Being a mother

Elephant_with_Baby_on_Ground_30_8_1024x1024photo: Nick Brandt

Being a mother means being bit in the toes,
Being a mother means dancing for hours and crying for minutes,
Being a mother means being in LOVE,
Being a mother means watching your child climbing in a cardboard box,
Being a mother means watching your baby for hours,
Being a mother means meaning.

Being a mother means being tired, means being tired.

Being a mother means dressing him in pink,
Being a mother means establishing a different relationship to feet,
Being a mother means watching my son fall asleep every day,
Being a mother means scraping off some dried up banana from his chin,
Being a mother means getting caressed in the purest ways,
Being a mother means drumming on the toilet lid.

Being a mother means being tired, means being tired. Continue reading


Where did we loose it?

My little son Sequoia is already 10 weeks old. In these last weeks, I was thinking a lot what to write about now being a mother. Something that wouldn’t be ‘baby talk’ or ‘mother talk’ or ‘sweet talk’ or ‘ info talk’ or ‘complaining talk’ or ‘advice talk’ or ‘happy talk’. I wanted to write about something else. I am still not really sure what that is as so many people talk and write about motherhood, babyhood and parenthood. A whole big industry is making money by educating us about that totally natural event of having a baby.  Sometimes I feel like being in a quick sand of words not knowing when I will get pulled down, swallowed by the word monster. Continue reading

“Buch über die Liebe” Chapter 2

Buch über die Liebe

2 years ago Rajendra and I had our “Schwuppdiwupp” wedding. Last year we celebrated our 1st anniversary in a redwood forest in the Oakland hills. It was a beautiful, memorable and really touching celebration. Lots of friends and family came and contributed in one way or the other. In retrospect, I believe that it was such a wonderful day, because we let it pass by without too much planning and with the trust in the power of improvisation. On that day petals of beauty could unfold in their full potential. I could almost feel the love pouring down on all of us from the top of the redwood trees that embraced us. For me it was almost too sweet to be true. As some of you probably know, if things get too beautiful, I am very suspicious if they are real. But that day really was.

This year, we drove up there again. Only the two of us without an agenda. We just had packed an apple, a pocket knife, peanuts and a bottle of pomegranate sparkling cider. We climbed up on one of the benches, stood there looking at each other and toasted.  The toast sounded like a little tingeling. A sound that said everything that needed to be said in that moment. The sun tickled us through the trees and one of the old ravens, that we already met last year, flew past us.

The last two years were full of life, a lot of unexpected moments of joy, love and pain. A learning experience I didn’t want to miss, including all the people that were with me, supported me and sometimes helped me pulling the cart through the swamp. I much better understand the preciousness of opening up to risks, commitments and surprises without becoming paralyzed or desperate. 2 years of finding more stability underneath my feet by following my intuition when it truly needed my attention. 2 years of a lot of fighting and rebellion but also less of both. I am curious about the next steps in this life and in this marriage.

Anniversary March 16

Meine Oma


Meine Oma hat mir zu feierlichen Anlässen immer Socken geschenkt. Zum Geburtstag, zu Weihnachten, zu Nikolaus und zu Ostern. Ab und zu auch mal dazwischen. Es waren teure Socken, sie kaufte speziellen Marken und eine ihrer besonderen Lieblinge waren die mit dem Knopf am Fußgelenk. Oft hat sie vergessen das Preisschild abzureißen und ich war mir nie ganz sicher, ob sie es wirklich vergessen hat oder ob das Preisetikett absichtlich kleben blieb. Ich hätte mir selbst solche Socken nie gekauft, aber ich trug und trage sie immer mit Freuden. Meine Oma ist seit fast genau 3 Jahren gestorben. Jedes Mal, wenn ich ein Paar Oma-Socken aus meiner Sockenschublade hole, muß ich an sie denken und lächeln. Gestern trug ich eines meiner Lieblingspaare und als ich ein Loch darin entdeckte wurde ich traurig. Das Leben meiner pink-weißen Diamanten Söckchen ist fast zuende. Wer hätte gedacht, daß Socken solch einen Einfluß auf meine Befindlichkeit haben würden. Aber es sind natürlich nicht die Socken, es ist die Erinnerung meiner Oma, die morgens durch das Anziehen der von ihr geschenkten Socken wieder lebendig vor mir steht. Die Endlichkeit des Lebens, materialisiert in der Lebensdauer stinknormaler Socken. Es ist schon irre, wie Gefühle, Erlebnisse, Erfahrungen und Erinnerungen an Dingen haften können. Schönen Dingen. Danke Oma.

a love story

Rajendra hat mir heute eine Geschichte geschickt …

“one of patricias friends said that a parrot had fallen in love with her. the parrot would always come directly over to her shoulder and sing in her ear and do it’s little dance. but the thing that let her know it was true love was the bird would regurgitate for her. like a mother bird for it’s babies. making baby food in it’s stomach and puking it up. the bird would let out it deepest feelings of love from his stomach. he would lay his heart out for her. it wasn’t pretty. it didn’t smell good. but it was an act of true love.”