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The window needed shutting: the rain was getting in. Autumn wetness drumming on the windows, drowning out the sound of Keith Jarrett breathing loudly as he played his black, polished Bechstein. The speakers whispered: “The rain, the rain, we will defeat it.”
But they couldn’t.
You were lying on the velvet green couch, meeting it with your simple silk ochre dress. More albums on the ground. Van Morrison, Bartok, Sigur Ros and some that were unfamiliar to me. You were ignoring them, just like you were ignoring the music and the rain; your eyes were on me. An unknown scent of aliveness came at me from all sides; from the books, from the glass chandelier, from the flowers on the table and from the windows the rain was trickling through.
Your legs were at an angle, trying but failing to reach the wooden floor. An inch separating your right foot and the ground. Your left further away. Your left hand on your belly, your right hand next to your body. Lean hands; small wrists; long fingers. Your shoulders rested against a cushion, your head was tilted back. Your golden hair was like a monotone rainbow.
The whole of you seemed to melt into the air around us.
It felt to me like perfect balance: the rattling rain, Jarrett’s playing, the shape of your body on the couch, the colours of your dress, the faded green velvet, the scent of aliveness.
The velvety structure of your eyes made me go deeper inside myself. There was no way I could reach out to that look. I had to meet it somewhere deeper. What does something that is being reborn every moment feel like?
I felt how everything that seems to be unique is connected to all other things as well. A code? It was more than a mathematical formula in which different letters suddenly form logic; there were holes in the formula, opening up to as yet unborn worlds about to unfold. Never-ending spring. Blossoming. I felt dazzled: too many shadows became forms, too many forms disappeared into the holes. I felt happy. I could have laughed hysterically. My soul appeared to have holes too: every single sound, every single colour, every single touch and every single taste was absorbed. I lived in everything, and everything lived in me.
tagged: consciousness God understanding love connectedness flower silk Jarrett Bechstein
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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“Snow will fall this night. When you wake up everything will be white. Up till your knees you will disappear in the fluffy white. And your voice will be silent. All the voices will be. Have you ever noticed that the snow steels them, voices? With snow all your secrets are safe. It prefers to talk with your feet only; in a strange way only snow understands.”
After a two hours flight, and a small taxi ride, I am arriving at Hell station, Norway; a deserted station, two lines of rusty metal and a little house, above the door of the house the name of the station painted black. There is no place to hide. The wind is too strong for my jacket. The cold too strong for my eyes to keep them open completely. Squinting: a landscape vision. I take the train for another two hours I had never expected to arrive, and I am crossing the night and the border with Sweden. Snow. Still falling, like little white shelves, folding themselves within other white shelves creating a carpet of heaven. Up until my knees I disappear.
“First we are going to learn how to stop.”
I am eager to learn how to stop. The skis on my feet don’t feel natural at all, just as the steepness of the hill. I glide and fall. I had crossed my skis and walked over my own enlarged feet.
Fifteen years ago I tried to learn to ski for the first time, invited by a friend to come along with him. I took lessons in a group: a macho teacher, wearing a moustache and an orange ski overall, like he had just stepped out of a seventies Swedish Erotica movie. Ten girls as students, and one guy, me. Like now, I fell after two seconds, gliding into a gate, my skis entrapped in it. I asked Mr Love for help, but he was already gone, with his group of ten girls, leaving me to play for half an hour or so to get my skis out of the gate again. And to get me out of the skis.
This time I have decided to be persistent, to not give up. Charlotte is the name of my teacher, in the winter she works here, and in summer she is an entertainer in a hotel in Mallorca. Her English is funny. Her body packed in red, labelled with the name of the ski school. Of what I can see, she has a particular Swedish face: quite round. There is no group this time. One to one.
After I have learned to stop we take a steeper hill. I look down and feel fear. And I feel ridiculous seeing kids no older than four taking the hill graciously. Although I have learned to stop, I fall and fall and fall, over and over again. I am going to fast to stop. The ground is too slippery. I project my falling already going up the hill in the elevator again. The first lesson is a disaster. I feel less like a child.
That night I cannot catch any sleep: my feet feel being on slippery ground. Someone is moving my feet through me, and it is not I. The whole night I fail to imagine my feet being grounded. My mind projects images of things going fast: a bullet been fired; a cockroach on a tilled floor; a plane crossing another plane; an arrow in slow motion, still going fast. I try to slow down the speed of the arrow as much as possible.
Does the arrow actually move or is it fixed in any moment of time? + more
tagged: snow fluid fear grounding Body understanding trees grip
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 Photo: André Platteel
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There are four of us, maybe six. It feels completely dark. The only light comes from the sky: thousands of stars and a sliver of moon reaching to the earth. Yet even though the sky above me is clear, the heavens still don’t provide enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings. Although we have walked this path along this amazing coastline at least a dozen times over the last five days, most of us carry flashlights. The near abyss is magnetic.
I am having a lazy time in the place that gave birth to the Human Potential Movement, back in the early Sixties. Actually, the Sixties never stopped. There are people gardening naked; the food comes from little gardens within the compound; girls are painting flowers on the walls of buildings; in the evening we gather around a fire outside and those people with guitars play Fleetwood Mac, Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bob Dylan.
I went hiking through the wilderness the other day. The sky changed second by second. I walked through rain, in the sun, through storm and even snow, all in no more than half an hour. I felt like Hugh Grant near the end of Notting Hill, with a bit of Indiana Jones thrown in. I tried to find my way through the tall trees and wild bushes. There was no path. Then, the moment the wilderness opened up a bit, my eyes met those of three huge, powerful birds. They stared and shifted their long, thin necks in my direction. They spread their wings – at least six feet wide, I guess – not to take off but to impress on me how big they were. At first, fear stiffened my body. I tried to relax and backed off a bit, still looking into the eyes of these creatures.
Condors.
I had read in a guide that they used to live here, but had not been seen since the end of the Sixties. Had they been hiding since then, or had they returned? Watching these Condors, I felt a strange otherness I had never encountered before. I felt so alive.
Sometimes it takes otherness to remind us what we are made off.
tagged: fire fear life heart Eagle Condor light darkness Esalen sky understanding spaciousness reality
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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It is long since dark but still early in the evening. There is no wind or rain: outside is nothing. I’m sitting round a table with a few other men and our host, an old man who has been kind enough to give us shelter.
The old man has boiled some water to make tea. Just as he’s about to pour it, the electricity goes off. It is dark, completely dark – nothing to see. The electricity can be shut down at any time of day. Someone told me the other day that the former communist regime used to shut off the electricity as a punishment: many people didn’t pay their bills, and since under communism everybody was to be treated equally, everybody was punished for those who didn’t pay.
I hear the sound of something being placed on the table; I hear someone walking away from me; I hear the sound of a door; I hear someone opening a drawer; I hear the sound of objects being moved around by a hand that is searching for something. Seconds later a candle splutters into life and I can see that it was the old man who was their source.
Silence again, and a bit of light.
He must have lived here for a long time. The old man is barely able to walk anymore, though he managed to avoid hitting any of his many bits of furniture during his search for a candle.
Although there is no wind outside, I see the wind inside playing with the candle’s flame. It makes the flame longer, stretches it. And it makes the flame go out. Darkness. I hear the sound of a man stand up and a door being closed.
A moment later the candle gives us light again.
The old man starts to talk: he cuts-up his story carefully, so the translator can do his job properly. “If you listen to the wind carefully and follow it precisely you will be led to what gives you warmth, to what is most dear to you.”
You can see he enjoys talking. He uses his hands, slowly, to craft his words, as if his hands are shaping the sounds more precisely before they reach our ears.
“When you find what is most dear to you, a fire will be lit inside of you. It is a strong fire. It is the only fire you need. It will keep you warm in the darkest hours, in the coldest nights. ” + more
tagged: understanding fire wind flame heart dialogue body punishment
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Video: André Platteel
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He knew he had to go. His feet felt light. He was losing ground.
That night he had prayed for a young man to come. In his prayer he had asked for someone he could teach his understanding to. He had not seen anyone for years. Most people don’t want to be in this hot, deserted land. He could see as far as his eyes could see without seeing anything but sand. And two mountains. But in the bright sunlight they seemed to be no more than a trick of perception. Away on the left and away on the right the mountains looked like two vague shadows staring out into the endless nothingness, the same nothingness that made him feel so full.
The two mountains were part of a legend. He had heard the legend many times, when people interested in knowing life still visited him. Although he had never seen the mountains up close, one mountain was said to have a big hole slightly above the middle and to the left. The other mountain was said to have vertical stripes as if it was divided into different parts.
The legend tells of a woman who had fallen in love with two men, brothers. The moment the brothers knew they loved the same woman, their love turned into hate. In the battle that followed, one of the brothers was wounded, slashed by a knife. Just before life left his body he managed to plunge his knife into the heart of the one whose blood he knew so well. Both brothers died and the woman cried so much that a river was created, connecting the two mountains. The river dried up long before he came to live there, more than fifty years ago.
He was making tea when someone knocked at the door. A young man. He asked him in and they walked to a small table with two chairs. The fire was on. At this time of year the desert was cold.
“It is said you can turn the two mountains into one,” the young man said by way of introduction, pointing through the window to the two vague mountains that seemed to be at the far end of an endless nothingness. The old man didn’t respond, not yet.
“I want you to show me how you do it. Here...” He opened his hand and showed the old man his money, all the money he had saved, probably taking years.
“Who are you to come into my house and to ask to trade my knowledge for money?”
“It is said that in making two mountains one, the mystery of life becomes known”, the young man continued.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to know life!”
tagged: wholeness understanding life desert sun
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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She’s sixteen, sweet sixteen. She’s only lived here four years but speaks the language fluently, cleverly. She says she loves being here, but would also have loved stay at home. Not because of her new country, she explains, but because she doesn’t know the father she’s living with. Back home she only saw him two weeks a year, yet even after spending four years with him here, he still is a stranger.
“He is a clever man with a great memory.”
I am listening with ten other young people and we have only one purpose: to really listen to what each of us has to say.
“He always knows anything and everything. He can see inside you: what you think and how you will act. I never really liked talking with him though. I always had the feeling that there was a competition going on: who will win the conversation?”
She doesn’t talk silently, to herself; her voice is clear. She eases into the eyes of us listeners. She has big brown eyes, beautiful eyes.
“And if, occasionally and miraculously, you won the battle you still had the feeling you had lost, because he had permitted you to win the game. As a child, he let me win several times. And although I knew I won because of him, I liked those moments. I had the feeling of having a father for a few moments.”
None of us is asking questions. None of us is impatient.
“He is a strong man,” she continues, “with a strong body and a strong sense of justice. With him by your side you feel protected against all evil, protected against all the bad things that could ever happen to you – even the things you were never afraid of in the first place. When I first came to this country he warned me for all the dangers, and for the first few weeks I could only walk outside with him by my side.”
There is just a little pause, and a beautiful silence, before she continues, as if she is taking the time to lead us to the next chapter.
“He is a great man, actually.”
tagged: understanding mind spirituality uniqueness heart
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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I have to wait for transport. Around here, waiting for transport can take hours. So I try to get rid of the feeling of ‘waiting.’
At a certain point I need to go to the toilet. I find it behind a small square building with no doors. Instead of a water tank, the toilet has a straight pipe that goes into a beautiful river that I can see through the broken wooden floor.
Walking back I come a cross a strange object: an installation made out of various materials that were probably found by the road or in one of the dumps that are on almost every corner, including next to the most beautiful Roman, Greek and Ottoman remains. The installation has been created from various objects made from metal, wood, wire and stone. I have no idea what the purpose of this installation is. In a museum it could easily be the creation of a Dadaist, but here I doubt that it has been made from an artistic perspective. Although the object has many pieces that seem to have been picked at random, the object feels coherent, which makes it feel like one piece: as if the combined materials have begun a second, new life.
It must be about ten years ago that I was invited to give a presentation at the Arthur Andersen training centre near Chicago. When I arrived it was obvious that I didn’t conform to the Arthur Andersen dress code – and my haircut was way out of line. Every man there wore a dark blue suit, a dark tie and black shoes. I wasn’t. Every man wore his hair short; mine was quite long.
Because of this, the conference organizer advised me to stop by a tailor and get a haircut. Easy: both shops were part of the Arthur Andersen compound. At the barbershop, the barber didn’t ask what I wanted, so I asked him how he would cut my hair. He smiled, walked back to a desk, opened a drawer and took out a sketch of a man who looked just like the many men I had already encountered at the centre.
In the middle of my house there’s a big table, about four metres long. It has many chairs around it, which I have collected over the years. Most of the chairs don’t match. But you can sit on all of them. And all the chairs are recognizably chairs because in some way they reflect the concept we have created of what a chair is all about.
tagged: understanding consciousness oneness life spiritual business community
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 Photo: André Platteel
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Someone takes the seat opposite me in the train. He sits down very silently, almost as if no one is doing so. He looks at me for a few seconds, without wanting anything. I move my head slightly with the idea of making a friendly gesture.
We pass Leiden, a small Dutch city that I used to live in. It has great universities, and a great hospital – a huge complex, almost a village really, mainly coloured yellow. I have never understood that colour. Memories in my body remind me of the times I spent in that village of sick people. I reboot my brain to the here and now. But this doesn’t stop my mind from raising questions. How come so many people get sick? Sickness isn’t our natural state, is it? So why do so many people get ill? It strikes me: And why haven’t I felt really healthy for a long time?
I am glad I don’t live in Leiden anymore.
I feel the eyes of the man opposite resting on me. When I look back I see not only a man, but also someone, probably of Japanese descent, wearing a beautiful suit; he has small but bright eyes and short black hair. The lines in his face are fine, no particular marks. He doesn’t have a big nose, nor does he have a strong jaw or pronounced lips. I find it hard to guess his age. His face could be anyone’s face. On his lap he holds a long black object, longer than the span of my arms. It looks as if it is made of strong material; probably containing something inside, but I have no idea what that could be. Or, to be more precise, ideas about what could be inside are bubbling up in my mind (some quite bizarre), but I can’t verify any of them – unless of course I grab the object and look inside. I don’t move.
When we pass The Hague, he starts talking to me.
He whispers, but his words are crisp and clear.
He tells about great Chinese and Japanese warriors. “The best fighters did not fight that much,” he says. “A great swordsman often did no more than show an inch of the shaft – nearly that was enough to make the other person decide to back off.”
Someone wants to sit next to me, but for some reason he then steps back and decides not, walking further to look for another seat. He carries two bags and I am sure they have books inside since I recognize the name of the shop printed on the bags. Books. For a long time I was addicted to buying books. I bought more than I could read. And the more I bought the less I read. I could no longer make a choice about which one to choose. One day, I got fed up with stories and sold almost half my collection. Most of them left my house unread.
“That small but sharp and shiny piece of metal was enough to show the other that the limits had been reached. And let there be no confusion, if that warning was not understood clearly, the sword was used, without hesitation, fully and deadly. And without sorrow.”
tagged: swordsman Japan warrior Chinese fighting wholeness understanding fear Hero martial-art
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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I have always liked the opening scene of the film Slacker (Richard Linklater, 1991). A guy just getting off a bus hails a cab to continue his route. He starts a conversation with the cab driver based on the question: what if I would not have taken this cab but would have waited at the bus station instead? His imagination plays with the possibility that back at the bus station, a beautiful girl starts talking to him, she offers him a ride, she invites him to her beautiful apartment and eventually he moves in with her. Because all of this is not happening right now, he continues, it does not mean this ‘thought of reality’ is not part of reality. ‘The thing you choose not to do fractions off and becomes its own reality.’
By thinking of a different reality we acquire a glimpse into this other reality that is as much as true as the one we have actually chosen. In our lives there are many routes not navigated. Somehow we do not pay attention to these routes; we seem to be trapped into this one reality restriction kind of thing.
Goethe lived at the same time Newton did. Both were scientists, and more. Newton created a mechanistic world-view seeing reality as something that can be measured. He divided reality into different components and studied them, trying to gain knowledge out of its different parts. Goethe saw science as a contemplative looking (Anschauen), seeing that reality does not exist out of different separate realities but that all different realities are somehow connected. He spent years and years looking at plants. Goethe came to see that, although many plants have different forms, they are not isolated but intrinsically related: they belong together in an organic way. What Goethe teaches us is although we could acquire a lot of knowledge by means of scientific objectification this does not mean that we can fully understand reality as such. Knowledge divides reality in separate units resulting into fragmentation. Understanding, I propose, cannot be fragmented but must be holistic.
tagged: Goethe understanding Anschauen Slacker Linklater Newton reality
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 Photo: Annemarieke van Drimmelen
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This Blog is focusing on the growing awareness that everything is connected and that we are all part of one whole consciousness. As part of life you are an expression of consciousness - you are a highly individual and therefore particular manifestation of Wholeness.
It takes no great vision to understand that the questions we are confronted with in our lives cannot be solved in isolation. We have no choice but to think and act together. Though the fact that we think and act in connection with others is only the beginning of our understanding of interconnectedness.
We are coming to understand our true nature as a coherent whole which is ever changing and unending. The growing insight that the perceived world of duality is embedded into a greater whole transcends our relationship for the good with others, the earth and ourselves.
This Blog has the intention to document the unfoldment of consciousness, which gives rise to natural, more enduring behaviour and new expressions of being. As the initiator of this blog I would like to share my thoughts, struggles, doubts, insights, confusions, ideas and understandings regarding consciousness. Not with the idea to oppress any truth or to cause any confusion, but with the intention to share. I would love to invite you to use this space for conscious sharing in order to co-create the emerging biography of the conscious society.
tagged: wholeness co-creation consciousness connectedness understanding
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