To live happily ever after

They were born into Hitler's Germany in the first years of the Second World War. They spent their early childhood being ushered into bunkers to hide from the Allies' bombs. As they grew older, they experienced the occupation of their streets and neighbourhoods by French and American troops respectively. They were divided from family by the Berlin Wall. They were taught by teachers, some of whom had been dug out of ruins. They experienced the 'Wiederaufbau' - the re-building - of an utterly traumatised society and totally broken country.

When the counter-culture movement blossomed, they met and fell immediately in love. Within months, they married - on 1st August 1964. Nine months to the day later, on 1st May 1965, their first child was born. Two years later, they were given the blessing of twins. He provided for their physical needs, she became a full-time mother and housewife.

They adventured to South Africa and, against all initial intentions, remained provisionally, becoming permanent residents and intrepidly exploring the southern continent with their three small children in a VW station wagon, later replaced by a Combi. Life was flow and they rowed the currents and torrents as well as they knew how.

When their 40th wedding anniversary came along, he asked his eldest daughter, the only one of their children who was then still in the country, "Do you want to celebrate our forty-year war with us?"

The quip was to the point. The depths and heights, the joys and horrors, the tedium and adventures, the truth and the lies, the heat and the ice I'd witnessed during their marriage gave me an education as rounded as anyone could wish for.

Today, 60 years on, vulnerable, but fortunately well-cared-for, neither of them is mentally or physically independent anymore. Still, they recognise everyone present in their wedding photographs.

"You are so cute!" my mother exclaims, gazing at the tall, blond 25-year-old in the album, "I would marry you again."

"Oh, I'd go along with that," retorts my white-haired father, adding, "We loved each other then and we love each other now."

When love outlives all pettiness.

Amen.

Out of the crucible of pain

Weeping Woman by Pablo Picasso

There is perhaps nothing on earth more compelling, impermanent, nor more faithful, than pain.
Pain is your most jealous lover.
He wants ALL your attention. He wants your eyes on nothing and no one but himself.
You are mesmerised into your weakest aspects by pain.
This imprisonment applies to all parts of our incarnated self: whether the pain inhabits your body, heart, mind or soul, his power is the same.

It takes great equanimity and faith to slip your nearly suffocated flame out and away from the arms of Pain.
You see yourself embraced by and embracing him.
Your detachment offers opportunity.

"Pain," you say, "What do you want from me?"
"Ah," he replies, "I want you to FEEL me."

So you feel him. You feel his neediness of your anguish and agony, how hungrily he devours the time you give him.
You begin to realise that you are feeding him.
Like a vulture, he is gorging himself on the carcass of what is already past in you.
You feel him sating himself.

The more he eats, the brighter your flame burns.
"You are looking beautiful!" people exclaim.
They like the radiance of your suffering, your brave patience.

Gradually, your unwanted lover quietens and drowses to sleep.
You are exhausted, but free.
You are light and new and can combine a limp, spent body-mind-soul with your flame again.
You are fragile, but you are also energised and newly whole.

Ascension depends on crucifixion, but your flame keeps its joy quiet.

Until, at length, it flickers and sways and fetches fresh oxygen to bring the world your eternal smile: an alchemy out of the crucible of pain.

- Silke Heiss, 7th June 2019