gesagt: eine Aus-reise. Oder Einreise? Eine Sache der Perspektive, dachte ich mir, und sass immer noch, wie im Zoo, hinter der grossen Glaswand des Starbucks, an einem zuckerberieselten Tisch. Die deutsche Behörde verlangte zudem, den "versehentlich fehlgedruckten" Pass unverzüglich zurückzusenden, um dann meinen neuen Reisepass zu drucken. Das machte mich nervös. Denn sich ohne Papiere im "Ausland", was gleichzeitig meine "Heimat" war, aufzuhalten, war nach all dem bürokratischen Trubel doch ganz schön gewagt. Dennoch schickte ich meinen Reisepass ab. Per Eilbrief und selbstverständlich versichert. Ich trank meinen Macchiato aus und ging zur Post. Es dauerte Monate. Genau gesagt VIER davon! Vier bürokratische Monate brauchte die sorgfältige deutsche Behörde um ein "S" in ein "Z" umzuwandeln und kostete mich letztendlich mehrere Male 100 Euro, ungeachtet dessen, dass ich für dieses nachlässige Versehen gar nicht zuständig gewesen war. Ein teurer Buchstabe, so ein "Z", dachte ich mir. Einige Monate später, sass ich indessen in meinem neuen alten zuhause in Seattle, der Heimat von Starbucks, und machte einen Abstecher ins Cafe Kaffeeklatsch. Dort trank ich wie immer meinen amerikanischen Macchiato von der deutschen Familie, und blickte mit einem vergnügendem Grinsen zurück auf den beliebten Starbucks in Wuppertal. Ich löffelte den Schaum und blickte zur neu beschrifteten Verkaufstafel über dem Gebäck: Pretzel, Pfannkuchen, Strudel, Berliner....und Hefesopf. HEFESOPF? Mit "S"?
Kolibri Nachdem ich nun über 10 Jahre in Seattle gelebt hatte, entschloss ich mich doch tatsächlich, zurück in meine kleine Heimatstadt Wuppertal zu ziehen - ein verschlafenes und zerrissenes klitzekleines Kaff, das sich gerne mit mehr Kaugummis und Hundekacke auf den Strassen schmückte, als ein freundliches Lächeln über die eigentlich noch vorhandene Lebensqualität. Ein versackter Sumpf, welchen ich nicht sonderlich vermisst hatte. Dennoch voller Charakter, Charme und vielen wertvollen Erinnerungen, war ich mir nicht sicher, ob ich diese Stadt liebte oder verabscheute, und vielleicht war es auch genau diese Spannung, die mich hierher zurück brachte. Tatsächlich wurde Seattle unermesslich teuer, entfacht durch eine penetrierende unverschämte Tech-Industrie mit seiner folglich invasiven Gentrifizierung: ein Wandel, den die meisten großen Städte auf unserem noch aber knapp fortbestehendem Planeten seit einiger Zeit durchlebten. Nachdem ich die mänadische Entfaltung eines angeblich weltverbessernden Silikon Valleys II beobachtete, mit all ihren unumgänglichen Konsequenzen, wurde mir sehr bald klar, dass die "Rückkehr in meine sogenannte Heimat" nicht mehr so ganz eine Frage der Wahl war. Und somit blieb mir nichts übrig, als mich der Qual zu ergeben, und mich einige Monate später in meinem neuen alten Zuhause wiederzufinden. Im entzückenden Luisenviertel angekommen, bemerkte ich als erstes den großen bunten Graffiti-Vogel an der Mündung meiner Straße, wo ich in eine charmante kleine Gründerzeit Wohnung gezogen war. Dieser Vogel, eindeutig ein Kolibri, verzierte die Aussenwand eines mediterranen Lebensmittelgeschäfts. Wobei ich nicht wirklich wusste, ob er die eingeschmuggelte Hässlichkeit des Bauwerks im schlechten Stil der 50-er Jahre verschleierte, oder gar noch mehr hervor hob, denn das Gebäude selbst zierte sich sehr ungeschickt zwischen den prunkvollen Wilhelminischen Stattlichkeiten. Durch die Osterfelder Strasse taumelnd, erinnerte ich mich dann an den toten kleinen grünen Kolibri, den ich an einem wundervollen See inmitten der Wildnis von Seattle fand. Da ich nichts wegschmeissen konnte, nicht einmal den verrufenen Tod, nahm ich das seelisch umquartierte Häufchen Elend mit nach Hause, um es dann später in einen klaren durchsichtigen Harzguss von Chemie zu verewigen. Ich hatte also einen Vogel.
English version: Colibri After 11 years of living in Seattle, I decided to move back to my hometown in Germany, a little shithole called Wuppertal. Yet, full of character, charm and old memories, I wasn't sure if i loved or hated this town, and maybe this tension was exactly what brought me back to here. In fact, Seattle became insanely expensive, ignited by a dominating tech-industry and an invasive gentrification like most big cities over the world are experiencing. After observing the unfolding of a silicone valley II, and surrendering to all its consequences, i figured that "going home" wasn't really going to be a choice anymore. When i landed at my new place, first thing i made notice of, was the the big graffiti bird at the entrance of my street, where i had moved into a wonderful small little "fin de siecle" apartment. A hummingbird, painted on a wall of a Mediterranean food store. I then remembered the dead little hummingbird i found in Seattle, immortalized by casting it in clear resin. Inspired by this bird, just a few weeks later, when i finally had set up my work shop, i integrated that casted bird into a construct i started working on. Thereon i thought about its qualities and all the characteristics a hummingbird is known for, like the capacity to fly backwards and to hold momentum, to be able to freeze in one spot in the air like no other creature . I wondered if my relocation back home was like going "backwards"? If i was holding momentum to be able to stay in this location and position of intensity ? Intrigued by this little bird, i then looked more into that winged wonder and learned all the amazing peculiarities which weren't so commonly known, like their fluttering wings move in the pattern of an infinity symbol – or eight symbol (like the house number 8, where i just moved in) - further solidifying their symbolism of eternity, continuity, and infinity. By observing the hummingbird, we can see they are actively seeking the sweetest nectar, forever seeking out the good in life and the beauty in each day. I realized that i wasn't necessary going backwards, but instead holding a momentum, seeking sweet nectar and moving in a pattern of continuity, no matter if it was going back or forth- as both are a part of moving. It wasn't about where i was going, but about my intention and HOW i was going .... a passage of life..... And i was going forwards by going backwards.
The tiger and the lion may be more powerful but the wolf does not perform in the circus It simply started with a milk carton, nicely placed on an old wooden shaky breakfast table, next to a woven basket of crisp fresh fruits and fire red pimientos. I didn't have any idea, that such an inconspicuous carton could be forever memorable and spark such a chain of events. The window shutters were already open, and the early summer morning sun had entered the age-old Spanish farm house where I used to live for quite some time in 1995. I could hear the many chickens outside paltering with the slaphappy rooster, and our one and only nanny goat Mora plotted her next coup to get what she wanted: the daily raid on the pantry filled with vegetables and herbs. It was always the golden potatoes she was after. And it was only minutes till the morning heat arranged for the entire kitchen to be shrouded in aromas of oregano, rosemary and fresh pine sap. I sat down by the old barn bench in front of the open fireplace. Here it was peaceful and quiet. No other sounds. No cars or man made city noise. Not even a radio, nor a television. There was only one vision, brought to you by the great fireplace of antiquity. The true discovery channel at its best: red flames, yellow flames, white flames and the incandescent orange glow, cooking up stories of microscopic sceneries and grimaces. In this house, I could stared into this fire for hours and my mornings were made from "Flare tv and fresh morning chai tea." Almost worth a television show itself, I thought. I grabbed the milk carton and added some milk to my freshly brewed chai. On one side of the package I noticed a picture of a grey wolf framed under some Spanish text, broaching the issue of Canis Lupus, which is Latin for wolf. "Throughout the centuries, the wolf has come to mean different things to different cultures. Revered as a deity or vilified as a demon, the wolf has often paid with his life for crimes he did not commit. The wolf has been exterminated in most of Europe in the last four centuries. Some pockets of wolves survived in the mountains of Spain and in just a few other countries. They are wild animals, destined to live their lives in freedom. When humans interfere in the life of wild animals, it becomes their responsibility to provide what animals can not provide for themselves, a healthy environment in which to live. The wolf has been part of the natural balance for thousands of years, but in less than 100 years, man through ignorance and misinformation has almost made the wolves disappear forever. To help protect the wolf, we will need to help protect the forrest that remains.....". I assumed this to be an educational excerpt for Spanish children, to learn about these endangered species. Because, where else would they learn about wolves, if not from milk cartons? 'Discovery Channel' wasn't a part of reality in the early 90ies yet. These 'information handouts' concealed in grocery packaging brought back memories from my childhood. Every breakfast became a heated discussion. Every breakfast table a workbench. A single cornflakes box had the power to transform a decent meal into a chaotic bricolage sessions caused by the cutting templates on the back of the package, calling phantastic 3D landscaped into children's worlds. But the morst important part of this D.I.Y bricolage journey was the instruction hiding in the bottom - deeply buried inside the cornflakes bag. The pastoral education behind this whole cornflakes box matter was probably about teaching kids patience and motivation to eat before to play. As far as I was concerned, the cornflakes themselves became minor matter and so i just rummaged through the entire box, threw out the entire cornflakes content as if it was useless packaging peanuts filling empty space just to fish out that peculiar instruction to get my project started. Food was overrated. No wonder I was severely under weight as a child. But now here I was, 20 years later, more over weight than under, drinking my spicy chai, eating my morning huevos and reading my morning news brought to me by a milk carton. At least one way to cultivating my Spanish. Louis and Montse returned from their early morning mushroom hunt. There was always lots to collect in the deep earth-moist pinion pine forest around the corner. Both stepped into the house through the big ancient creaking wooden farm gate, followed by Machuello, a young propulsive Portuguese waterdog. Louis was a 49 year old Tuareg Nomad from the Sahara who moved to Andalusia in the 70s, where he continued his mahagony intarsia craftsmanship. He looked like Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull, but the Tuareg version. 10 years younger, Montse from south Spain, succumbed to Louis' charm at a craft market and ever since then, moved to the outskirts of Barcelona and lived harmoniously together in this old decrepit farmhouse, just like in a fairy tale. I found myself to be lucky to know them and learned a lot about nature, survival and joie de vivre. Montse was a wood artisan as well. While Louis created intricate furniture and elegant wooden boxes, Montse fabricated more simple and functional things. Like pipes. Peace Pipes. For hippies. And there were lots of peace pipe hippies in Spain. She definitely had her market. Montse waved with her hand up in the air and yelled: "el correo"!!! She had a postcard in her hand, and threw it like a frisbee at me. Amused did i catch this thing and to my surprise, as if the educational lecture about wolves hasn't ended yet, I descried a howling wolf in the front of the card. A wolf card by my friend Anneke from Germany. While the back was pasted with numerous German stamps, barely leaving any space for script, Anneke announced in a small scribble her planed journey to come by and visit me here in Spain. This was not a time of cell phones, of I-tunes, You-tunes, Me-Tunes or any social-media tunes triggering profile neurosis or facebook electro smog. This was old fashioned ink and paper time with no need for a charger. By the end of a busy day fraught with garden work, I went to bed early, to read a chapter of a book in dim candle light but I couldn't remember much of it, as I must have fallen asleep in the meantime. Then suddenly, in the middle of the night, something jolted me from my sleep. A sensation so unfamiliar and bizarre percolated my perception and when i opened my eyes, I couldn't believe what I saw. The idea struck me that I still must have been wandering in dreamland, only when I discovered my room to be completely light-flooded, not able to detect any source of supply. I finally understood that I was perfectly awake, when I heard Machuello barking from outside the yard, whereas the door to my room was slowly unclosing and creepily squeaking. Terrified, I witnessed the intruder. My hair stood on end when i realized that a grey-silver wolf was walking quietly through the opened door, right into the corner of my illuminated room. Since I had a classic low futon bed, my eye level was one with the wolf. Inconceivably, we stared each other right in the eyes. Piercing ice cold blue eyes were taking my breath. As fast as i could, i pulled my blanket up to my nose and then slid slowly all the way back against the wall, fearing it would attack me. Frightened to death, I constructed a backfield plan in my head wondering where Louis had left the ax. The wolf wasn't making a single sound. It just stood there, majestic, silent and masterful. 5 seconds felt like 5 light years and time slipped through the cracks, when I realized that the light source was actually nothing but the wolf itself. I started to question my sanity and reason. What I observed was absolutely impossible. Was I insane? Then all at once the wolf moved forward, quiet and steady. Like a sneaking up cat rather than a wild dog. Seeing that the wolf was stepping onto the edge of my bed, there was nothing I wanted more but to curl up and die. The only sound I could hear now was my very own pulse racing. And almost on the very verge of screaming, something ineffable took place. Like an out of a clear sky glitch in reality, an unimagined parallel existence inaugurated in sudden burst and what was presenting itself as a natural wild wolf none to soon, etherized into a fluorescent light sphere, shaping a malleable framework of a wolf. While everything around me turned back to dark again, this visible to the naked eye blue and white glowing matrix was levitating like an extracellular body over my bed. Numbly, I monitored this unbelievable interactive macrame light show. The wolf's piercing eyes still came to the fore like a multidimensional x-ray, projecting through its polygonal glowing mesh. What type of conjuring trick was this? Or was this my own created head game? Had possibly someone ended up putting psychotropic drugs in my evening tea? Really, I had no clue what was taking place here, though admittedly, I was taken and fascinated by the supernatural spectacle my eyes were absorbing. Thereupon, I had to arrange my ideas. The thought of Ayahuasca came up and I had to think about the stories that spoke of fractal patterns, of light grids and strange geometric shapes that people experienced on their metaphysical journey. But to clarify, I was crystal clear in my head and all my other faculties were functioning normal. As normal as the circumstance allowed. As I was holding my breath, this unfathomable guise was now moving just an inch before my face and I could feel a tingling sensation all over my body. I froze and was petrified by the horror, probably just one measure away from an heart attack. As stupid as it sounds, but while that light orb permeated slowly into my physical body, the wolf's head took accurate aim at my head, and like a holographic procedure, we amalgamated into one. I wasn't sure if I was assimilating the wolf or if the wolf absorbed me, so I grabbed my ears and touched my face to make sure I was still the normal format with a functional body. Eventually all lights were out and complete silence followed. The spectacle had ended and the last guest in the front row seat was shaken to the core. Completely drained and drenched in sweat, I pondered for quite some time what possibly happened and after I managed to close the door, I finally could find some sleep. "Carajo!", someone was yelling early in the morning. Again and again. "Carajo- Carajo!". I lifted my self out of bed and knew by the sound of the voice, that this information didn't mean good news. Louis ran up the stairs to my room and hammered at my door. He then yelled; "Lobo! Lobo!" and ran back down the stairs. Unfortunately my very own Spanish was compromised to an artistic minimum: a fantasy Spanish only for Machuello the dog to understand. I walked down the stairs, into the kitchen when I jumped out of my skin. Blood!!! There was blood all over the floor! Stains and foot prints. Obviously the foot prints belonged to a dog. Probably Machuello, who must have stepped into the blood puddles and left his own personal marks all over the place. It was shocking! Then outside, I immediately noticed the drops and traces of blood spread everywhere in the yard. And with it feathers, tossed all over the place. Certainly, this was not the work of Mother Holle. Louis and I knew exactly what to do, and together we walked to the chicken coop. Clearly, there was no need to unlock the door anymore. Someone invited themselves. The coop's frame was partially destroyed and evidently, this mess was the labor of some wild animal. Many chicken were lying defunct on the coop's floor and the various tail motions of red chicken foot prints were heading straight to exitus. By now, Machuello had even feathers stuck to his feet, and looked like a Mesoamerican pinata. I wondered if a fox could have created this mess but the mystery was unraveled when Louis grabbed the milk carton in the kitchen and pointed at the picture: "Lobo!". Lobo??? My hair stood on end. Which lobo? The lobo from last night? And wasn't that lobo just a light show dream?! And didn't I become the lobo or the lobo me? Gosh, did I kill the chicken? All sudden thoughts were racing in light speed through my brain. This was insane.What in the world was this all about? I had no answers and was left baffled, confused and at loss for any words. Then a few weeks later, Anneke from Germany arrived at our farm in Spain. She drove all the way from Cologne to Barcelona in her new van and upon her arrival, she handed a couple of gifts over to me. When I opened the first one, a light bulb moment permeatet my entire being. An epiphany! For the first time I truly understood the concept of synchronicity. Everything and nothing made all of a sudden completely sense. The gift she had for me, was a book called "Women Who Run with the Wolves". A book of myths and stories of the wild woman archetype by Clarissa P. Estés. A book that shaped my life for years to come. It literally brought me to run with the wolves. Followed by owls, crows and ravens. I traveled the mountains and wilderness, urban und rural, through Spain, Suisse, Italy, France, Croatia, UK, Morocco, Belgium, Netherlands and many other places. But it was in the US, specifically Hawaii and the Pacific Northwest, where I experienced my first Lakota Sioux Ceremony with a shaman who mentioned the wolf spirit in me. And in all these places, a wolf quest unraveled, to bestead the wolf woman unfurl her true nature. And to this day, when I drink my chai in the morning, I make sure I don't miss out on the milk carton's piece of news. There might be a forest that needs to be protected.... "Leave the pain behind and let your life be your own again. There is a place where all time is now, and the choices are simple and always your own. Wolves have no kings."
Godsend The phantasmal mountains of the Pyrenees in South France, convey my most poignant encounter with a wild animal. A godsend animal. In the region of Ariège, an unusualness took place nearby a little abandoned rural community, situated by an old laid in marble quarry. Much high up in the deep dense woods, about an hour hike from the last drivable road, slopes this little forestal comune called “L’Espiougue”, surrounded by much greenery, and endowed with a few ancient stone houses and some barely visible ruins. The quarry operation, dating back to the end of 1900s, had almost vanished but left behind an obvious lore, traceable thru the big heavy copper cables, lancing atop the village, and the rusty and broken work carts with its tumbled and dwindled machine wheels covered in moss and morning glory from the extant work stations of the quarryman. Footlights for a picturesque industrial romance. When thunderstorms hit the quarry with lightning strikes, many a time the giant copper cable of the cable railway conducted the current with white and blue flashes throughout the trembling village. What fascinated me, was the repurposing of the industrial remnants and excavations. The marble quarry bed turned into a sparse but marvelous outdoor bathroom, surrounded by 40 meter high rock faces. Some machine parts transformed into whimsical art sculptures and some metal beams and wheels into auxiliary structures for the permaculture garden or sustainable housing. Everything had its place and purpose. Again. And this is where I decided to live in 1996. Off the grid, without electricity and sanitary facilities, away from all the hustle and bustle of the big cities in Europe. The commune was manned by 8 people only, mostly french folks and one german. They were artists, landscapers, gardeners, political activists and travellers. I was one of them. Life was simple, down to earth but also raw and rough at times. We lived autarkic, independent and free. For the most part. Every few weeks only, we left our home for disputed consumption in the nearby village, about an hour drive through the countryside. The wine, tobacco and chocolate was the arm twister for most of us. Even though we produced our own home made wine, and actually tobacco leaves grew in our garden. A stupendous garden which resembled the conception of Eden, a miracle working plain that provided us all year with every vegetable one can imagine. We were free. Free from pesticides, free from distractions, free from the trivial brainchild of the modern society. Of course this paradisiac lifeform encompassed lots of work and devotion, but for those who clicked with the rhythm of earth, it all made sense. I spend my first winter in the guest house, where most of the vegetables, the preserves and dried foods were stored in the back room. The old barn door always had to be shut and secured, thanks to Itak, our donkey, who had more brains than many a human. The mysterious quarry village was inhabited by many outdoor cats, chickens, salamanders, frogs and a few dogs. A white barn owl blessed the land with her nightly bleeping. Here, the nights were totally dark, and depending on the moon, one could see clearly the heavens with all its godliness of shining and twinkling stars. Once the sun set, the presence of the dawn was pervasive, urging everyone to brace oneself for the nightfall. Wood needed to be chopped and carried inside, windows and doors locked for no wild animals could cause any harm to the stashed foods or construction, water from the spring needed to be supplied if necessary, oil lamps or candles prevented, the animals fed and brought to their hutch. I’m sure it didn’t matter if it was 1572 or 1996, the time was always here and now. After a year spent back to the roots in the mountains, i remember how i almost felt like an aborigine, when i saw a touristy man with a fancy watch on his wrist, hiking through the village, since a wander trail meandered through our Garden of Eden. Certainly it was seldom, that anyone made it up here. This was not a regular pedestrian path, much less accessible for wheelchairs or strollers. It took an experienced and courageous hiker to make it up here to draw a breath of the thin fresh air of Pyrenees exhalation. Under the quarry’s village slumbered a cloak-and-dagger grotto with a cove-like entrance that resembled a stone-giant’s mouth. Everything around was cloaked in vines and ivy. Sometimes i had to utilize my pocket knife to even get to my destination. When i sat by the cave, i would count dozens of bantam bats flying in and out the grotto. And once in awhile i could hear the little critters make quirky sounds. The rather vertical crack opening the grotto was very small to enter for any human, and something wasn’t quite inviting already. Therefor i never made it further than the opening of the giant’s mouth. A neighbor’s villager recounted the story of Nostradamus having spend some significant time in this mystical area. One sunny winter day, i decided to hike uphill, where i had never really explored the upper mountain region. The weather was pleasant and as long as the sun wasn’t playing hide and seek with the clouds, one could always find some enjoyable warm hours. Though, as soon as the sun had decided to cast her unwelcomed shadows during her take off behind the mountains, the temperature could drop rapidly from 23 degrees to freezing temperatures. I didn’t plan on hiking out too far but somehow my plans proceeded differently. For about an hour or so, i followed a trail that was merely trampled by hunters. No one else truly made it up here. The wild grass and gnarly burl wood was frosted and rock hard. Every step over the icebound weeds, sounded like a gnashing of teeth. It was astounding to me, that i could wear light summer clothes but walk over frozen ground. In fact, the sun was so strong, that some people even got sun burned during wintertime. On my walking-tour, i passed by a few old decrepit hunting lodges, traversed the last broad foothill pastures and stopped by some semi hidden creeks emerging from interesting looking rock formations. Every few bouts, i turned around to capture the view to memorize my route back. It was dead silent up here. Rather a void of sound, of which is said that not everyone could handle. But in this thin air, one could definitely learn to see and hear for miles again. In the melting snow on the ground, i could smell the pine tree’s sap and a somewhat musty odor of the fungous soil. Here and then i would spot some footsteps of hoofed animals or birds foot, attempting to descry the species. Completely sidetracked, time got buried in oblivion. Noticing the sun almost setting, i knew i only had an hour left to make it back. Hence, i turned around and bolted to where i came from. At least this was what i thought. Foolishly, i was hoping i could simply follow my footprints, but by the time of my return, they had all melted away. It didn’t take very long, till i realized i was moving in circles. Desperately looking for reference points, the situation only felt jinxed. Everything looked different. I found myself in nomansland. On one hand, the melted snow has caused the trees and foliage to appear different, and on the other, the perishing sun’s galanty show transmuted my visibility. Where the heck was I? And how did i get lost so fast? Don’t panic, i told myself, and started rushing straight on and down the slope, hoping to get a better view. Half the sun was already behind the mountain. That’s when i started running. Until the cows came home. Almost out of breath, i ended up in front of a wider mud path covered with tracks by a tractor, somehow raising some hope. Though after few turns, i realized the tracks leading into the deep pine woods which by now were offering nothing but obscurity. There was no way on earth, i was going to enter that blackness. So i turned around, and i could feel the temperature shift. For the time being, the cooler temperature felt refreshing, since i was racing. Yet i knew, that just less than a half hour ahead of time, i would think differently. A smidge pent up and worried, i u-turned and ran the opposite direction. Already the cold was getting to my skin and bones. Just a few measures further, the path finally forked, vested with a wooden signpost. The indication was pointing in three destinations. The names of locations never heard before. All three over 10 km and more away. By then, i could barely move my feet no more. My ankles were frozen and i had to bear up against the pain. I didnt’ know which direction to follow, but decided that it would make more sense to hit direction lowlands, where the chance to spot sedentary population was more apparent. My penumbral journey became a nightmare. After an endless continues jog, i ended up in front of another sign, coining the next forked path. This path was much wider now, almost the size of a drivable road suitable for motorcycles or jeeps. How i wished that one of those would pass by out of the blue, just to pick me up. But in reality, not even one sound much less the one of a motor, nor any aspect of electrical power or lights were in sight. I must admit that i teared up, and as the sun had fully disappeared behind the mountains, there was no choice but to get lost in the freezing cold temperature. Dressed in shorts and a light t-shirt, i tuned into survival mode. As ridiculous as it sounds, but i started thinking about bears and wolves, about freezing to death and my last testament. It is fascinating what sorts of thoughts come to one’s mind in a desperate and seemingly hopeless situation. I wondered if i should make it to one of the hunters cabins, to see if they were equipped with survival blankets for any reason. Only they were all the way back, too far up in the woods. The cold kept me moving, though my body wasn’t capable to run anymore. My knees and wrists capitulated. I marked time in front of that signpost, stomping the ground, deciding where to go. I ripped out with an oath. Even two or three, as i was sick to the back teeth. The pain caused by the freezing temperature was unbearable. It must have been for almost an hour now, wandering the darkness, barely being able to see the ground. Luckily, slightly moonshine and some star lights were resurging in the night sky, not feeling completely lost. While gazing into the celestial body, i considered former times, where once the customary GPS was nothing else but stellar constellation. How i wished in that moment i could decipher this ancient language. But i wasn’t an astronomer. The cold was killing me, and already chattering my teeth, i had to rub my arms and shake my legs to stay warm. And if there was something i couldn’t stand, then this was cold. Ice cold. I started begging and praying. Not sure to whom and what. But i did. I asked the analog GPS to show me the way. I asked the universe to please help me find the right route back home where everyone was already gathered in front of the warm and cosy fireplace. I whined and cried and plead for an answer. A sign. A way out. Anything. All of a sudden an unexpected noise was interrupting my soliloquy. I could hear footsteps in a distance of several meters behind me. I then turned around, hoping to spot a returning home hunter or a farmer working unsociable hours, but i thought wrong. Instead i had a face to face encounter with an adult deer, looking right into each other’s eyes. In awe-stricken silence, the deer stepped right in front of me. For shits and giggles but somewhat also serious, i asked if it was godsend and if it could show me the way? Suddenly it spurted ahead, and with just a few jumps it halted right by the forked path and turned its head towards me, as if it was trying to say something. I instinctively followed along and sometimes even walked right next to it. It was enchanting and majestic, though in that at this stage fully reached darkness, i could barely discern the proper features of this wild animal. Again, i asked if i suppose to tag along and if it would get me home? And once more, it spurted forward, just a few jumps and then stood rooted to the ground, as though it was waiting for me to follow. I lagged behind and even came so close, i could feel the warmth of the animal. I could smell its breath and its musky body odor that was redolent of the tang we become acquainted with at any zoo. The deer started walking up the hill back into the direction of the deep forest where i just rushed away from. You must be kidding me, i thought. The last thing i imagined, was to walk back to the forest where it was much colder and darker in any case. I had enough already! But the deer kept walking and for some odd reason i just surrendered and moved along. Maybe i felt safe next to my new tour guide, maybe i believed it was my last resource or maybe it was the fascination of the animal encounter itself that simply excelled all reasonable thinking. Unknowingly, somewhere deep inside, it sparked a flicker of hope. So i found myself following the deer for a walk on the wild side. I followed for a few turns, and to my surprise, the deer always stayed on the footpath, never veered away from the track into the pasture or onto the rubble. My trailblazer lead the way, and i succeeded step by step. After quite a stretch, we eventually stood before the first gaping fir trees, shaping a dark portal to the kingdom of the saga land. Teetering on the brink of the abyss, my hair stood on end. There i was, a scaredy cat, afraid of the trembling uncertainty. And before i could decide or come up with any other idea or excuse at all, the deer had already walked into the woodland. Without hesitation i mimicked the deer and a few seconds later i was swallowed by the Nibelungen. Starring Goddess Artemis and her companion doe, we conquered the silence, yet the whole timber spoke its own quiescent language and it appeared as if silence itself was the transmission line. To my amazement, the deer took a turn where the woods unraveled itself and another path led out into the open to goodness knew where, followed by a forked road, with a signpost giving two destination: one was a village i recognized, but 22 km away, and the other just a lookout point at the back of beyond even further up the road. And this was the direction the deer was heading for. I couldn’t believe it. For God sake- was this a hopeless case? The pain, the cold, the uncertainty and the weariness brought me to the end of one’s tether. I couldn’t even feel my toes anymore. And i worried about frost bites. It was clear that i couldn’t make another 22 km in this cold, but for some reason i believed that this is the only right direction and consequential decision. The deer waited readily at the top of the mount. I wasn’t really persuaded, so this was finally my last attempt to obey, still hoping for the miraculous godsend idea. And then of course, just a kilometer up the road into lorn land, the deer disappeared. Completely gone and vanished into thin air. I threw my hands up in horror and started crying. There i was, completely lost, none the wiser, in the middle of the freezing night and far, far away from warmth and any shelter. How stupid of me, i thought. I lost another half hour believing in some godsend tour guide while the frost was congealing the back of my knees, so that i could barely bend them anymore. I see-sawed, and blew warm breath into my shaking hands, to keep the blood circulating. What a fine mess i made! I looked up in the sky, grumbling in black despair, at the end of my wit’s, as surprisedly, like a bolt out of the blue, a motor resounded in far distance. The clatter came clearer, and finally i spotted a tractor. I waved my arms and yelled like a maniac, with tears and with laughter. The driver used his signal lamp and in that moment, this little significant event took a load of my mind. The tractor belonged to an old haggard french man, who climbed off his workwagon and immediately placed a woolen shawl over my trembling shoulders. What a saving grace! ” Que diable faites-vous ici à cette température?” he asked, meaning: What the heck are you doing here in this temperatures?” He then mentioned that i was very lucky tonight, as he, the only one frequenting up here in timberland, usually never drives up on Sundays. Intrinsically, i would have walked the other path, wasn’t it for the deer persuading me otherwise. Without fail, i then would have missed out on my one and only chance to get home safe and sound. I told the driver about the deer, leading me all the way up here. He smiled and said, that nature is full of wonders. Sometimes we just don’t know how the universe provides us with solutions. And often times, it is never what we want, or think is right, but what needs to be. (To read the text with images and syndetic art- then please go check this link)
Stumbling Blocks and Phantom Pain As much as the German wanted to sever himself from the Jew in his deception, he can't escape his eminent connectedness to him. The fact that he bequeathed an incisive wound into Jewish history, didn't cast him away but instead made him accountable and forever damageable. And even if this passage of time has its place back in history, the German can't free himself from the profound guilt and haunting shame, engrained in his spiritual existence. The ramification of his actions had ripple effects over time. Like a severed limb from its wholistic body, the deep-rooted phantom-pain is still lingering in all these downtrodden and miscarried remembrances. This phantom can't be escaped but it can be relieved. Not with anguish and not with blame but through acceptance and courage. And while the Jew carried on living through all humiliations and defeats, as he always does, the German retreated into a mental and spiritual prohibition, engendered by fear and failure. The copper stumbling blocks are everywhere, not just as cautionary tales on the street, but also as frozen daggers in the German's benumbed hearts and souls. The fear of death turned into fear of life. And trough the subsequent need for certainty and collocation, the red tape and hyperbolic safety precaution, latches every possible door for openness or chance. I see the unobvious suffering, the skeptic and the disbeliever in Germans, as I was blessed to live a Jewishness for quite some time. The disbeliever can turn easily into a misbeliever again, as the unhealed trauma sits deep in the bone, and yet, the work of karma will be for generations to come. If he just could see it, there is much for him to learn from the Jew, but the German has to admit and forgive himself first, for his phantom to turn into wisdom, and his pain to transform into love. by Yvette Endrijautzki 2017
Today I just learned about the history of a place worth telling. A place that i had visited frequently for a decade when i was a little child. This place was simply known as my pediatrist's practice, an old ostentatious "fin de ciecle" building with two solid pillars in the front entry: Platzhoffstr. 12, Wuppertal (former City Elberfeld). Nothing ever indicated this place to be of anything meaningful. And i reckon this to be the case for most people, here in Wuppertal. However, in 1884, this building was the chamber of the first official lodge of the German theosophical society (and the second one to Europe). Students of well known occultist Eliphas Levi, the established Gebhard family, and he himself, as well as mammoth mystic Madame Blavatsky, renowned Henry Olcott and many other internationally known theosophists and devotees gathered at this inconsiderable furtive lodge on Platzhoff Street 12. When back then, the small esoteric group of just 33 members theorized different philosophies, the occult and spirituality, they hence wrote the "Sphinx", a fundamental esoteric magazine, printed and published in Germany. This nameless lieu, in which the occult group gathered for seances, theosophical studies and further doings, had metabolized into a doctor's office and waiting room, whereabouts i used to sit, almost 100 years later, by an old creaky bench alongside the office wall, reading the provided age-based neoteric children books. My visits where always memorable. Not the compulsory doctor's examination, but more the tantalizing journey through the big black heavy Wilhelminian style wood doors, through the neo-classicism appareled foyer, into the ambiguous dim lit waiting room. I didn't fear the quite young doctor, as she was always very attentive and mindful. But i remember, that i invariably felt torpid when entering the ensouled room. A grey and white twilight zone, filled with an idiosyncratic resounding silence. Howbeit the modern furniture and the as diversionary tactic serving children's toys, this room had something peculiar. Not only was it remarkable old and timeless with its meticulous stucco ornate and endless high ceilings, instantly telling stories of dedication and gracefulness. But on an unknowingly level, it also recounted something else, echoing from the beyond and hereafter: the yesteryear's occult society had left an imperishably imprint in this room, automatically segregating from the old outmoded wallpaper and scrunching parquet floor, coining distinct footsteps and percolating every breath and sentience in place. (if you would like to read the extended version with more information about this place and its surroundings, then go to this link)
Transition We are born in darkness. We are born with pain. We awaken blindly as our eyes are naturally shut, and we scream from the top of our lungs, since we are forced out of this comfort of the dark cave, the hermit that we became so familiar with, in the last 9 month. We fist our fragile hands because we try to hold on to this dark space we have gotten so used to. Our restrictions feel the pain of mother's labor that rippled thru every cell in our entire being. We come from darkness. But then, all of a sudden there is light. So unfamiliar. So invasive. So bright and disturbing to what we know. We scream because we want to return to the dark cave we came from. Change is difficult. It creates fear. Fear of the unknown that we desperately try to avoid. Though once we overcome this ordeal, we soon enough, find ourselves basking in that new light and truly learn to understand, what those changes can bring to fruition. We then never want to leave again. Thus, darkness becomes that strange place. And once we have opened our eyes to seize meaning in every shape, form and color, we won't need to fear the light again. And once we have opened our fists and let go of all we have held onto, out of comfort and dread, then we won't need to hold on to darkness no more. And once we enlighten and bring truth into every dark corner to unleash its true potential, we then won't get trapped and stagnant in the shadows of our reality engendered by our fearful and resistant mind and ego. We already come from darkness. We don't need to hold on to it, to overshadow the light and to confuse its seekers. We don't need to bring more denial and distortion into a lamenting world. Enough lost souls and spirits are trapped in shades of anguish, sounds of anger and destructive forces. Death is light. It is the overcoming of our own shadows. It is relief, renewal and transition into a lighter realm. If we can start to truly embrace the light, with all its shadows, then it can teach us to enjoy every moment, welcome every change and master every death! by Y.Endrijautzki 2015