Mentor! Läutert …

Segment 9/3……… / I will turn 48 very soon, and during my whole live I looked at all the wrong places for the one person who believes in me. Someone to learn from, and be inspired. I want to write, and write and write, and not stop unless for a good cry. ( Naturally ) One of those sobbing sad displays, and if there was anything innocent still in my body, mind or spirit I want to find it. I would look at the promising light my old friend saw in me. I just never knew. The faith, the kindness he showed me in so many ways humble me deeply to this day. My second time moving back into the flat he must have known that I came with a broken heart, and matching spirit. Just a shy knock on the door when he rolled his big easel into my flat a few days after I had arrived again. I painted late at night for weeks, until also my heart really arrived, and I felt home again. Never ever did I even stop to think what it must have taken him to get the easel down the stairway! How can someone like me, crippled by the questionable verdict of treatment-resisting -major-depression could hope for inner peace, without the heartfelt ability to recognize such kindness, love and faith. During the years to follow, when back in the States my mind often traveled to that place where my soul was whole. To find that peace again I used to have, listening to the church bells on Sunday morning when the sun had not yet made it through the dense fog above the river. ——– I reach my inner landscape through a wooden swing hanging on thick hemp cords reaching down a million miles into my safe place. I needed to go there often for so many years – when badly hurt, or out of answers, often literally scared to death. I can’t tell which of the three made me leave this world for a little while again and again, but it always starts on a large rectangle boulder overgrown by moss and ivy. My go-to place, half a world away. I would just lay on it there, and look into my old bedroom. The hems of the long white curtains caress the old wood floor with the slightest breeze. I smell the pipe again, it is such a wonderful smell, also because I instantly know where it comes from. The friendly, old wise eyes of my mentor and landlord as he makes his way slowly towards the flower beds, making sure everything is growing and flourishing, as he does at the very same time every single morning! How I loved that smell. He was a professor of the Arts. A professor of Kindness, and my mentor. My inner landscape changed as I grieved when he died last Summer. ——Sometimes all I do is grief it seems. It is such an easy thing to be sad no matter how bright the sun is shining. My old friend no longer walks by my empty flat with the old windows wide open to enjoy the Spring air. His beautiful wife dies days later, for no apparent reason at all. —– I completely and absolutely understand how one wouldn’t want to go on without such a beautiful soul on their side, since now I know how to love that deep, and I thank God for it every single day. ——-The loss made us all wander, and somehow melt into the place itself which was a home no longer. Not to us, alive or dead, but our absence turned the house into a place with a beating heart again of a story to be told, and a void to be filled. I still lay often on the old familiar boulder overgrown by moss and ivy, turning my head to look into the open windows where I see the muslin curtains moving softly over the old shiny floors. I sense the sweetness of my youngest daughter, just days old back then, and I can almost hear the fast little feet of my oldest while playing. I can see my mentor making his way to the flower beds, with his kind eyes, smoking his pipe, checking if Spring had yet arrived. —— While my soul is in mourning, the early sun is rising slowly behind the house while the church-bells call on us for another day……….. Love and Light to you all! Simone’

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