Sunday, April 12, 2026
Farm-life in Paris is absorbing, here the first impressions:
This is my first urban farming experience. The farm is located in Nanterre, which is a part of Paris that is a bit rougher.
The fact that there is a farm in Paris, both hidden and completely in the open, is surreal. When the founder welcomed me, and — in Paris-velocity — showed me around, only men hanging around, mustering me, and some of my normal comfort standards clearly missing, I thought: is this dangerous, is this naive?
What exactly made me stay, I don’t know, but I am very happy, I did.
In the evening I got to know a horse-woman living in her tiny house on the premises, and working nearby Versailles. And I greeted our guardian dog, Shanti.
We are a community of students (two architecture students, since the farm is dedicated to an old stone-building technique), gardeners, builders, a neurodiverse boy who is pure curiosity and aliveness.
The work is physically demanding, and I had to earn the respect of young men, which worked well so far: really feels good when a muscled young men asks you for your opinion on a technique for moving stones: short nod with head and eyes and a ’what do you think?’. I thought it was good, and then it worked, which earned me this moving-the-chin-forward in respect.
Sunday, April 5, 2026
I’m in Southern France, and I fell in love with the city of Marseille. Urban life was rare for me during the last years, so I am also hungry for it. And Wild Life seems to accompany us at every step we take, and adapts as good as possible. These fellows have become true citoyens.
Sunday, March 29, 2026
Afterimages
BY AUDRE LORDE
I
However the image enters
its force remains within
my eyes
rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve
wild for life, relentless and acquisitive
learning to survive
where there is no food
my eyes are always hungry
and remembering
however the image enters
its force remains.
A white woman stands bereft and empty
a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson
recalled in me forever
like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep
etched into my visions
food for dragonfish that learn
to live upon whatever they must eat
fused images beneath my pain.
II
The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson
A Mississippi summer televised.
Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain
a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat
her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney
now awash
tearless and no longer young, she holds
a tattered baby’s blanket in her arms.
In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain
a microphone
thrust up against her flat bewildered words
“we jest come from the bank yestiddy
borrowing money to pay the income tax
now everything’s gone. I never knew
it could be so hard.”
Despair weighs down her voice like Pearl River mud
caked around the edges
her pale eyes scanning the camera for help or explanation
unanswered
she shifts her search across the watered street, dry-eyed
“hard, but not this hard.”
Two tow-headed children hurl themselves against her
hanging upon her coat like mirrors
until a man with ham-like hands pulls her aside
snarling “She ain’t got nothing more to say!”
and that lie hangs in his mouth
like a shred of rotting meat.
III
I inherited Jackson, Mississippi.
For my majority it gave me Emmett Till
his 15 years puffed out like bruises
on plump boy-cheeks
his only Mississippi summer
whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie
as a white girl passed him in the street
and he was baptized my son forever
in the midnight waters of the Pearl.
His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year
when I walked through a northern summer
my eyes averted
from each corner’s photographies
newspapers protest posters magazines
Police Story, Confidential, True
the avid insistence of detail
pretending insight or information
the length of gash across the dead boy’s loins
his grieving mother’s lamentation
the severed lips, how many burns
his gouged out eyes
sewed shut upon the screaming covers
louder than life
all over
the veiled warning, the secret relish
of a black child’s mutilated body
fingered by street-corner eyes
bruise upon livid bruise
and wherever I looked that summer
I learned to be at home with children’s blood
with savored violence
with pictures of black broken flesh
used, crumpled, and discarded
lying amid the sidewalk refuse
like a raped woman’s face.
A black boy from Chicago
whistled on the streets of Jackson, Mississippi
testing what he’d been taught was a manly thing to do
his teachers
ripped his eyes out his sex his tongue
and flung him to the Pearl weighted with stone
in the name of white womanhood
they took their aroused honor
back to Jackson
and celebrated in a whorehouse
the double ritual of white manhood
confirmed.
IV
“If earth and air and water do not judge them who are
we to refuse a crust of bread?”
Emmett Till rides the crest of the Pearl, whistling
24 years his ghost lay like the shade of a raped woman
and a white girl has grown older in costly honor
(what did she pay to never know its price?)
now the Pearl River speaks its muddy judgment
and I can withhold my pity and my bread.
“Hard, but not this hard.”
Her face is flat with resignation and despair
with ancient and familiar sorrows
a woman surveying her crumpled future
as the white girl besmirched by Emmett’s whistle
never allowed her own tongue
without power or conclusion
unvoiced
she stands adrift in the ruins of her honor
and a man with an executioner’s face
pulls her away.
Within my eyes
the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain
a woman wrings her hands
beneath the weight of agonies remembered
I wade through summer ghosts
betrayed by vision
hers and my own
becoming dragonfish to survive
the horrors we are living
with tortured lungs
adapting to breathe blood.
A woman measures her life’s damage
my eyes are caves, chunks of etched rock
tied to the ghost of a black boy
whistling
crying and frightened
her tow-headed children cluster
like little mirrors of despair
their father’s hands upon them
and soundlessly
a woman begins to weep.
Sunday, March 22, 2026
Every day is a fresh page. How about starting each day with a question with regard to what is going on in our lives? There are rapid changes in my life right now, and whenever I meet crosswinds in the form of annoyances and intrusions, I think what a waste of time to even think about it — for an entire hour, for two hours.
There is so much wonder going on in my life, why can’t I just be completely enthralled by that? We are animals with instincts for survival, and they get triggered so easily — it’s not a bad thing, it’s a challenge to discern and respond appropriately.
So my question for today is — since I am surrounded by such a beautiful gang of animals right now: How do animals deal with stress?
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After some observations, I noticed the obvious: they are at home in their bodies and they respond to stress (loud noises, intruding animals) immediately by sound and movement.
And I thought about what it is that best allows us to find a home in our bodies, and I thought about giving much more attention to the senses.
To fine tune, I dedicate a day to one of the senses: taste, smell, touch, hearing, seeing, balance (vestibular sense), intuition. What taste, smell, touch and so forth is in accordance with who I am, and what isn’t? It is an exploration of attention and fine tuning and noticing. Everyone is invited to join ♥️
My dear ones
due to traveling, the Sun Story arrives with a little delay on a Wednesday:
The beginning of March holds certain meaning for me. Experiences and imaginations have made the first part of this month into a personal archway of becoming.
This year was humbling and celebratory in unforeseen ways.
Imagine three days of togetherness of clown artists from around the globe, both veterans and newly born ones. It is the scariest and most fulfilling thing I’ve got to know so far: they all seem to have eyes on their back of their head, noticing any mood and movement.
We listened to stories, and we told stories; we laughed, we cried; we celebrated, and we could not get enough of throwing huge balloons around the hall.
We were hundreds. The sheer atmosphere moved me to tears often.
We learned, and made plans, and during lunch-breaks we had jam sessions: the noises and moves that clown artists can make — there isn’t anything like it. Meeting and experiencing these souls is one of the dearest gifts I have received.
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Images of Lake Geneva
Sunday, March 8, 2026
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Sunday, March 1, 2026
Call Me by My True Names
by Thich Nhat Hanh
Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow —
even today I am still arriving.
Look deeply: every second I am arriving
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that is alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing
on the surface of the river.
And I am the bird
that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.
I am the frog swimming happily
in the clear water of a pond.
And I am the grass-snake
that silently feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.
And I am the arms merchant,
selling deadly weapons to Uganda.
I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate,
my heart not yet capable
of seeing and loving.
I am a member of the politburo,
with plenty of power in my hands.
And I am the man who has to pay
his „debt of blood“ to my people
dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.
My joy is like Spring, so warm
it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.
My pain is like a river of tears,
so vast it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart
can be left open,
the door of compassion.
Sunday, February 22, 2026
My daerlings,
I love symbolic acts of resistance. For example symbolic acts of resisting the exploitation of Nature.
Some of my friends whom I love and cherish practically live on airports and in airplanes for fulfilling their purpose in life, but who will put effort and time into taking the train whenever that is an option.
And I have friends whom I love and cherish who have rebuilt their lives without a car or ever taking a plane. And they do not seem to live less; their highly intense and creative lives are so admirable.
Some years ago, I stumbled upon one of the best art happenings ever: a boy (maybe 13 years old) and his dog were walking alongside the river. The boy had a large bag in his hands, and stooping every few meters, he would pick up plastic or paper or metal. I was stunned by the sheer sight and the aura surrounding them. I exclaimed: You are the best! With a sigh, the boy responded that someone’s got to do it, you know, else it will all go to the lake, the fish will eat it, and it will finally be on our table.
Afterwards, when I had fish, I thought of the boy who takes care. And that we can all be that boy, everywhere and anytime, to become part of this grand Art Exhibition and Happening called Love & Care & Just Doing It.
All my love
Katharina
Sunday, February 15, 2026
My dears,
no human being is illegal.
Twice have I been at a place without the proper documents. In Norway and in Argentina. In Argentina I stayed a bit longer than my visa was, and I had to pay a small fee upon leaving (a little foresight would have been better, I think).
Norway isn’t a member of the European Union, but it has agreements that establish close relationships between EU-countries and Norway. So when I was living in Norway and received a letter that said that I’m not properly documented and that I might be flown out of the kingdom of Norway, I though: please do! I’ve just received an invitation for a wedding, so please fly me out!
It also said that I was required to go to a police station as soon as possible. I did so.
The police officer asked me if I enjoyed living in Norway. Yes, I said. That’s nice, he said. And he went on like that. Finally, I reminded him of the letter, and asked what it meant. He waved his hand: Ah, nothing! When you start studying (which I had told him was my plan) just take your student ID to a police station to register. Relaxed, no pressure, as expected.
When I went out of his office, and past the people waiting in front of it — their skin was Brown and Black — I knew they will have a different experience. No waving of hands nor telling them how nice it is that they are here.
Being white is in many contexts an extreme privilege, one most do not even think about. When there is awareness of this privilege, it can be used consciously for listening, and for learning to see things from a different point of view. And then we might start to perceive that humanity asks us all to see the soul of things and of each other.
It all starts with listening.
All my love,
Katharina
Sunday, February 8, 2026
My dears.
Today I want to contemplate two things: rhythm and adventure, and how they might belong together.
The last weeks have messed a bit (or a lot) with my personal rhythm, and I sense that I’m back on track — and stronger than before. I love getting up very very very early (the morning is my time and joy). And I love taking up a project daily — a field of learning and evolving — and thusly connecting to the day before and the day ahead.
I’ve recently started communicating with two persons; what struck me was that they apparently have a specific time during the day for correspondence — that’s when they answer or write.
I haven’t yet spoken with them about it, but I am sure that they check their emails once a day only: I wonder how that feels like, and if that serves the workflow — I think it does, I will try it!
That’s one way to create more time for exploration and adventure, like being outside every day and observing the changing season.
What nurtures your sense of adventure?
That question appeared in my mind the other day, and I immediately thought: attending the morning concerto of the birds!
Today’s pictures are from the morning concerto of the birds.
I invite you to take a deep breath, and to send your touch of hopefulness and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
See you soon
Katharina
Sunday, February 1, 2026
Invitation to begin together —
As we are on the verge of a new week, I want to invite you to sensing towards walking through this week together. There might be openings (for celebration) and closures (for mourning), and I think it is possible to do both together as we walk through the week: the celebrations and the mournings.
This is an invitation to begin together the life we each want to live: the explorations, the learning, the practicing, the loving, and the making that resonate with each of us (in their unique ways).
We can listen to the interplay between the actual endeavor (for example to write every day) and the tools and conditions that support it (time it two or three times throughout the day, even if it is “only“ ten minutes).
And we can send the energies of our victories and the compassion of our mournings towards each other. I know I will. I invite you to take a deep breath, and to send your touch of hopefulness and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
See you soon
Katharina
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Sunday, January 25, 2026
My dears,
Recently, my friend Annie sent me something, and I’m exploring it with interest and awe; there are epiphanies along the way, I know that much.
Since I consider it new, I cannot say much about what it is. I can say what it is not: it cannot be placed within the usual.
It is an invitation for orientation, and from what I’ve experienced: it resonates, and I want to share it with you:
https://docs.google.com/document/u/0/d/1h46xx53mmZ6_ETOicrg8Y8X14j3lbUg_9wOnkst8l-8/mobilebasic
See you soon, much love
Katharina
Sunday, January 18, 2026
Dear one
We are here for the long run, so we need to pace ourselves. The last two weeks were exhausting for me; they also increased my sense of appreciation and gratefulness for all the good people, of whom there are so many.
And I spoke about that with my 90 year old friend Inge. The sheer brightness of her mind amazes me time and again.
She said: where does a culture come from, what are its stages of evolution. And I thought that two people meeting from two different cultures, is the meeting of two people standing on the shoulders of so many. That is where charisma comes from, I think: emanating from all of those on whose shoulders we stand, and with whom we have relationships via our art, via our loving, via our longing and hoping. We reach back to them, and they reach forth towards us.
Utter miraculousness. We are not small, we are huge. And when we take each other by the hands… we are invincible.
I love you. Please save the date for the Depth Dimension Practices with Cat Charissage, Sunday, January 27. More information here: Events
May your week be blessed, and may you lean into rhythms to pace yourself in just the right way.
See you soon, Katharina
Sunday, January, 11, 2026
Thank you for all you do my loves —
Images from the morning & the promise of a longer story next week.
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I invite you to take a deep breath, and to send your touch of hope and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
x Katharina
Sunday, January 4, 2026
My dears,
Twice — in autumn, and in winter — have I been given a small jute bag with seeds. Both by a dear friend; one living across the ocean, the other in my Alpine surrounding.
The coriander seeds that accompanied my friend traveling across the ocean weren’t in my consciousness any more since when my friend gave them to me. Today I reread the letter and looked at the hundreds of coriander seeds again.
I think about seeds often. When opening a walnut from the garden’s walnut tree: the promise of a whole tree is in here. —
Or the grasses and bushes that hold seeds throughout winter. Some of the seeds will be planted by the wind and the soil and the water. And some of the seeds are winter-nourishment for the birds, and they will be carried into all directions, and then planted as well.
The pictures of the grasses and bushes portray seeds in the garden; none is coriander. I encourage you to look up the coriander plant, too.
May your week be blessed,
x Katharina
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Sunday, December 28, 2025:
Welcome Dear One
I grew up in the mountains, and Decembers were cold and snowy and dark. On certain days in December I would go from house to house, knock or press the bell, and then play the flute for everyone. One or two friends sang, and my Shetland pony, Luise, faithfully accompanied us carrying the sweets and the fruit that we received.
It was part of a local tradition; in olden times it was not done by children, but by the poor of each village. They sang and blessed each house, and received food to sustain them. Since our job was to play the poor of olden times, we dressed in simple woolen clothes, a pelt of a sheep over our shoulders, and with a charcoal we put streaks onto our faces.
We carried a lantern in front of us. We carried the lit candle through wind and snow and darkness. People were enchanted. Today, I would be, too!, but I haven’t been visited by such a little caravan yet.
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White-Eyes
BY MARY OLIVER
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In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
–
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
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he wants to go to sleep,
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
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from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
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So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.
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I don’t know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
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which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
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thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
_
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
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Now take a deep breath, and send your touch of hope and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
See you soon
Katharina
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Sunday, December 21, 2025
Welcome Dear One
You receive the very first Sunday Story, and I want to speak about the Blessing that I’ve created for ending each letter to you. It goes like this:
Now take a deep breath, and send your touch of hope and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
These aren’t just words. It is an action that you can fill with meaning, ritual, ceremony that feels right to you. It can be a moment of stillness where you touch each weekday lovingly with your thoughts. Or you can look into your calendar sensing what each day needs of care and attention. Or ’just’ a sparkle of light, dancing through your week. You decide and try what is good for you. And I’ll do the same.
Each week on Sunday I will tell you how my life is unfolding, about the events that take place (online and onsite), and most of all: it is a hymn to the Spirit of Togetherness, and I am so moved and so delighted that you are part of it!
A story / stories are the heartbeat of art, because they transport us from one state of being to another state of being. A story can be one sentence long, or one vocal gesture, or any of the innumerable occurrences that lift us up, and place us to another — hopefully — a better place.
Here is the story behind 4 BIRDSMIGRATIONS:
It is the summer of 2025. I spend a lot of time outside in the garden under the walnut tree that my aunt once planted. The tree is huge by now. And it gives shadow, and soul, and wondrousness to my little outside office consisting of a blanket, water, coffee, two notebooks; one of them digital.
Amongst the things that I am working on is hosting a poetry reading at a gallery in Berlin. Three poet friends will participate; two of them from the United States, one from Canada. The poetry reading will be later that year in Berlin, Germany.
The moment the gallery owner says yes to co-creating this event, I write to the three poets, and that is when it happens:
Birds gather in the walnut tree. In the middle of summer, in the middle of the day — many birds come and take a seat on one of the branches. They gather, readying themselves for their next adventure, their next migration together.
4 BIRDSMIGRATIONS is born in that spirit.
Now take a deep breath, and send your touch of hope and love over your entire week — Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday — until we meet again — on Sunday.
See you soon
Katharina