My first winter in Portugal. While elsewhere the country wrapped in a white dress in silence, darkness and crystalline light, loose here on all assignments: meets the autumnal fog full tautropfengeschmückter Spinnwebdiademe on branches and windows and cathedral-azure skies of birds chirping and little clouds go for days this between seasons and there, falls in one autumnal trees, the rust-colored leaves in the same moment that creates the almond tree blossoms dress and be mature in the citrus fruit trees, the oranges. Everything, in addition to all inventory, everything is and can be simultaneous. Instead of a linear movement from A to Z spiral Juxtaposition of ancient runic symbols in all its wealth of meaning.
It is the water that almost continually in one form or another falls from the sky, the streets turned into rivers, and every little valley into a lake, the floating, sparkling, rushing, gurgling and rushing water, this almost surreal moments the simultaneity effect.
After 9 months of relentless sunshine, everything glows in the land opens the heavens carefully locked treasure chests and all that can be saved water at one time to this parched land rush down that deflects like a magical desert flower. And because these counted moments of over-flow Sun counted, has everything that all of life, fertility, procreation take place growing up, maturity and death at the same time. Just as in "real" life. My
on the northern and central European expansion of the time, the careful and continuous succession episodes, has the succession of annual and life time soul aligned their efforts with the acclimation. Similar to the immobility of mandatory summer heat, it is now the gentleness and the senses on and on demanding swelling of being, which demands for change. Now is sown, so before the great heat a little mature. Now the warm sunshine pushes to the outside, the ice crystals give the Tomorrow and the washed of all storms ocean life meaning comes, everything Dammed inevitably flow and pours into the sea to the great association. No stone is left unturned. And that - in the winter.
inconceivable that spring this could still increase. The ocher, umber and deep sepia of the summer has turned into an Irish-green, rugged and resistant steppes of high summer in the loving lovely valleys of the island Golfstromumschmeichelten worlds. The air is sweet and full of promise, a thousand flowers line the roads and on every corner, it seems to be just given birth to a lamb. Compressed life.
What is the world differently, everywhere. I think of the forests of Amazonia, in the twilight of eternal forest disappeared, dripping wet and without the baton of the annual tide. The Land of eternal ice, six months in dark and lit only by earnestly Feenlicht incalculable. To the desert with its extremes of heat and frost in the course of a single day. To life in the swamps and the hills of the Himalayas, in inert air or even from such supernatural clarity and precision.
All these areas have produced landscapes of the soul to another are as varied as the countries of stone, earth, clouds and plants. How thrive in the habitats of the earth and the souls of men at different soil and unlike with other punters. The towering Wermoutskiefer the Ardidondaks rises in the high mountains of the Himalayas just grow just a foot above the stone, and while orange trees in Germany only in the greenhouse and thanks to tireless care, they thrive in southern Europe at every street intersection - at least in the rainy winter.
Since I live so close to the country as here, I understand better why speak most of the surviving indigenous peoples that we are one of the country - and not vice versa. Stone and plants, weather and wind write their characters in our being to fill our dreams and our hopes, our joy and our pain, nourish us physically and are nurtured by us.
Tania Blixen writes in "Out of Africa": "Will this country once tell my story"
I give the floor, the air, the many growing and breathing creatures around me, my story, the liquid and strength of my body, tears, piss and sweat, as every breath permeated by what I inscribed the land of thoughts, feelings and emotions. We are so grown together, more and more. Assimilation is called the, I think, and it is an exchange, not a one-way road.
middle of winter so the optimism of spring, the softening of inflexibility, to keep it flowing away and held in autumn storm and - - the coming-in-motion but also, and finally - winter frost. And while I'm still in the Von-me-Give me practice is already growing at an incredible speed, the fruit of my labors against. Height and fall into each other. Time - what is it?
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