Dreams are part of this journey and appear here regularly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KNOW THYSELF

June 29, 2026

After a good night's sleep and five days spent indoors behind the air conditioning, I finally went back to the gym. It went well, although it was still extremely hot. Sweat poured down my body. While exercising, I don't really mind that. In fact, it almost feels liberating. Once I got home, however, I realized how much energy it had taken. Tired, but satisfied that I had set my body in motion again, I started painting. Headphones on, a series playing in the background. Most of the time I only listen. The story somehow enters my mind without demanding my attention. I don't really know how that works. I hear it, and at the same time I don't.

Ton placed a cup of coffee beside me with a broken biscuit, divided into three pieces.

While taking a break to enjoy my coffee, I told him about a childhood memory. When I was three or four years old, we visited my father's parents every Sunday. There were always ten to twenty grandchildren there. We would line up to receive a small glass of lemonade and a handful of broken biscuits from Grandpa.

Grandpa would collect a large bag of broken biscuits from the Victoria biscuit factory. These were biscuits that had broken during production and could no longer be sold. To all the grandchildren, they were a real treat.

Except for me. I always refused. I'd rather have nothing than broken biscuits. I honestly don't remember why.

I was so consistent that Grandpa eventually started saving one whole biscuit just for me. With a deep sigh, he would pull it from behind his back and hand it to me. It was always a Café Noir biscuit.

Ton laughed and asked,

"Did you feel you were too good for broken biscuits?"

I laughed too, but I don't believe that was the reason. I've never felt superior to anyone. Quite the opposite. Perhaps it had something to do with my strong sense of principle. Those invisible boundaries that already seemed to exist when I was a child—boundaries that no one could simply cross.

Remarkable how a broken biscuit can suddenly bring back a memory from sixty years ago.

As I continued painting, I suddenly heard someone in the series being offered ECT—electroconvulsive therapy.

I immediately stopped painting.

I turned off the sound and asked Ton whether he had any idea why I had undergone shock therapy myself more than fifty years ago.

I know doctors were experimenting with me in those days. The memory itself is horrifying. As I spoke about it, tears welled up in my eyes again. Strangely enough, I could no longer relive the experience itself. I could clearly see the room again. The equipment. I remembered the fear and the misery. But the overwhelming emotional pain that once accompanied those memories was no longer there.

While talking with Ton, I was able to connect several events from that period of my life. For the first time, I gained what may be a new piece of understanding in this dreadful puzzle.

I will write that insight in my shadow journal. It is still too vulnerable to share here.

Several times today, I unexpectedly found myself returning to the past. It brought tears to my eyes. Fortunately, not to my heart.

Perhaps another small piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. And that feels good.

To me, the ancient saying "Know thyself" is not about knowing who you are.

It is about gradually understanding how you became the person you are.

Perhaps knowing yourself is not a search for new memories, but for a new way of looking at the memories that have always been there.

Sometimes a single small insight doesn't change the past.

It changes the way you carry it with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LOST CHILD

June 28, 2026

In the year I had my stroke, I forgot my friend's birthday. It hurt her deeply. When I'm not feeling well, I tend to withdraw. Or when I feel like I'm too much, for whatever reason. The same happens when I know I can't participate in something. I rarely call people because I never quite know what I have to say. Of course, I can ask how they're doing, but eventually I'll have to say something about myself as well. My choice is simple: I don't reach out. It is never personal. It always has to do with me. I know that.

Why would I talk about my pain? My fatigue? They're always there. If I kept mentioning them, it would soon start to sound like complaining, wouldn't it? Healthy people often fill in the blanks in ways I don't need, with sympathy or advice, for example.

And what about my painting? I can't really talk about that either. It is so personal. It is a journey through my inner world that I am still discovering myself. It feels as though that journey is still speaking to me. If someone were to put words to it too soon, it would almost feel like interrupting something that isn't finished yet.

Withdrawing into silence is a movement in which I feel safe and comfortable.

Last week I came across an advertisement for a book by psychotherapist Kathleen Saxton called Child of a Narcissist. The peacock on the cover immediately caught my attention. Not because I wanted to stir up old pain, but out of curiosity. Could it still tell me something I don't know? Are there still blind spots? And... does it still hurt? When I look at my brothers and sister today, I can see that they too have been marked by the same past. What has it done to them?

I'm aware that once I start reading, I'll recognize many situations. That's why I decided to finish my painting first. The book can wait until then.

During a short break, I pick it up anyway. Just to open it at random.

Bam.

My eyes immediately fall on a heading:

Public Image Versus Private Reality

"Narcissistic families often present a polished and idealized image to the outside world in order to hide the dysfunction within the family. This duality creates a confusing and isolating experience for family members who are aware of the hidden toxic dynamics."

My sister and I were always very aware of that contrast—how the outside world saw our family, and what life was really like at home. My brothers still seem to resist that idea. I'm curious to see what the author writes about those who recognize the truth and those who live in denial, while carrying wounds of their own.

I open the book at random once more. Once again, it is so familiar.

The chapter is called:

The Lost Child.

Immediately I think of all the times people literally forgot I was there. It became something people laughed about later in life. As a child, though, it hurt me deeply.

I read:

"The lost child is often overlooked within the family dynamic. This child withdraws and becomes invisible in order to escape. They often develop a rich inner world and retreat into books, fantasy, and solitary activities to cope with feelings of neglect and isolation. This can later affect their ability to express emotions, form intimate relationships, and stand up for themselves."

The author also explains that in larger families there is often a scapegoat and a golden child. I can clearly recognize those roles within our own family. At times, those roles even shifted. I'll have to wait and see whether the book says something about that as well.

My closest friend felt rejected and is considering ending our friendship. I felt lost and withdrew. That response comes from somewhere too.

It is remarkable how, even in middle age, we can still be moved around like pawns by our own conditioning. How, without ever intending to, we can come close to losing something truly precious.

Perhaps old patterns never simply disappear.

Perhaps they patiently wait until life presents another situation in which they become visible once again.

Not to keep us trapped in the past, but to give us the opportunity to make a different choice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Disappearing

June 27, 2026

Today I spent almost the entire day painting.

I slept in this morning. Perhaps my body needed it. Afterwards, I placed my easel back in its familiar spot in the living room, picked up my paints and brushes, and began.

From that moment on, something happened that is difficult to explain.

I don't paint.

At a certain point, I become the brush. I become the paint.

Thoughts disappear. Not because I push them away, but because they simply stop entering. It's as if one door quietly closes to the outside world while another opens to a place where words are no longer needed.

I disappear.

Sometimes I think of Alice in Wonderland. She falls through a rabbit hole into another reality. That's what painting feels like to me. Not as if I'm going somewhere, but as if I'm falling into a place where time no longer has any meaning.

I don't look at the clock. I forget to eat. I even forget myself.

Only the next line exists. The next colour. The next movement of the brush.

Perhaps that's also why I so rarely change anything once it has been placed on the canvas. The moment a line comes into being, it is true. It belongs to the journey the painting is making. Just as a step in life cannot be erased. You may regret it, but it remains part of the story.

At the end of the day, I looked up. It was already ten o'clock at night. Where the hours went, I honestly don't know.

Perhaps they don't even exist in the world where a painting is born.

Soon I'll step back into the ordinary world. Outside, thunder is rumbling, and I still have to drive to Schiphol Airport to pick up Ton's son.

I actually like that contrast. From the silence of paint...to rain against the windshield. From a world without thoughts… to a motorway filled with traffic. Both belong to the same day.

Yet somehow, I know that a part of me will stay behind for just a little while.

Among the colours.

Waiting until I disappear again tomorrow.

I'll open the window in a moment.

The warmth can drift outside.

The rain can come in.

And I...

I'll simply disappear into the colours again tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Friendship That Lost Its Way

June 26, 2026

We left the air conditioning running in the bedroom all night. I slept wearing my goats’ wool socks and a hat. The socks help regulate the burning sensation and the icy cold in my feet. The hat is there because I catch a terrible cold from having cool air blowing around me all night. Not exactly sexy, but Ton sleeps with his eyes closed anyway. All in all, I had a much better night.

While drinking my first cup of coffee, I noticed a message from the eldest son of my late friend. He asked how I was coping with the heat. He still remembered how difficult hot weather is for me. That unexpected kindness immediately brightened my morning. Shortly afterwards, my son called to ask me exactly the same question. How sweet that these boys worry about me, I thought. I could reassure them that everything was under control. It takes some adjusting and experimenting, but I manage. At the same time, I realise things would look very different if I were on my own. I am grateful that Ton is here.

While painting, I found myself thinking about my friend and decided to send her a message. Her reply felt distant. I had noticed that for some time. I asked whether something was wrong. She wrote that she had been pulling away because she no longer felt as welcome as she used to and was wondering whether she wanted to continue our friendship.

Shock.

This friend lives as deeply within me as my own children. I love her very much. Our lives have changed, and with those changes came a growing distance. We have both been adapting to new circumstances. I immediately tried to explain myself, but text messages are simply not enough, especially when emotions are involved.

Later, I read our conversation again, this time in silence and without reacting.

Then I saw what I had missed.

She shared her feelings.

And I immediately started explaining my own.

Mistake.

That could have waited.

I have done the same thing with my children and my family. First, I need to learn to listen to what someone is feeling. The way I respond can easily sound as if I am dismissing those feelings. That is never my intention.

She said,

"I suddenly didn't feel as welcome anymore as I used to."

Eventually I replied,

"I didn't feel welcome with you anymore either."

Almost a mirror.

The painful part is that we both started acting on those feelings without ever truly speaking about them. And once distance appears, it quietly starts inventing its own stories.

Reading everything back with more calm, I mainly saw her sadness.

Her life has changed completely. Because of that, I consciously created some distance. I thought, She has chosen a different life.

She probably thought, Annette doesn't want me close anymore.

Where did we lose each other?

I should have shared my feelings much earlier.

I know that about myself.

Perhaps the key lies in two different responses to the same story.

I felt disappointment and sadness.

She felt rejection.

And neither of us found the words soon enough.

This week I discovered something else about myself. When I feel humiliated, I immediately go into battle, in whatever form that takes. When I feel sadness, I quietly withdraw.

She undoubtedly has her own conditioning as well.

She responds in her own way.

We both feel love and connection. That is exactly why the distance hurts so much.

And perhaps that is also where hope for our friendship still lives.

If we are willing to face these sensitivities together.

Blaming each other only creates more distance.

You may still speak the same language, yet no longer give the same meaning to the words.

Once again, writing has done its work.

The knot in my stomach has disappeared.

Now I hope we can meet again soon, face to face.

Not to prove who was right.

But to quietly look together at the emotional paths we both wandered.

Getting lost does not necessarily mean there is no way back.

Sometimes it simply means that, for a while, we forgot how the other person experiences the road.

Perhaps finding each other again begins with learning to listen once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Is Movement

June 25, 2026

Today I stayed indoors.

Not because I had planned to, but because my body had a different agenda. I woke up with a headache, nausea, and dizziness. My feet were swollen, and my head felt overheated. Outside it was hot; inside, the air conditioner was running at full speed.

I spent the entire day in the living room, with my feet in a bucket of cold water, my paints and brushes beside me.

Every half hour I tried to walk for five minutes. Even that was barely possible. My body made it very clear: not today.

Years ago, a day like this would probably have frustrated me. The feeling of not being able to do anything, of achieving nothing. Now I notice that something has changed.

I sat looking at my painting.

Not to judge it, but to listen.

For years I've called this mopping. Sitting and looking until a painting speaks back. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes hours. And once it's finished, sometimes years. No... it keeps speaking for as long as I'm able to look at it. The beautiful thing is that I never have to force it. It tells me when it's time to continue.

Today it did the same.

I added a few lines. A flower. Part of the wreath around the head. Nothing more. And yet it felt as if the painting had grown far beyond the paint I had actually applied.

While painting, I found myself reflecting on something that came to me today. How insecure I can sometimes feel about my appearance, both literally and figuratively, while I have never been dissatisfied with a painting that has grown beneath my hands. Not even when, halfway through, I think I've ruined it.

Once something is on the canvas, it stays there.

Not because I'm stubborn, but because life doesn't come with an eraser either.

You can long for the way things used to be.

Or you can become curious about what wants to emerge from where you are now.

Perhaps that's why I love painting so much.

I'm not searching for perfect lines. They don't exist in nature either. No leaf is identical to the next. No flower grows with the precision of a ruler. It is those tiny imperfections that make them come alive.

Hundertwasser once said that the straight line does not belong in nature.

I understand exactly what he meant. I don't choose manufactured perfection.

I choose life. Life is movement.

As I write this, my feet are still resting in cold water. Outside, the heat continues. Inside, everything is quiet.

The painting stands opposite me. And somehow I have the feeling that today neither of us accomplished very much.

Yet somehow...we both grew a little.

Sometimes you walk for miles.

Sometimes you spend the entire day with your feet in a bucket of cold water.

And yet, it may be on a day like that that the greatest movement takes place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FREEDOM

June 24, 2026

After my son called to tell me about his remarkable encounter, many memories resurfaced. Michel and I consciously tried to allow our children to be themselves. We wanted to encourage what they found beautiful, what they enjoyed, and what sparked their curiosity. It was important to us that they were allowed to be different from their parents. My son was a perfect example of that. From the day he was born, there was something special about him. How do you explain such a thing? Friends often said, “He’s a little Buddha.” Michel and I wanted to keep him as WHOLE as possible. Not shape him according to our ideas, but give him the space to discover who he was. The question that always guided us was: “Who are you, really?” It sounds beautiful. And often it is. But it is not always the easiest path for a child. Only now am I beginning to see that more clearly. No, actually, I am only now beginning to truly feel it.

Keeping him WHOLE meant that we did not break him to make him fit into school, tests, diplomas, and systems. But because of that, he had to learn for himself how to navigate a world that places great value on those very things. That is difficult. Not because we were wrong. Not because the system is wrong. But because freedom and authenticity do not automatically lead to an easy life. I see a strong inner compass in all of my children, and I still find that beautiful. At the same time, I can now feel how much it has sometimes asked of them. You can be a loving mother and still give your children something they will struggle with later in life. You can protect a child and, in doing so, leave them less protected against the expectations of the outside world. You can give a child freedom and also create uncertainty. I do not think these are mistakes. They are the consequences of choices Michel and I made.

The pain I feel these days regarding my children may come from the fact that I can now see both sides. In the past, I mostly looked from my own perspective. From my own pain, my own experiences, and the choices that grew out of them. Now I increasingly look through their eyes as well. Not only as a mother, but also as a fellow human being. It makes things more painful, but also more complete. The freedom to be yourself, to ask questions, and not simply follow the crowd is a precious gift. As a child, however, it can mean being different. It can mean being bullied. Being considered strange. Not always understanding why others seem to move so easily through life while you constantly have to discover what feels true for you. I believe, hope, and think that what is planted in childhood often only becomes visible much later in life.

Looking back at the upbringing we consciously chose, I can now feel in my body what it may have asked of my children. Am I only now free from my own dark clouds? Can I only now see clearly? Can I only now truly feel what my children may have missed in me at times? Ouch. That insight hurts.

But what does freedom actually mean? Can I say anything I want? Yes. Do I? No. Because words can hurt or wound another person. Even within freedom, we take each other into account. Adapting, attuning, being considerate—these are all part of living together. I have a body with limitations. One could say I am not free to move as I would like. Any attempt by others to hold on to me or tell me how I should think or be has always triggered resistance in me. Sometimes I became the clown. Sometimes the rebel. Sometimes I withdrew so deeply that people literally and figuratively stopped seeing me. And on a few memorable occasions, it even ended in a physical fight. From those experiences, I wanted to give my children something different. I wanted to spare them the pain I had known.

Now I can see that giving something from pain does not automatically lead to the freedom I hoped for. Perhaps true freedom only begins when pain no longer determines the direction. As I slowly begin to feel free within myself, there may also be space for my children to discover their own form of freedom. For me, freedom is ultimately an inner feeling. Something no one can take from you except yourself. Slowly I am beginning to grasp that feeling. And perhaps because of that, I can finally pass it on.

I think of Nelson Mandela’s words, which move through my mind like a quiet reminder: “To be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” Perhaps that is the freedom I am searching for these days. Not the freedom to do everything, but the freedom to be myself while giving others the same space. Perhaps that is the most beautiful freedom of all.

Perhaps freedom is not about needing no one.

Perhaps freedom is knowing that every person must walk their own path,

while you continue to wave from the sidelines with love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remaining Whole

June 22, 2026

The weather forecast issued a red warning, yet no severe weather was expected. I found that amusing. The sparrows are practically falling off the rooftops, the combination of heat and humidity makes it unhealthily hot here in the Netherlands, but somehow that is not considered severe weather.

Over the past few days, I have learned a few things that help me get through it. Air conditioning, staying calm, breathing steadily, and wearing my wool socks at night. Today I decided to try exercising again. At least, I decided to see how it would go. Ton and I had the gym entirely to ourselves, which was wonderful. No unnecessary stimuli, and thanks to the air conditioning it was pleasantly cool. My plan was simple: just move and don't make a big deal out of it.

To my surprise, I was actually a little stronger than I had been a week ago.

Back home, I returned to the same routine. Air conditioning on and five minutes of walking every half hour. Everything went perfectly.

When I got home, I found a voice message from my son. He had gone to Kookpunt to buy a saucepan and noticed two Indian men sitting on a bench. Men like Gandhi, as he described them. Not monks, but dressed in similar robes.

One of the men looked at him very intensely, stood up, walked over, took his hands and said:

"You have very good karma. You have so much love inside of you. You don't take care of yourself like you should. Don't work too hard. You are beautiful."

My son thanked him.

Then the man said:

"I love you, you know that. I love you."

And my son replied:

"I love you too, man."

"It was so strange, Mum," he told me. "But also very intense."

As I listened to the message, I found myself smiling. I was glad that he had heard those words from someone.

Ever since he was born, he has been a remarkable person. Sensitive, kind and gentle. When he was little, people often said to me:

"He's a little Buddha."

The message brought back a flood of memories. It touched me because his way of being is so authentic and at the same time so difficult to fit into systems. Unfortunately, society is built on systems and rules.

Michel and I always did everything we could to keep him whole.

Not perfect. Not successful.

Whole.

As a child, he was never rebellious. He simply genuinely questioned why he was expected to do certain things at school. And sometimes he refused. Always politely, but firmly.

Keeping him whole did not make life easier for him. He has no diplomas, no clearly defined goal, and perhaps he never will. But he lives in his own way. Like a young, gentle Buddha.

In the end, he always remained faithful to his own feelings.

Michel and I were called to school countless times. The schools often did not know what to do with us because I usually agreed with Max. Michel, being a mathematics teacher, was somewhat better equipped to discuss things with the teachers.

Max refused to take the national school tests. Politely. In secondary school, a teacher once told the class that people who commit suicide are cowards. Max stood up and challenged him. When the teacher refused to reconsider his words, Max walked out of the classroom, went straight to the headmaster and requested never to be taught by that teacher again.

Polite.

But resolute.

He has a strong inner compass. Courage. Self-respect. And at the same time, respect for others.

He often feels he has achieved very little. From the outside, that may appear to be true. But as a human being, he is rich. Rich in empathy, gentleness and wisdom. Whenever he is around, people naturally feel better.

The only thing he still lacks is self-worth. That is something different from self-respect.

Feeling nostalgic, I spent the afternoon looking through photographs of Max and my other children. It warmed my heart, and the afternoon passed with a smile on my face.

After dinner—a tuna salad—I decided to go for a bike ride. Just to see whether the evening air would be pleasant enough. And it was. A gentle breeze, comfortably warm, and above all wonderfully quiet.

We cycled twenty kilometres.

Along the way, my eldest daughter called. Ton and I had been planning to babysit later in the week. Since the day had gone so well, I was no longer worried about it. I had already devised my strategy: a spray bottle, a wet scarf, a bucket of cold water for my feet if necessary.

Then my daughter said:

"Mum, I have good news. The party has been cancelled, so you don't need to babysit after all."

I laughed.

"See?" I said. "The universe takes care of your mother."

"We'll come another time when the weather is cooler."

Relieved and happy after such a pleasant day, we cycled home.

Perhaps life is not about adapting yourself to systems, expectations or carefully made plans. Perhaps it is simply about staying true to what feels right inside. Remaining whole. In your own way. At your own pace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Camping in My Own Body

June 21, 2026

It was supposed to be a little cooler today, so I wanted to try a short bike ride. Fortunately, I managed to sleep last night.

The heat had made my feet burn. A cold foot bath and the air conditioning seemed to help. My body feels better when the outside of my feet is cooled down. But as soon as I lie in bed, everything becomes quiet, and I relax, I suddenly feel a burning cold instead. Not pleasant either.

So I thought: why not try my wool socks? If they don't work, I can always take them off again.

That turned out to be the remedy.

Annette slept.

It is a constant process of experimenting. What works one day may stop working the next. Staying functional requires a great deal of creativity. Other people are thinking about going to the beach, sunbathing and getting a tan. I am occupied with figuring out how to best camp in my own body.

Perhaps it is because I no longer have obligations. No family that depends on me. No work that has to be finished. My time belongs to me. That makes my physical discomforts much easier to live with.

I also feel very little social pressure these days.

Today was Father's Day. Ton's sons still value those traditions, so they came to visit. I greeted them and then retreated to my cool bedroom. Simply being able to say that this is where I feel best at the moment, without shame or guilt.

In the end, it turned out to be thirty-three degrees again. We chose a route along the river where the wind could still provide some relief. It was actually quite pleasant.

I stayed with my breathing and tried not to create any tension. Just cycling from a place of relaxation. Surprisingly, it worked very well.

As we rode alongside the river, I could hear the water gently lapping against the embankment. It occurred to me that the sound of water may psychologically contribute to a feeling of coolness.

Later, as we cycled through the polder, I told Ton about the night before.

The rain had poured from the sky in sheets. The cycle path and the road had disappeared beneath the water. The drains could not cope. Our sunshade was still extended and seemed close to collapsing under the weight of the rain.

I had opened the windows to enjoy the drumming of the rain and the flashes of lightning illuminating the sky again and again. It was a spectacle that lasted at least an hour.

Ton slept through all of it.

Even talking about it brought back a sense of coolness.

Now he understood why we had encountered so many deep puddles despite the heat.

Even in the warm air, I could still smell the rain.

That helped too.

When we arrived home, I put my bicycle away and immediately felt the heat fall over me like a blanket. No wind. No breath. At least, that is how it felt.

I walked into the hallway towards the lift and began to feel dizzy. By the time I reached our floor, my legs could barely carry me.

Once inside, I staggered to my bed and literally collapsed onto it.

Clothes off. Air conditioning on. Water to drink.

Slowly, life returned.

The forecast says the heat will stay with us for another week.

I wonder what I will come up with next.

How do I stay active?

How do I keep my body temperature under control?

What still awaits me?

Hahaha.

My motto remains:

A day without a struggle is a day not fully lived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life as an Art Form

June 20, 2026

I was unable to sleep all night because of the burning nerve pain in the soles of my feet. Even after sitting with my feet in a cold foot bath for an hour, my body refused to fall asleep. So I started painting and listening to music instead. Eventually, I fell asleep at nine o’clock in the morning, only to wake up again two hours later.

There was nothing for it but to follow the same recipe as yesterday. Cancel my workout, switch on the air conditioning, walk around the house for five minutes every half hour, and take things easy. This time I alternated my walking sessions with painting and watching television in bed. In the end, it was all quite manageable.

I found myself confronted with someone who easily creates little secrets by saying, “Don’t tell anyone, but…” I have noticed that this person does it regularly. Not out of malice, more as a habit. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

When someone has a pattern like that, I cannot change it. It only becomes uncomfortable when I am drawn into little lies or secrets. Because it seems to be such an unconscious system, I would like to dismantle it kindly but firmly. How do you tell someone, without hurting them, that you are not comfortable with that way of relating?

I do not like keeping secrets from Ton. It makes me uncomfortable.

Ironically, I had already told this person that once before. Because I did not respond, they apparently remembered it themselves and deleted the message.

Pffft, I thought. Well, good morning to you too, Annette.

Simply reading a message like that immediately puts my body on alert. My system slips into a stress response. Fortunately, it settles down just as quickly once the trigger is gone.

I think my emotions are still more open than they were before my stroke. Back then, I felt overwhelmed by them. Now I notice them happening and try not to immediately engage in a struggle. Instead, I ask myself: Do I need to act, or can I simply allow this to fade away?

I think that is where peace lives.

The emotion moving through my body is simply there. My body reacts. After that, I have a choice about whether I allow my thoughts to follow it.

Later, I heard someone say on television:

“How do you explain the colour gold to a blind person?”

Instantly, I was pulled out of my irritation. I love questions like that.

Gold—the colour, not the material.

A blind person can still hear, smell, feel and taste. So I would try to describe gold through those senses.

I would let them hear the song of blackbirds and nightingales.

I would combine smell and taste. The bubbles of champagne, representing sparkle and brilliance, while also tickling your nose. Or warm honey, its scent and flavour, as if a little angel were dancing across your tongue.

When you are outside and the sun breaks through the clouds, you feel its pleasant warmth on your face.

The touch of soft silk or flower petals.

Together, those experiences form the colour gold for me.

Perhaps that is why every day feels a little like gold.

Didn’t sleep? I painted.

Couldn’t go outside? I moved in my own way.

A difficult message? Another lesson about emotions.

A question about gold? A small piece of gold picked up and suddenly I find myself in an entirely different world.

Time and again, I realise that life itself is an art form.

Perhaps gold is not found in what happens, but in the way we look at it.

Even a sleepless night, an uncomfortable message or an unbearably hot day can contain something valuable.

Not because it is pleasant, but because life continually offers something to learn from, to wonder about, or simply to experience.

Perhaps that is the art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Severe Weather

June 19, 2026

It was already 25 degrees Celsius when I woke up this morning. My entire body told me immediately: severe weather.

Today temperatures will reach around 35 degrees. For me, the decision is easy. I am not going out into this severe weather. Air conditioning on in both the living room and bedroom, breathe, and try to survive.

For most people, severe weather means torrential rain, thunderstorms, and strong winds. Here in the Netherlands, we rarely experience tornadoes or hurricanes. The kind of weather that is generally labelled as severe is exactly the kind of weather I enjoy. Rain, wind, thunderstorms—I love it. But as soon as the temperature rises above 25 degrees, my own warning signals begin. My body slows down, swells, retains fluid, feels clammy, and my resting heart rate gradually increases. I have experienced this my entire life. As I grow older, it only becomes more difficult.

The Dutch word for severe weather, noodweer, is also used in criminal law. It refers to acting in self-defence. In a way, I spent today defending myself against severe weather. Blinds down to keep out as much sunlight as possible, air conditioning on, and most importantly: doing nothing.

Doing nothing, however, presented a problem. How do I keep my body moving? Skipping the gym is fine, but spending an entire day watching television is not exactly healthy either. What if we have a long, hot summer? I may not be able to do much, but keeping my body reasonably fit is now essential.

I decided to start a new Korean series, set an alarm every thirty minutes, and spend five minutes actively walking around the house each time it went off.

Simple enough.

So that is exactly what I did.

Ton was away all day at a golf event. I had the house to myself. I stuck faithfully to my plan. I was proud of myself and now see this as a possible solution for excessively hot days.

My little dogs followed me during those active five minutes and then immediately collapsed back onto the bed beside me as soon as I returned to watching television. My sister called. We had not really spoken properly for a while, so we spent some time catching up. I had felt clammy all day, even while walking, but by the end of our conversation the sweat was literally running down my body and I could have wrung out my T-shirt.

For the first time, I became truly aware of how much energy a conversation can cost me. It could just as easily have been someone else on the phone. I do not think it had anything specifically to do with my sister. Any form of conscious communication costs me energy. That is probably true for everyone, but most people simply do not notice it. It makes me increasingly aware of what I can and cannot do in a single day.

As I write this, it is now evening. The wind has picked up, heavy rain is falling, and for the past hour lightning has been flashing across the sky. Ton came to tell me about it an hour ago because he knows how happy weather like this makes me.

Blinds up. Window open.

Listening to the thunder, the rain falling on the asphalt, the canal and the large plane trees in front of my window. Their voices perhaps even clearer than the distant sky, growling and throwing bolts of light in its fury.

For me, it is a wonderful ending to this day of severe weather.

Perhaps severe weather is not the same for everyone.

For one person it arrives in dark clouds.

For another, beneath a bright blue sky.

But in the end, everyone is searching for the same thing:

a place where they can breathe freely again.

Tonight, the rain brought that breath back to me, and I listened gratefully to the voice of the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sky Writes

June 18, 2026

This morning I woke up with a lot of pain in my limbs. That can happen, and it is not something I worry about. There can be many reasons for it. So I decided to stay in bed a little longer, cancel my fitness session and start the day slowly. It seemed like a good idea to drive the van with our bicycles to the rehabilitation centre, park there, map out a cycling route and visit my brother on the way back. A nice plan. Half an hour's drive and we were there.

On the way, I became completely fascinated by the sky. Ton laughed when I told him it made me happy. Sometimes he thinks I am a rather peculiar creature. I saw such beautiful feather-like clouds that I took dozens of photographs from the car. To me it was immediately clear that tomorrow would bring exceptionally beautiful weather. There was an old-fashioned quill pen hanging in the sky. As if the heavens themselves were writing.

The sky writes.

Empty time.

Another thought that immediately opens many doors. What does air or sky actually stand for? Breath? Then it represents life itself. The air signs of the zodiac? Thinking, communication, freedom. Even the animated series Avatar came to mind, which my youngest children and I loved and still do.

In Avatar, air represents freedom. The Air Nomads try not to become entangled in worldly concerns. Inner peace and freedom form the foundation of their way of life. That is why they are pacifists who seek to value all life. Beautiful thoughts, associations and memories to carry with me as we began our cycling trip.

Once again, it was a joy to explore an area I did not know. This time it felt like a wealthier region in a very literal sense. The houses were perfectly maintained, the gardens immaculate and even the farmland looked carefully tended. What creates such a difference? A regional character? More wealth? Strong social cohesion? I do not know.

Along the way we came across an architecturally beautiful church. Despite its heavy brickwork, it seemed to dissolve into the sky. As if the building were being lifted by something invisible. Truly enchanting to see it standing there.

Then I saw another field filled with lilac and yellow flowers. The same image that had stayed in my mind since yesterday. As if it had been preserved somewhere in the sky and had appeared again today. The lilac seemed to spread across the land like a soft mist, while the yellow flowers shone through it like tiny points of light. As if someone had scattered stars

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Empty Time

June 17, 2026

Do you allow yourself empty time?

I saw that question on the cover of a magazine.

What is empty time?

I briefly skimmed through the article. What I gathered is that it is time that has not been planned or filled. No schedule. How do you deal with that?

Apparently, many people do not know what empty time is. When I think about it, I often hear people who no longer work and technically do not have to do anything say, “I have no time, I have so much to do.” That always surprises me because I have far more empty time than planned time.

In the article, the writer asks: How do you feel during empty time? What goes on inside you? Do you become bored? Do you feel uncomfortable?

Okay, so how do I deal with it when I do have plans? Standing in a traffic jam, for example?

I have never minded being stuck in traffic. It is simply beyond my control. In fact, it gives me a little moment of rest. Turn on some music, open the window and enjoy the scenery that you would normally rush past.

Standing in line at a checkout?

Usually, I am perfectly calm. I often even let people who seem to be in a hurry go ahead of me.

What happens when the car suddenly stalls in the middle of the road and refuses to start again? That is currently a regular occurrence with our car. I know it will eventually start, so I patiently wait while Ton works his magic.

Today we were on our way to spend the afternoon cycling. First, we needed to charge the car. People knew where the charging stations were, but due to construction work they were out of service. Bad luck. So I opened my app and we started looking for alternatives.

We drove through narrow streets trying to find our way back. At one point, Ton almost entered a one-way street. He noticed it in time and stopped to reverse. Then an older woman started shouting.

“No! No! You can’t go in there!”

She came marching towards our car, still shouting. Ton tried to explain that we understood. At that exact moment, the engine died again.

There we were, right in the middle of the street.

Cars coming from the one-way road could barely get around us.

The woman kept shouting.

Ton calmly got out of the car to explain what was happening. Meanwhile, I was getting increasingly irritated. Loudly, she informed her neighbour that we had tried to drive the wrong way down the street. Blah, blah, blah.

Is this a moment of peace?

Not exactly.

I knew everything would be fine. That was not the problem.

It was her relentless voice that got on my nerves.

Fortunately, the car eventually started again.

Pffft.

Off we went.

I began dramatically cursing about the woman and completely let myself go. Ton thought I was overreacting and tried to calm me down.

Secretly, I had to laugh.

Because I was doing something I had learned from Michel.

After an unpleasant encounter, Michel could express his frustration in great detail. I always thought it was exaggerated and sometimes even felt embarrassed by it.

He would say:

“You need to learn this too. Nobody gets hurt by it. Giving your frustration or anger a little room is healthy, Netje.”

While he was alive, I never did that. I was always the one telling him to calm down.

And now I do it myself.

In its own way, that is also a form of surrendering to the moment.

No, it is not exactly ZEN.

But it does feel good.

Eventually, we found a charging station that worked immediately. We have had very different experiences with that in the past. We unloaded the bicycles and the route I had prepared at home could finally begin.

The only sound was the navigation voice occasionally saying:

“You are approaching junction 63. Continue towards 60.”

Apart from that, there was silence.

We cycled past meadows, farmland, rivers, lakes and small villages. The atmosphere in this region feels warm and down-to-earth. There are few perfectly styled houses or farms. Just lots and lots of flowers.

This time, especially yellow and lilac.

The combination inspired me.

Yellow represents the intellectual and life-affirming energy of the sun. Lilac carries something calm and spiritual.

Yes, I could literally feel both the earth and the cosmos.

We took photographs of several flowers so I could look them up later. I am simply curious by nature.

For kilometres we cycled through open countryside without seeing a single house. I looked at Ton and noticed that he was enjoying the empty time too.

A magical moment of sharing empty time together.

In the distance we suddenly spotted enormous fields covered with what looked like white flowers or cotton balls. Curious, we cycled closer.

They turned out to be poppy fields.

Beautiful, of course.

I do not know exactly why they are cultivated on such a large scale.

Let us hope it is for medicine.

Eventually, we cycled back to the old fortified town where we had something to eat at the harbour.

It is funny how full empty time can become. Free from stress, yet filled with life.

Perhaps empty time is not the absence of something.

Perhaps it is the space in which life is allowed to fill itself.

With irritation, wonder, flowers, memories, love and an unexpectedly beautiful afternoon together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother

June 16, 2026

I receive a message from one of my daughters. A personal story. I respond with a few open questions. All of my children are independent spirits who find their own way in life. I no longer feel the need to tell them what they should or should not do. Perhaps if they asked me directly. Although, even then, probably not.

My final sentence, after asking a few questions that I believe allow her to find her own direction, is:

"A question has the right to exist. It creates movement. Once there is an answer, things become fixed again."

Her simple "Thnx" makes me happy.

Those are the moments when I am grateful to be a mother.

A little later, my youngest son calls. He regularly phones just to hear my voice and have a chat. He is the only one of my five children who does that in this way.

There is something light about him that always makes the sun seem to shine. His name literally means enlightening, or one who brings the sun. He carries that quality within him. You simply feel happier in his presence.

The most beautiful thing is that he does not realise it himself.

My other son sends me a message asking whether I know of a certain medication that is now being used for people with MS. Could it perhaps be something for me?

He can be a little awkward when it comes to showing affection, but it touches me that these are the kinds of things he thinks about.

From my eldest daughter I receive a beautiful photo of my granddaughter.

Apparently, the theme of this day is my children giving and receiving a little attention with their mother.

These are special days for me, the days when I get to feel like a mother again.

My life exists separately from my children. They do not live nearby. I have always encouraged them to find their own path. I never expected them to stay close to me simply because I am their mother.

However, I did raise them with the idea that I will never move into a nursing home. I will remain independent for as long as possible, but eventually I expect to spend my final years with my children.

Perhaps one year with one child, the next year with another.

That would mean they only have their mother living with them once every five years.

Hahaha.

It sounds funny, but there is a serious undertone to it as well.

My youngest son recently told me that he has already prepared his girlfriend for that possibility.

He is adorably serious about things like that.

Somewhere in the conversation he also mentioned that he is thinking about moving to the South of France.

“Wonderful,” was my response.

He knows that ideas like that do not bother me at all.

My daughter added:

“Mum, there’s a house for sale across the street.”

Without many words, they still keep me close to their lives.

How beautiful is that?

Perhaps love is not always found in grand conversations or special occasions.

Sometimes it lives in a text message, a phone call, a photograph, or a casual remark about a house across the street.

Small things that quietly say: I’m thinking of you. And sometimes, that is more than enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As It Is

June 15, 2026

I notice that the subject that appeared in various forms throughout my day makes me somewhat reluctant to write. Not because I want to deny it. Not because I want to forget it. Rather because, despite how alive it felt today, it is important to me not to look at it with melancholy or sadness.

At the gym there was only one woman whom I had seen before. The centre was otherwise empty. There were no therapists or trainers around. We started talking about why we exercise and how it makes us feel.

She told me she was a widow and had chosen to keep moving forward. Not to deny her grief, but to continue living her own life.

I understood that all too well.

I also know someone who sits at home with the curtains closed and seems unable to move beyond the sadness. That was never my way. Fortunately, we do not all have to be the same. This fellow gym-goer seemed, like me, determined to actively embrace life again.

Back home I continued painting until I suddenly became very tired. I sat down on my bed and put on a romantic film. Usually I fall asleep when I watch television in bed, but this time I did not.

In the film, the father of two teenagers had died of cancer. Years later, the mother realised that she had not really been there for her children because she had been consumed by her own grief.

That hit me.

I am certain that I was not there for my children in the way they needed me to be. At the same time, I no longer remember exactly who I was or what I did, just like the mother in the film.

To see that the children had not only lost their father, but had also lost the attention and presence of their mother, was painful. It touched me because I feel that something similar happened in our family.

In the film, the mother eventually dies as well. The now-adult children can no longer share their anger and frustration with her. Fortunately, she had told her story to someone else, so her children could still hear it.

Either way, they will ultimately have to find their own way through it.

My youngest daughter wants no contact with me because I am a great disappointment to her.

Watching this film, I realised for perhaps the first time how deep that disappointment must have been for my children.

Unfortunately, you can only work through something like that together if both people continue to believe in the love that exists between them. Only then can there be room for communication.

I hope that one day she will understand that I was not a perfect mother, but that I love her to the very core of my being.

After dinner I thought, now I am going to watch a Dutch comedy with two actors I really enjoy.

And it was good.

Good enough to invite Ton to join me.

He watched the first twenty minutes that I had already seen, and then we continued together.

The story was once again about a father with cancer. His son wants to take one last trip with him. Along the way all kinds of funny and recognisable things happen.

Yet the father dies during the journey.

The son finishes the trip in a way his father would have wanted.

He feels the loss and realises how unfortunate it is that he never did something like this with his old man before.

That touched me too.

Children grow into lives of their own. Thankfully so. They become busy. Quality time with their parents is no longer something that happens naturally. That is unfortunate, but also understandable.

So, quite unintentionally, the entire day revolved around the theme of death.

Yet that is not what stays with me most.

What I want now is simply to enjoy life as it is.

Not as it could have been.

Perhaps life does not become lighter because sorrow, loss or disappointment disappear.

Perhaps it becomes lighter when we stop comparing the present to a past that can no longer be changed.

When we learn to see what is there, instead of what should have been. Life as it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thunderclouds

June 14, 2026

I think the metaphor of seeing thoughts as clouds is probably the best way to look at them. There are beautiful light clouds filled with cheerful ideas and images. There are also dark clouds carrying sadness or even unpleasant thoughts. Clouds can simply drift by. Not every thought needs to be analysed or acted upon.

I think this is the next thing I really want to work on. Especially learning to let the darker thunderclouds pass.

Family remains one of my biggest triggers. Certain things can instantly bring me back to painful moments. It happened again today. I know exactly which thundercloud passed through. I do not want to dwell on it, but my body seems to have its own opinion.

What can I do differently? Fight the feeling? I do not think so. Letting my body grieve and allowing the feeling to slowly fade seems far more natural.

For years I kept asking myself the same questions: Why do they behave like that? Is there something I can do to make them change? Those questions never brought me peace. They only made the pain deeper.

So this is where I begin. Not asking those questions anymore. Accepting that things are as they are. Letting my body cry. Trusting that it will pass.

I went cycling and once again found joy in the waterways filled with yellow water lilies. There were far more flowers than last year. More poppies too. Not only hydrangeas and rosehip bushes, but all kinds of flowering shrubs and borders. I even looked up the name of one shrub I keep seeing everywhere: Japanese spirea. There seem to be many more of those planted this year as well.

The birds, the chicks, the croaking frogs trying to attract a mate—it was all there today. Cloudy skies, strong winds and hardly anyone on the roads.

It was wonderful.

When I came home, my body was apparently not finished crying. Painting seemed like a good distraction, but Ton wanted to watch the World Cup. Not exactly the atmosphere I needed for painting, so I chose a new romantic series instead.

When I say that my body is crying, I do not mean tears running down my cheeks. It feels more like a wave of shock or nausea. Neither description is entirely accurate, but both come close.

Around my heart something seems to tighten. A quiet pain.

I used to think my body was refusing to let me forget. Now I wonder if that is not true at all. Perhaps I am allowed to forget. Perhaps the pain simply never had the chance to move freely.

So I let my body feel what it feels, without giving it meaning. I breathe deeply in and out. That is what I can be for my pain.

No name. No explanation. Just breath.

Perhaps healing is not the disappearance of the thundercloud,

but learning that I do not have to chase it away.

I can simply watch it pass while I keep breathing, and life quietly continues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Clumsy Moments with Love

June 13, 2026

Today, after our workout, we drove to Veldhoven to attend my granddaughter’s dance performance at the theatre.

This always gives me mixed feelings.

I want to be present and show interest in my grandchildren’s hobbies. But honestly, I find it a complete ordeal.

Of course, I used to attend my own children’s tournaments and performances as well. It came with the territory. But it was never my hobby.

I especially disliked theatre performances. Children often speak too fast, do not articulate clearly, and when they finally speak loudly enough, they can still be difficult to understand.

Dance performances make me restless in a different way. I immediately notice who is a beat too early or too late. I see who is moving from within themselves and who is mainly trying to reproduce the learned steps while secretly checking whether the child next to them is doing the same thing.

I find that very tiring to watch.

Only when it is my own child or grandchild do I watch all that stumbling and fumbling with love in my heart.

That is rather hypocritical, isn’t it?

But honestly, sitting through three hours of other people’s children stumbling through a performance is quite a challenge for me.

Today I found myself thinking about my two youngest children when they were little and taking dance lessons together. They once performed as little gnomes carrying sticks with knapsacks tied to them.

My son stood on the far left of the stage and my daughter on the far right. There must have been twenty tiny gnomes running around.

While dancing, my daughter’s knapsack fell off her stick.

My son saw it happen. Without hesitation, he ran across the entire stage, picked it up and tried to return it to her.

The whole audience burst out laughing.

My daughter continued dancing without missing a beat, with a look on her face that clearly said: The show must go on.

I still remember how annoyed she looked while her brother chased after her with the knapsack.

During today's performance, I whispered to my eldest daughter:

“Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I was thinking about exactly the same thing.”

We watched three hours of performances by all the groups from the dance and theatre school my granddaughter attends. I found the theatre part exhausting and caught myself almost falling asleep a few times.

The youngest children, on the other hand, were absolutely delightful to watch. You could already see their personalities shining through. One was intensely serious, another clearly felt like a princess, and yet another was so enthusiastic that half the choreography disappeared along the way. They stepped left when they were supposed to go right, turned the wrong way and forgot half their moves.

But they were adorable.

Perhaps because everything still came from within.

As children grow older and become more concerned with doing things correctly, I find it much harder to watch.

I know.

I am being a grump.

They are children.

Just enjoy it.

I admit that is not always easy for me.

But when I see my granddaughter’s face, I am happy that I went. She is glad that Grandma and Grandpa came to watch.

For that, I am more than willing to sit through three hours.

And while I sat there, memories of my own children’s performances came flooding back. All four of them. Back then it felt just as mixed as it does now: pride combined with a small form of endurance.

But the memory that remains is mostly beautiful, loving and worth a smile.

While watching the children, I realised that I am not moved by technique or perfectly executed steps. It is the little ones, moving in every direction, who catch my attention. As if they are still dancing from something uniquely their own. From a sense of wonder.

Perhaps, if I were a dance teacher, I would spend an entire season helping children feel the music before ever teaching them a single step.

Because what moves from within stays alive.

What is only taught sometimes loses a little of its own voice.

Perhaps my way of looking has not changed, but my way of feeling has. The difference between being a mother and being a grandmother now.

 

 

 

 

 

The Roots We Share

June 12, 2026

This morning I saw a trailer for a romantic comedy. A young woman caught her boyfriend cheating. It lasted only a few seconds, but suddenly an old memory surfaced.

In the early days of Michel and me, something happened that now sounds almost unbelievable. In the middle of the night, I woke up because someone had entered our bedroom. It turned out to be his ex. Apparently, she still had a key to the front door.

What happened next was so absurd that at first I thought I was dreaming.

Lying next to Michel, I decided to do nothing. Not out of fear, but because I refused to be drawn into the chaos. This was my house. My bed. My life. I felt no desire whatsoever to fight over something that was already mine.

I stayed where I was and pretended to be asleep. In the end, that turned out to be far more effective than any argument could have been. The situation escalated not because of me, but because of her. She became increasingly angry because I was not reacting the way she expected. Eventually, she shouted that I had to leave.

I remember calmly replying:

“I think you are mistaken. This is my house. Perhaps you have the wrong address.”

More shouting followed. Then she left.

When everything had become quiet again, I turned towards Michel.

“I have to get up early tomorrow,” I said. “But this is the first and last time something like this happens. Tomorrow there will be a new lock on the front door.”

As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. Not because what had happened was normal. Quite the opposite.

But some situations are so bizarre that only afterwards do you realise that the greatest victory is not found in what you say or do, but in refusing to be swept away by someone else's madness.

With a smile about this ridiculous memory, I returned to my painting.

I received a message from my sister-in-law telling me that my brother had been admitted to a rehabilitation centre. Ton and I decided to visit him after dinner so we would avoid the traffic.

My brother has Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, and recently underwent surgery on his foot after malignant cells were discovered there. The whole situation surrounding that foot has become complicated. He can do very little and lies there alone in his room. A small, vulnerable man. It hurts me to see him like that.

He has never been good at communicating or talking about his feelings. Now that hardly seems relevant anymore.

There were four children in our family. All four of us carry our own scars from the way we were raised. My sister and I became aware of that many years ago and have spent years working on it. My brothers have not.

The youngest at least talks. He likes to complain and in doing so releases some of his frustration. But this brother, the oldest, has always been quiet. Not good at making contact. Not good at expressing what lives inside him.

And there he lies. At an age when he should really be enjoying his later years.

The only thing I feel is that I love him. Even though we have never really been close. Even though we have never had real conversations.

We share the same roots.

That is enough.

When I get home, I call my sister to tell her how I found him. At least, how I see him. Because neither of us truly knows what is going on inside him.

Does he find this unbearable? Or not at all? Does he still enjoy life? Does he see a future? Does he want to rehabilitate? Or has he given up?

Are these questions he asks himself?

Or are they actually questions that I would ask myself?

Is it even necessary to give meaning to his way of being?

Perhaps I search for too much meaning sometimes.

I do not know.

But seeing such a fragile piece of humanity affects me deeply.

Perhaps love is not always found in conversations, understanding or closeness.

Sometimes love simply lives in recognising the same roots.

In knowing that someone belongs to your story, even when you never learned to speak each other’s language.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Brush and the Paint

June 11, 2026

After doing absolutely nothing for a day, I continued working on my painting today.

It is difficult to explain, but I have no thoughts at all when I am painting. I am the brush, I am the paint. There is only that one small section of the canvas in which I have disappeared.

Whatever the brush is going to do, it takes an unknown path every second.

My body starts to feel hungry, creating a little distance. That distance allows me to see the larger whole rather than just the path of the brush. While I eat, my eyes remain fixed on what has emerged so far. It is as if I remain inside the body of the creation itself, moving from the cellular level to, briefly, the organ.

Once I have eaten and had something to drink, I stroke my little dog beside me and return to the cellular level.

I feel warmth, not cold. I hear nothing. As observant as I normally am, when I am painting, everything escapes my attention.

When I dream, I experience the emotions that pass through the dream. I can even take on different perspectives and communicate with them. But when I paint, even that disappears. I go deeper. I literally become the brush and the paint. It breathes me. It is me, with all my imperfections and with my inner voice.

After spending another eight hours working, I decided to stop after dinner.

Returning to the world.

Seeing that outside it is raining and windy. The leaves on the trees have taken on an almost luminous aura in this light. As if they are smiling, happy with the water that allows them to breathe again.

My little dog has been lying beside me all those hours like a silent shadow. He stretches himself as if to say:

“Okay, boss, are we done now? Are we going to do something else?”

My husband turns on the television to watch the opening of the Football World Cup in Mexico.

We watch a show with dancers, music and Shakira. I look at the colourful costumes of the dancers and think how fresh and beautiful they are. Bright colours that, to my eye, are remarkably tasteful. They represent a kind of passion that I deeply appreciate.

After watching part of the opening ceremony, I look for a film on my laptop to relax. Watching football is not really my thing.

I choose the Dutch film Adios Amigos.

The film follows three disabled friends: Lars, Philip and Joost. Every week they meet at the swimming pool, where they openly admire all the beautiful girls in bikinis. Together they plan a trip to sunny Salou in search of their first sexual experience.

Of course, things turn out differently.

What touches me most is the way each of them deals with disability in a different manner. The anger. The fear. The resignation.

I recognise something of myself in all three of them.

And then there are those golden moments when you no longer notice or are aware of your disability. Those moments are so healing. Almost restorative.

For me, that is creating.

Perhaps freedom is not the absence of limitations,

but those rare moments when they disappear from your awareness.

When there is only colour, movement, breath and presence.

As if life, for just a moment, stops resisting and simply happens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Murphy’s Law

June 9, 2026

Once again there was a quiet and calm group of people at the gym today, allowing me to focus almost thoughtlessly on the machines I was working on.

At the Seated Row machine I sit with my chest against a soft support pad while only my arms pull the weight away from me and back again. Ever since I started, this has actually been the heaviest machine for me.

While paying attention to my breathing, a little cloud from more than thirty years ago suddenly drifts by.

I think about my foster daughter, who had only just moved into her own flat together with several students. Her group of friends consisted mostly of rather serious, somewhat dull young people. She invited me to her birthday party.

Of course I said yes, but honestly, I was not exactly looking forward to it. An evening of dullness.

That same week I had to run an errand in town. I no longer remember exactly what for. A very cheerful young man helped me there with enormous enthusiasm.

And suddenly an idea was born in my head.

I asked him how old he was and whether he had a girlfriend. He turned out to be two years older than my daughter and single.

I told him that I would actually love to give him to my daughter as a birthday present.

Hahaha… the boy thought it was a fantastic idea.

He gave me his address and fortunately still lived with his parents, who thankfully also saw the humour in it while I wrapped their son inside a duvet cover decorated with huge ribbons. Afterwards he had to hop half-blindly toward my car.

I laughed so much with that boy.

At the birthday party my daughter’s friends stood there looking completely serious. Honestly, there was barely even a smile to be seen. Luckily my daughter did laugh. She was used to my strange antics.

Now, all these years later, I suddenly start laughing again while the entire scene casually drifts back into my mind during my workout.

Funny, isn’t it, how something like that suddenly resurfaces? I had practically forgotten all about it.

I used to be mischievous. I loved doing challenging and unexpected things. Shaking up what was considered “normal.”

That was an Annette who formed a large part of me for many years.

And this morning I suddenly found myself smiling warmly at that memory.

Back home I continued painting. Ton was away, my little dog was lying on the chair beside me, and painting felt almost meditative.

Meanwhile my cardiologist called to say that my cholesterol values had improved, but not enough yet. She is now prescribing injections and we made another appointment for three months from now.

By now it has become clear to her that, apart from this cholesterol issue, I am actually very fit and healthy. Because of that, my weight is no longer really a concern for her either. There are no clear indications explaining why my cholesterol continues to behave this way.

There is honestly not much more I can do than what I am already doing.

Mostly I am relieved that this is now also clear to my cardiologist. Hopefully this endless medical fuss will calm down for a while after this.

Shortly afterwards a friend from the South of France called me. She and her husband spend about half the year travelling through Europe in a camper van.

She has already been away for almost two months and will return to the Netherlands in about three weeks. According to her, they had never experienced so much bad luck before. Problems with the camper, the dog, her own health… one story after another.

I said:

“But can you really still call that a holiday? It’s simply your life. You spend half the year living in that camper and constantly moving around. Of course things sometimes go wrong. Everybody experiences Murphy’s Law at home once in a while too.”

Yes… that did help pull her out of her “everything is going wrong” story for a moment.

It is unfortunate when things go wrong, but it is also simply part of life.

“And how are you feeling yourself?” she asked afterwards.

Well… honestly, I feel good.

I seem to have found a certain discipline for both body and mind. I listen to myself, do what needs to be done and then feel whether there is room for more or not.

No more guilt. No more shame when something does not work out or when I have to say “no.”

Perhaps that is exactly the beauty of growing older.

I must do nothing.
I need nothing.
I may, if I can.

Perhaps peace is not the same as a life without problems.

Perhaps peace only begins when you stop constantly pushing yourself beyond your own limits in order to meet expectations.

As if growing older slowly means you no longer have to prove yourself, but are finally allowed to simply inhabit yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four Colours

June 8, 2026

The living room has once again been transformed into a studio. The colours and the doodle have been placed onto the canvas and now it is simply a matter of watching what my hands will create.

For weeks I have been seeing four colours in my mind’s eye, and the number four keeps presenting itself as well. That is what is currently alive inside me, and that is what I will work with.

This colour combination is not something I normally associate with myself. It had to become a 3D canvas measuring 80 cm x 120 cm, which fortunately I already had at home.

The colours burgundy, cream, baby blue and apple green open up a new perspective, a new feeling. The moment the doodle appears on the canvas in these four colours, I suddenly understand why this combination satisfies me so deeply. It makes me happy.

The baby blue brings air and softness. The green shows vitality and growth. The cream brings rest, breath and the silence that connects. And that burgundy-pink keeps everything grounded, physical and warm.

During these first steps I suddenly realise why the number four feels so important for this painting.

The Angel Number is 4.

According to angel numerology, repeatedly seeing the sequence 444 is a sign that your guardian angels are close to you. A confirmation that you are on the right path and that your efforts will be rewarded.

As I have mentioned before, I talk to my angels. Perhaps it is imaginary or even nonsense, but it feels good to me and gives me a sense of trust.

Whenever I paint, I always feel that the colours and whatever appears on the canvas are trying to tell me something. Just like my dreams do. Of course I do not always know exactly what it means, but I do take seriously the thoughts that enter during the process.

The number four could also have represented the elements, the cardinal directions or the seasons. But that was not what quietly slipped in. It was the angels.

Apparently that is the atmosphere I am moving through right now.

Sometimes a painting can speak to me in a completely different way years later. It almost moves along with who I am and with the phase of life I am in.

It remains an adventure to see what appears. Which symbols slowly find their way inside. What they mean to me now.

Not only is the use of colour new, but my entire approach is changing as well.

Today I painted for about eight hours, but around ten o’clock tonight I consciously stopped. No more obsessively continuing day and night in a creative flow, only to end up with a beautiful creation and a completely exhausted body.

From now on, Annette will handle this more wisely.

Perhaps growing older is not about losing the fire,

but learning how to carry it without burning yourself up.

As if creativity slowly stops demanding exhaustion,

and instead asks for rhythm, breath and trust that it will still be waiting for me tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonderfully Lazy

June 7, 2026

How wonderful it can be to be unapologetically lazy, simply because I feel like it.

Today I truly did absolutely nothing. Instead of watching series, I spent the entire day doing crossword puzzles. Fifty-nine in total. I think I’ve had enough now.

In between, I did spend a little time preparing for a new painting. I already found the canvas, and I have cleared some space in the living room for a workspace.

Colours and the beginning of an idea are moving around inside my head. I still have no idea what it will become exactly. Usually it starts as nothing more than a small point somewhere quietly present in my mind. Gradually it reveals itself to me what it actually wants to become.

Ton already knows how that process works. During those periods I am more or less absent. Physically present, of course, but completely absorbed in my own world.

“Oh, that works out perfectly,” he said happily. “Because the Football World Cup starts at the end of this week.”

Hahaha… he genuinely looked relieved. A few weeks of disappearing into his own football bubble without guilt, while I dissolve into paint, colours and thoughts.

Of course, I will keep training and cycling every day whenever the weather is reasonable to good. I also promised myself to go to bed on time and not work day and night without stopping. Trusting that the flow remains there and can simply be picked up again whenever I sit back down in front of my canvas.

Like today, there is actually not much to tell. Solving crossword puzzles did not leave my thoughts enough room to wander off into all kinds of associations.

Still, I already feel that this will become a large project.

So it remains to be seen whether enough thoughts will emerge during the creative process to keep writing about them here.

But usually my mind eventually finds another hidden doorway somewhere.

Perhaps creativity does not begin with knowing, but with making space. An empty canvas. A table moved aside. An afternoon without guilt. As if something deep inside first needs silence before it dares to become visible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Masks and Hidden Rooms

June 6, 2026

When the gym is quiet, I usually work out in full focus while all kinds of thoughts drift through my mind. Just like my dream from last night.

In the past there were people I would immediately avoid. It could be for all sorts of reasons: too sloppy, too neat, too conventional… you name it. But at a young age I discovered that what you see on the outside can be completely different on the inside. So I learned not to judge a book by its cover.

People who appeared to be free spirits sometimes turned out to be extremely conservative, while very settled families — house, tree, pet and all — could possess a depth and level of self-reflection that genuinely surprised me.

Those were the clouds drifting through my mind while training.

Interesting… that dream opened memories again, but also a message: first get to know someone before rejecting them. Every human being carries hidden sides, talents and visions. That became the conclusion of my wandering thoughts.

At home the television was on in the background. I was not really listening because I was busy doing other things. Then suddenly I heard someone say:

“A person’s true nature lies in the light of their secrets.”

Well… apparently the theme was hanging in the air.

And perhaps there is some truth in that. Don’t we all wear different masks? A mask to be loved? To be approved of? To be socially accepted?

So many reasons why people behave the way they do.

For me it is obvious that with Ton, family, my children, friends or the cashier at the supermarket, I am always Annette — but each time in a slightly different role. A different social approach, you could say.

I do not even think it happens consciously. Only when you start observing and analysing yourself do you realise that human beings naturally do this.

So if I want to come closer to my true nature, perhaps looking at my secrets is not such a strange idea after all. The things you do not share with the outside world, but which quietly stir inside you, are often the most sensitive and vulnerable parts.

Hmmm… there may actually be something in that sentence.

Or maybe it is complete nonsense, who knows. Still, interesting enough to pause and think about.

An hour later I heard another quote on television:

“He should look forward, not backward.”

Well… that sounds wise. But is it really?

First of all, I believe this very moment already contains enough movement and emotion. And what that eternal NOW truly means remains difficult to explain.

But alright, if we think in a more horizontal way for a moment: is looking ahead really better than looking back?

Personally, I think knowing where you come from is incredibly important. Knowing where your roots lie. From experience I know that not truly understanding your origins can create a kind of missing link inside your identity.

After my stroke, many emotions from the past resurfaced. In the end, they gave me insight.

Who do I want to be now?
What can I let go of?

The past is like a puzzle that partly shapes who you have become. If pieces are missing, perhaps you carry something inside you that you cannot name, but still deeply feel.

And looking ahead? Is that better? Does it mean setting goals?

Isn’t the real goal perhaps the journey itself? Seeing what crosses your path? Not fixing everything in place? Allowing yourself wishes, but remaining flexible?

Maybe that is the healthiest way to look ahead.

“What serious thoughts all day long,” I suddenly realise.

I put my earbuds in and go watch comedians on YouTube. Time to laugh for a while.

And then it happens again.

A world-famous comedian tells an up-and-coming performer:

“Of all the comedians I know, I’ve learned that humour often comes from a dark place. You turned a black page into something positive by making humour out of it.”

Wow… that really hit me.

Michel used to say that he had never laughed as much with anyone as he did with me. According to him, I said something funny or absurd almost every single day.

Looking back now, I suddenly realise that I often used humour to break through the tension he constantly carried inside himself.

Now that I am with Ton, I am nowhere near as humorous as I used to be. Some time ago I even wondered whether I had become duller or more serious.

But perhaps it is something entirely different.

Perhaps I simply no longer need the clown mask.

The jokes I make now are just because something is genuinely funny — not because I need to mask tension anymore.

OOOOh wow.

Perhaps some masks disappear not because we become worse, 

but because we finally begin to feel safer. 

As if the body slowly understands that it no longer has to protect, 

entertain or laugh away tension all the time. 

Maybe beneath all those roles, something very simple remains: 

a human being who is finally allowed to just be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Absurdity of Life

June 5, 2026

Last night I was sitting on my bed watching television when I suddenly heard an enormous commotion. My bed is less than fifty centimeters away from a large window. Directly below my window is a canal, and on the other side stands a row of enormous plane trees. I can almost touch the tops of the leaves.

About five crows were fighting and nearly flew straight into the window. One even tapped the glass before shooting back into the crown of the tree at full speed. They were trying to chase away a jackdaw that then remained sitting in front of my window, making sounds as if he were calling me. My little dog Puck started barking furiously at him, but he did not seem afraid at all. He kept looking at me as though he felt safe there.

Some time ago those same crows were behaving just as unpleasantly toward a jackdaw, and back then I interfered. Could this be the same one I rescued then?

I actually wanted to let him inside, but Ton was not too enthusiastic about that idea. So he sat in front of my window for at least half an hour, chatting away while continuing to look at me. I hope he comes to visit again someday.

I woke up after a dream about blood cells. Human beings can have such strange dreams. While writing it down on my dreams page, a story Michel once told me suddenly came back to mind. He once told me that in his younger years he had used LSD and driven from Dordrecht to Amsterdam with friends. That experience had always stayed vivid in his memory.

Behind the wheel, the LSD suddenly kicked in. Slowly the highways transformed into veins. The cars became white and red blood cells. Everything moved and breathed. The car itself seemed to be pumped toward the heart. The aqueduct near Schiphol felt like a heart valve.

Michel could describe his trips in such a vivid, painterly way. He said that during the drive he no longer saw roads, cars or surroundings, only veins, blood vessels, cells and the heart. And yet… when he came back to himself, he had somehow arrived safely in Amsterdam.

I myself have never used drugs. Maybe I am too responsible or too well-behaved for that. Or perhaps I already live enough inside a world of imagination by nature. I do not need drugs to associate — my brain practically invented it on its own.

Then my youngest son called. He had been having a discussion with his girlfriend about babies.

“Oh dear,” I immediately thought. “Am I becoming a grandmother?”

No, fortunately not. Pfffft.

He wanted to know whether we ever used to go next door or run errands while taking a baby monitor with us.

First of all, we did not even own a baby monitor. The babies slept beside me in our bedroom and I never left them alone. Not even for a second. The first time they ever slept somewhere else overnight was when they were around five years old and stayed with my sister.

My son had also called his oldest sister to ask how things used to be in our family. She told him exactly the same thing: we always took the children with us everywhere.

“Okay,” he said, satisfied. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

Then he hung up to call his girlfriend back.

Of course, that conversation brought back all kinds of memories. When my oldest daughter was only a few months old, my grandparents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary with a dinner party. An aunt and uncle were supposed to babysit her for the evening.

I found it horrible.

Once we were seated in the restaurant, I started crying thick tears within minutes because I wanted to return to my baby as quickly as possible. No, especially when they were that small, leaving them was simply not an option for me.

Just remembering it made tears fill my eyes again. As down-to-earth as I can sometimes be, I am apparently equally capable of being a complete softie.

After the phone call we checked the weather radar, planned a cycling route and went for a ride. It was wonderful.

Everything has suddenly become so lush and overgrown. You can barely see the canals anymore because of the abundance of waterside plants. The flower borders are full of wildflowers, noticeably more than last year. You can tell there is a more conscious environmental policy now.

No rain, just a blue sky filled with white, grey and nearly black clouds. Beautiful.

Halfway through, we always sit down on a bench for a while to enjoy everything around us.

Then I heard nearby:

“Coo-roo, coo-roo.”

I started laughing and told Ton that I once had a pigeon I named Roekie.

When I once went on holiday, my mother was supposed to take care of her. After a week I called home to ask how things were going and of course immediately asked about my little pigeon.

My mother answered somewhat hesitantly:

“Well… she’s not doing too well.”

I panicked immediately.

“What’s wrong with her, Mum?”

“Well… she died.”

I instantly felt that shock and pain in my heart.

“How did that happen?”

And then my mother said completely seriously:

“Well… she fell off her little perch.”

She literally said that.

It was so absurd and slapstick-like that instead of crying, I burst out laughing.

Ton looked at me in disbelief and then started laughing too.

Dreams can be absurd. Drug trips can be absurd. Human behaviour can be absurd. Encounters with animals can be absurd. Life itself can be absurd.

And perhaps it is exactly that absurdity that creates a feeling of freedom. As if anything remains possible. As if life refuses to be completely trapped inside logic or rules.

Maybe that is precisely why life remains worth living.

Perhaps freedom does not lie in understanding life, but in daring to move along with its strange twists and turns. In laughing through tears. In a jackdaw at the window, a memory along the road, a sentence from a mother that is both painful and hilarious at the same time. As if life keeps whispering over and over again: look… everything moves, everything lives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Songs That Keep Returning

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red and Black Balloons

 

June 3, 2026

One famous comedian once said to another:
“You basically do the same thing I do, only I do it with red balloons and you do it with black balloons.”

“Yes,” I thought, “one makes humor about love, passion, celebration and the simple things that make life beautiful. The other makes humor about grief, sadness, struggle and the simple things that make life difficult and complicated.”

Both can deeply appeal to me when done well. Because in the end, people laugh. And laughter is liberating.

There is a song that was written in 1966 which I already sang as a very small child, simply because it sparked my imagination. Later in life it just kept returning to my mind over and over again. I do not want to exaggerate, but I think I silently sing it to myself at least once every two weeks. Or, when nobody is around, simply out loud.

It is a tragicomic story. With red and black balloons, but also with red and black flags. A story about love, sorrow, grief, betrayal, compassion, judgment, innocence and completely different perceptions.

The song was written and sung by a man who himself struggled with alcoholism and eventually died because of that addiction.

I want to place the song here as part of my story and my fascination with it that has now lasted almost sixty years. Perhaps it has touched me for so long because it is essentially a universal theme, told in a small, almost comical way.

           Nobody on earth knows how it all began

 The sorrowful story of the rebel and the nun
Of the rebel and the nun

One spring morning they happened to meet
They looked at each other and love became complete
Yes, love became complete

Passion is powerful, though often only brief
The nun forgot her duties and her rosary beads
She forgot her rosary beads

It’s understandable, it happens every day
The rebel was completely lost when he looked into her gaze
When he looked into her gaze

They walked through the park in the early springtime sun
And a hundred thousand kisses the rebel got from the nun
Got from the nun

A certain Miss Jansen was peeking through the pane
She could not believe her eyes, nearly driven insane
Nearly driven insane

A certain Mister Pieterman sat upon his balcony
Amazed beyond all reason at the nun’s spontaneity
At the nun’s spontaneity

“Long live love,” said Mister Pieterman gallantly
But Miss Jansen quickly phoned the local news agency
Yes, she phoned the local news agency

Everyone assumed that she had made it all up
So they called the chaplain and reported the nun
Yes, they reported the nun

“Look,” said the chaplain, “this is clearly devil’s play
The moment I’m not watching, he leads the church astray
He leads the church astray”

“In matters such as these,” he said, “I’m hard as stone
I’ll send the police right to the roof of the nun”
Of the rebel and the nun

Thanks to Miss Jansen and the chaplain’s holy plan
The police eventually put an end to their romance
Yes, they put an end to their romance

The nun and the rebel both ended with a fine
The rebel got a kick, the nun lost her peace of mind
Yes, she lost her peace of mind

Because they simply dared to walk upon the grass
And the police declared that such behavior could not pass
That the grass was not to pass

Not for any reason, but simply because they could
The love between the rebel and the nun came to an end for good
Of the rebel and the nun

According to Aristotle, a kiss weighs almost none
According to the chaplain, that is completely wrong
If you ask me… it all sounds rather odd.

Whether it was written completely sober or with pink elephants floating around really does not matter to me. In a humorous way it tells us exactly how human beings are. Even in all their good intentions.

What feels right to one person feels wrong to another.
And vice versa.

We all move through life from within our own personal truth.

Perhaps this song fascinated me even as a child because intuitively I already sensed how complicated people truly are. How love, judgment, compassion, interference and morality constantly become entangled with one another.

Tomorrow I want to explore further why this particular song has kept returning to my mind for almost sixty years. Do I use it to put situations into perspective? Does it soften something inside me? Or do I simply recognize the absurdity of human existence within it?

And there is another song that I have hummed and sung throughout my entire life as well.

Writing every day and looking back at my own thoughts, memories and associations gives me remarkable peace and insight.

Those recurring songs probably tell a story too.

Perhaps some songs stay with a person for an entire lifetime because they touch something older than words.

Perhaps we sometimes recognize ourselves more deeply in rhythms, images and stories than in explanations.

And perhaps the songs a person keeps singing ultimately reveal what deep inside still longs to be heard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing in the Rain

 

For me, dancing in the rain comes closest to my feeling about life, love, grief and death.

Perhaps nature constantly tries to show us that everything moves, changes, disappears and begins again.

Perhaps rain, grief, love and relief are far less separated from each other than we often think.

And perhaps dancing in the rain resembles life itself for that very reason — vulnerable, temporary, wet, uncontrolled… and yet wonderfully alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Names in the Landscape

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Rain Comes Dorrestijn

 

May 31, 2026

“When you are dead, you miss nothing.”

That was Hans Dorrestijn’s opening line during the final performance we attended today. The title of the afternoon was: After the Rain Comes Dorrestijn.

The question that immediately came to mind for me was:
do I actually want to miss life?

His dark humor and that peculiar monotone, crackling voice make everything simultaneously absurd, funny, and somehow also true. In his songs and poems he describes how miserable life can sometimes be, only to suddenly add a humorous twist to it again. And it is not always about major tragedies either, but often about very ordinary things. Like standing in line at the supermarket.

He spoke about his very first confrontation with death. The little chicks he had received as a child had accidentally been poisoned. And the next day they were simply lying there dead. Yes… and once something is dead, it does not come back.

That finality.
That irreversible ending.

He mentioned countless colleagues and acquaintances — well-known Dutch people to us — who had all already passed away. How death has actually played a role throughout his entire life. His depressions and suicide attempts that ultimately remained only attempts because, in the end, he could never truly go through with them.

Now he is eighty-five years old and seems to accept life — including death — much more.

He visited a natural burial ground and found a place beside a small tree where, at that exact moment, a tree pipit landed. Never before had he been able to observe one from so close nearby. A little later a second tree pipit landed beside it, and at that moment he knew:
this is where I want to be buried.

The woman who organized this afternoon works as a funeral director. She hopes people will speak more openly about death and their wishes while they are still alive. So grief does not arrive as such a raw shock once the moment finally comes.

According to her, death belongs to life, yet it still exists far too much within a sphere of taboo.

Even humor should be allowed to be part of it.

He also spoke about his angry stepfather. A terrible man of whom he mainly carried bad memories. One day, on his deathbed, the man asked whether Hans and his brother would come visit him.

So they thought:
“Maybe he finally wants to make peace.”

So they went…

…and afterwards he still lived another fifteen years.

Hans Dorrestijn wrote a song about it that had the entire room bursting into laughter:

If only Uncle Jan would die
His stubbornness is far too great

Uncle Jan just keeps surviving
Even if he’s slaughtered like a chicken or a rooster
Even if we roast him in a frying pan
He only seems to come back more alive

If only Uncle Jan would die
If only Uncle Jan would die

That lazy fool will live to a hundred
Even if we cut him open with scissors
Even if we smash a hammer on his head
The old bastard only perks up from it

I love this kind of honesty. Feelings that are simply allowed to exist without becoming overly dramatic or heavy. To me, that is an art form in itself.

Not declaring yourself holy.
Not pretending dark feelings do not exist.
But daring to face them, laugh about them, and transform them into art.

Today I truly felt privileged to witness this final encounter with such a remarkable human being.

I wish him many more years.
Peace.
Nature.
And many more tree pipits.

Perhaps death only becomes truly unbearable when people pretend it does not exist.

Perhaps humor sometimes helps us deal with life better than seriousness ever can.

And perhaps the art of living is not about avoiding darkness, but about continuing to look at it with open eyes — and sometimes even with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bruised

 

May 30, 2026

This morning I went back to training again. At first it felt heavier than I had expected. Meanwhile the house has become a bit messy because with all this heat I simply had no energy to do anything. But today I finally made a plan and actually carried it out.

For the first time in quite a while, I notice creative ideas beginning to move through my mind again. Nothing concrete yet, but something is clearly starting to come alive.

Tomorrow we are going away for two days and my son will stay here to look after the dogs. It will be the first time someone has stayed in our house to do that. My children never lived here, so the habits and routines we have are unfamiliar to them.

Miss Organization is not my nickname for nothing, so of course I made a clear list of what to do and what not to do.

He will probably not even look at it, but for my own peace of mind it works perfectly.

At the same time, I notice that I am getting better at letting go when the house does not look perfectly clean and organized the way I would ideally want it to. Especially during moments when things are simply too much physically, I am slowly learning not to complain so much, but instead to appreciate everything Ton does do.

Because honestly: when my body does not feel good, grumbling can sometimes feel strangely satisfying.

It is unbelievable, but every single day I am still turning bluer. The bruising is really starting to spread now and everything mostly feels sore and bruised.

That in itself is also something interesting.

Ton often finds my descriptions of pain strange or difficult to understand. I do not experience bruised areas as pain exactly, but more as if that specific part of my body feels nauseous. How can a leg, a back, or a buttock feel nauseous?

And yet that is exactly the right word for the unpleasant sensation limiting me there.

The spot that truly hurts is right in the middle of my buttock, exactly where I fell. There is barely anything visible there, except for a hard lump.

In that sense, a body actually resembles life itself.

The real cause lies deep inside. Encapsulated, hardened, and often barely visible.

Elsewhere, however, it starts showing itself.

Like Ton having to endure my grumbling even though he is not the cause of it at all. He has simply become an important part of my existence. Almost an extension of myself.

So I turn blue… and he gets the rough version of me.

Poor thing… luckily we both understand by now that cause and effect rarely appear in the same place.

Now we are looking forward to our little trip. Just the two of us getting away for a bit. Escaping the malaise of the past two weeks for a while. Literally changing environments also helps recovery.

And I am almost certain my brain will start picking up all kinds of things along the way to process creatively.

The itch is returning again.

I think I may soon begin a new project.

Perhaps creative impulses arise precisely when a person slowly begins to feel space opening up within themselves again.

Perhaps body and emotions rarely reveal themselves exactly where the real cause lies.

And perhaps recovery is not only the healing of pain, but also the moment curiosity and the desire for life slowly begin to return.

A Little Give and Take

May 29, 2026

Today I went to see my rehabilitation doctor. She was pleasantly surprised to see that I move more quickly now and that she only needed a small adjustment to realign my body again. My bruised back and leg will still need some time to heal, that is something the body simply has to resolve on its own. But overall she was very pleased with my condition and with the way I have been training.

She examined my entire body and was already finished after only a few corrections. In reality, that means my basic condition and muscle activation are better now than before I started this training process. Otherwise, such a hard fall would have disrupted my body far more deeply and for a much longer time.

And yes… she could clearly see that I have built more muscle.

As for my weight, according to her I should mainly read the book by Liesbeth van Rossum. She sees the whole lifestyle-clinic approach somewhat as a hype. In her opinion, my body is actually responding well to training and I am genuinely building functional strength. According to her, my body is clearly not only moving toward decline or compensation.

She had not seen me in half a year and was genuinely surprised by how much more smoothly and quickly I move now.

For me, that truly felt like the greatest encouragement of this week.

She is someone I deeply respect, both as a doctor and as a person.

She also explained how much influence stress, sleep, hormones, the nervous system, medication, temperature, chronic strain, and physical conditions can all have on weight and recovery. She made it very clear that, in her opinion, it is not simply caused by my lifestyle.

That gave me a strong feeling of recognition and validation.

The lifestyle clinic itself still has not contacted me, but I promised my cardiologist I would still try the program. And who knows, maybe I will indeed become wiser from it… though probably not lighter, hahaha.

As soon as I got home, I immediately ordered Liesbeth van Rossum’s book so I can already start reading it on my laptop.

What I perhaps felt most strongly today is that I am increasingly able to stay in control of myself while at the same time being open toward doctors and their ideas. That is actually an enormous shift within myself.

A little give and take improves the relationship with doctors, but ultimately also the relationship with myself, I think.

Because however I look at it: I do need doctors, especially now that I am getting older. After a lifetime without medication and without doctors, I now slowly have to accept that reality.

And honestly, that inner struggle about it may finally stop as well. That constant battle only makes everything more difficult.

Communication simply works better with kindness. People are also more willing to listen when I object to something or do not want something. Somewhere deep down, I always knew that already. But apparently there was also a thick layer of PTSD underneath it that immediately made me combative whenever I faced a doctor or specialist.

Am I now older and wiser?

Or did that stroke last year truly become a turning point in my life?

Today I am still covered in bruises and blue marks.

But at the same time, I am also a proud and satisfied human being.

Perhaps becoming stronger does not only mean physical recovery, but also learning to treat yourself and the people around you more gently.

Perhaps true strength is not found in constant resistance, but in the ability to remain open without losing yourself.

And perhaps trust does not arise because all fear disappears, but because a person slowly discovers that cooperation can sometimes feel safer than struggle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Through Thick and Thin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Body Annette

 

May 27, 2026

Today I visited my brother in the hospital. He is lying there alone in a room. No view, except for a toilet bowl. An open wound on his foot, a catheter, a drain, and a body that has clearly become restless because of everything that is happening.

My brother has always been a healthy man. Athletic too. He did gymnastics, football, and badminton. Always agile, energetic, and balanced. And now he lies there with Parkinson’s disease and a condition in his foot that simply refuses to heal properly. His entire nervous system seems disturbed.

While he was lying there trembling, he suddenly said:
“I’m not nervous, you know.”

I had to laugh for a moment and immediately told him that I understood.

Then I asked him:
“Do you understand now why I always separated Annette from body Annette?”

And suddenly he could understand what I meant.

On the way home, that sentence kept circling through my mind. Once again I realized how strongly many people identify themselves with their bodies and appearance. Completely understandable, of course. Especially when your body has always functioned naturally and effortlessly. Then you are that strong body, that agility, that health.

For me, it has always been different.

Earlier in life, I truly experienced Annette and body Annette as two separate entities. Not because I rejected my body, but because my body never fully did what I internally felt or wanted. Because of that, a distinction developed early on between the one who observes, feels, thinks, and lives… and the body that had to carry all of that out.

And yet I have always taken body Annette very seriously. Not as an enemy, but as an instrument. A translator of what lives inside me. Through my body I sense atmosphere, tension, emotions, pain, love, authenticity, and unrest. My body often reacts before my thoughts do.

Perhaps that is also why I never fully identified with my physical functioning or appearance. Annette always felt larger than the body alone.

And yet I do live entirely through that body.

I find that rather remarkable myself now that I write it down.

Because perhaps I have always seen body Annette as a kind of life companion. Sometimes she cooperated, sometimes she did not. Sometimes I listened carefully, sometimes I became angry or frustrated. But there was always a form of collaboration between the two.

Now that I see my brother struggling with a body he no longer fully understands or trusts, I feel increasingly more empathy for people who have always been healthy and then suddenly become ill.

In the past I often thought:
“Well, then you simply adapt, don’t you?”
Or:
“Then you just find another way.”

I used to shrug my shoulders at it rather easily.

Now I am beginning to understand more and more how enormous the inner shock must be when a person suddenly realizes that their body no longer functions naturally.

Perhaps I am becoming softer.
Not only toward other people, but also toward myself.

Perhaps a human being does not consist only of a body, but also of the one who observes the body, tries to understand it, and learns to work together with it.

Perhaps true gentleness begins the moment we realize how vulnerable — and how extraordinary — that collaboration really is.

And perhaps wisdom does not begin by letting go of the body, but by learning to listen to what body and consciousness are trying to tell each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Severe Weather

 

May 26, 2026

Severe weather. When you look up the meaning of that phrase, it usually refers to extreme weather conditions such as storms, thunderstorms, and heavy rainfall. Well… I am actually someone who enjoys severe weather to a certain extent. Sitting safely indoors listening to the rain pouring down or the wind howling around the house. And afterwards that fresh air, as if life itself has become clear again.

Of course I am not talking about disasters like tornadoes or hurricanes, which can be truly frightening.

When I speak about severe weather, I mean heat.

As soon as the temperature rises above twenty-five degrees Celsius, my body starts struggling. At first I can still enjoy it a little, just like everyone else, but when the nights no longer cool down enough, my inner light slowly begins to fade. Today is already the third warm day in a row, even thirty-two degrees outside. The apartment is holding onto the heat from the previous days. Fortunately it is still cooler inside than outdoors, but my body noticeably slows down.

More than forty years ago I stopped going to specialists because I felt like a laboratory experiment. And honestly, back then that probably was partly true. At some point enough was enough. I became an expert on my own neurological condition and kept finding ways to deal with it myself.

Today it suddenly occurred to me that nowadays there may be much more knowledge available about CMT, and that perhaps useful information could be found online.

At the same time I thought:
“Well Netje… maybe this is actually another step toward acceptance.”

Perhaps all these years I believed I had fully accepted my condition, while my resistance toward outside expertise may have been telling a different story.

Apparently there is now even a CMT expertise center. Wow. On the website it says you can submit questions, except of course the required field refuses to work. Typical. Should I let something like that discourage me again? Or should I simply find another way to contact them?

I also read that there are cooling vests for people with MS. Maybe that could help me too.

A short explanation about heat and CMT unexpectedly comforts me. Recognition and confirmation apparently still feel reassuring.

High temperatures can worsen nerve signaling in people with CMT, resulting in increased muscle weakness, fatigue, and overheating. Because temperature regulation and sweating are often impaired as well, there is also a greater risk of heat exhaustion or unnoticed burns.

The explanation is much more extensive than this, but simply recognizing my own symptoms already reassures me.

Perhaps deep down I still sometimes feel like I am just complaining. That is what I actually mean by acceptance.

When Ton occasionally looks at me with a bit too much sympathy, I am usually not particularly pleasant, and he quickly retreats to the living room.

Summer has not even truly started yet, so hopefully I can prepare myself physically and mentally with a new spirit.

Who knows, maybe there are useful tips nowadays that can help me remain active without completely draining myself. Perhaps I can learn to regulate my mood better. That would be good. For myself, but also for the people closest to me — Ton in this case.

It just goes to show: a person is apparently never too old to learn.

I had to become sixty-three before actively searching for solutions that might help me get through summer without sitting indoors like a zombie.

Now that I write it all down like this, what I mainly feel is trust in myself.

Perhaps acceptance does not mean that a person stops searching, but rather that space begins to open for new help or insights.

Perhaps strength is not only found in continuing independently, but sometimes also in daring to acknowledge what remains difficult.

And perhaps trust is not the feeling that everything will become easy, but the realization that you are learning to understand yourself better and better along the way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Difference Between Life and Death

 

May 25, 2026

Hans Dorrestijn once said: “The difference between life and death is simply too great for me.”

Ton came across that quote in the newspaper. He found it so humorous that he immediately continued reading the entire article. Afterwards he asked how I would feel about going to a lecture and musical afternoon with Hans Dorrestijn next week.

Of course I would love that.

Hans Dorrestijn is a writer, cabaret performer, and also a birdwatcher. He has that wonderfully dark sense of humor which he delivers in his peculiar crackling voice, almost monotonously. It always makes me laugh. There is something wonderfully down-to-earth about him that I really appreciate. And the way he looks at birds is, in my opinion, absolutely beautiful.

“I used to be fun. Back then I wrote about alcohol and drunkenness, my unhappy marriage, sex and the lack of it,” Hans Dorrestijn writes in his Bird Guide. “Thank goodness all those horrors have now made way for something pleasant.”

That pleasant thing turned out to be birdwatching.

And luckily for us: writing about it too.

Dorrestijn’s Bird Guide is, as far as I am concerned, one of the funniest books about birds ever written. And educational as well.

I recognize that feeling somehow. That life once revolved around misery, sadness, depressive feelings, complications, and struggles. And that now, as I grow older, much of that slowly seems to lie behind me. That I can genuinely enjoy simple things: the dog looking at me with loyal eyes, nature, birds, and Ton surprising me with an outing like this.

Life is allowed to become simpler and simpler.

I often think about life and death myself. Both continue to fascinate me. I want to experience life in all its facets, yet at the same time I sometimes wonder why I am alive at all.

Death may be even more mysterious to me.

One moment you are still here. You worry about something or someone. You think, feel, move, speak, observe. And the next moment you are simply no longer here.

Where does life go then?

Somewhere I feel I am more than just this body. But what is it that makes me live inside this particular body? Is the moment of my passing already predetermined? Or is that nonsense? Am I actually afraid of death? Or not at all? Does the idea of dying become softer as a person grows older?

I honestly do not know.

Perhaps it is precisely that mystery that makes life so extraordinary.

For now, I am mostly curious about what the afternoon with Hans Dorrestijn next week will be like.

For me, there is ultimately only one thing in life that is truly certain: that we will die.

Perhaps it is precisely the finiteness of life that makes the small moments so valuable.

Perhaps growing older does not necessarily become lighter or easier, but it does become simpler in terms of what truly matters.

And perhaps a person does not need to fully understand the mystery of life and death in order to continue looking at it with wonder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fault Lines

 

 

Invisible Threads

 

Life on Dead Wood

 

May 22, 2026

After another bad night, with lots of turning, groaning, and moaning from the pain, I decided to go cycling anyway. At least to run a few necessary errands and then see whether I wanted to continue. Suddenly you feel exactly how your buttocks move on a saddle when you turn a corner or have to cycle up a small slope. Oh my God… that was quite something, trying to keep moving as painlessly as possible. At first it was almost nauseating, but eventually it worked out. Only when getting off the bike was I reminded again and again of that intense injury to my buttock.

In the shop, my buttock started throbbing like crazy. I experience that as a local spasm. In the past I would have twisted myself into all kinds of positions out of fear that someone might see my buttocks moving. Now I was actually glad something was happening. It probably simply has to do with recovery. And really, what does it matter if someone were to notice?

The weather was beautifully sunny, twenty-five degrees, so I decided to continue cycling and enjoy movement, fresh air, and sunshine. Ton makes sure it does not turn into an enormous ride.

Because of the bad weather and illness, we had hardly cycled for a few weeks. Suddenly the yellow irises along the water, poppies, and marsh marigolds were in full bloom. It is surprising how quickly that happens. So cheerful too, seeing flowers appear everywhere again. Every summer we pass a farm that sells wild flowers from their own picking garden. We brought home the first bunches of the year again.

Along the way I saw a dead piece of tree by the roadside with an enormous shiny, almost living-looking fungus growing on it. So beautiful to see how nature cleans itself up and how new life literally emerges from something dead. The cycle of life, simply visible on a botanical level.

Yet I also immediately saw a bird of prey in it.

My thoughts then run off with me straight away. What might the spiritual meaning of a bird of prey be, I wonder. In spirituality, a bird of prey often symbolizes clairvoyance, freedom, and overview. Because of their sharp vision and high flight, they are seen as messengers that encourage you to look at situations from a distance and remain true to your own direction.

I simply cannot help seeing forms everywhere that immediately touch something in me. In plants, trees, clouds… you name it. When I instantly recognize something in a shape, it feels as though it is telling me something in that moment. In fact, I do the same with my surroundings as I do with my paintings: I let them speak to me. In nature, I constantly find associations. In numbers and figures too, by the way, but that is not relevant right now.

Once home, we wanted to put our bicycles back in their place. Then an unknown man, apparently visiting someone in our building, started acting quite unpleasantly because we were putting our bicycles there. I was upset about that for at least half an hour. Discomfort in my body makes me emotionally less steady, I notice. That has actually always been the case, only nowadays I am much more aware of it.

Let me put it this way: in the past, emotion would have completely taken control of me in such a moment. Now I am aware of both my body and my emotions, and I seem to be increasingly able to look at them as a kind of outsider and guide the emotion. That outsider is what I call “the self.”

Once I had returned to myself a little, I finally took my well-deserved rest. Still quite proud that, despite everything, I cycled for two and a half hours.

Perhaps nature constantly shows us that life and decay are not opposites, but part of the same movement.

Perhaps shapes, colors, and symbols mainly tell us something about what already wants to be touched inside us.

And perhaps recovery is not only found in becoming stronger, but also in learning to observe more consciously what happens within ourselves.

Softened

 

May 21, 2026

Probably because of the pain and discomfort today, I am not depressed, but I do find myself easily moved.

I wished my former daughter-in-law a happy birthday today. I have not seen her for years, yet she was part of a turbulent period in which we experienced both great love and great sadness within the family. There are former partners of my children I never think about anymore or feel any connection with, but even though we no longer see each other, she still has and keeps a place in my heart.

Yesterday my hip and leg felt like a stiff plank, fortunately that is no longer the case today. The pain is still quite intense though, and one side of my hip still feels as hard as stone. I woke up early this morning and carefully tried walking around the house a little. That worked. Sitting in my wheelchair on my right side also went reasonably well. After about an hour, I wanted to sit comfortably on the bed and watch a series for a while.

Then something happened that I do not really recognize in myself.

I wanted to open my laptop, but I completely collapsed, both literally and figuratively. Ton quickly helped me lie down as comfortably as possible again, and I was gone. Only a few hours later did I wake up.

Because I train daily, I notice that my body now reacts very differently to recovery. The stiffness disappearing this quickly is completely new to me. And then that sudden collapse into sleep — bam — simply impossible to resist, also new. It may sound unpleasant, but I actually see it as improvement. I will probably always get injured from time to time, that much is clear by now. But perhaps months of recovery are no longer necessary because of the fitness I have built up.

Eventually I feel well enough to watch a simple romcom in bed. Nothing too complicated, just not having to think too much for a while.

Then suddenly a poem by E. E. Cummings appears in the film:

“I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart) I am never without it.
Anywhere I go, you go, my dear.

I fear no fate
(for you are my fate, my sweet) I want
no world
(for beautiful you are my world, my true)

And you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing, you are.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

And this is the wonder that keeps the stars apart.

I carry your heart
(I carry it in my heart).”

I find myself crying heavy tears while thinking about my children, Michel, and Ton. Impossible to stop once it begins, that is how deeply it suddenly touches me. Just crying my eyes out in solitude with my little dog beside me.

Perhaps physical pain sometimes makes a person softer and more open than usual.

Perhaps we carry certain people with us our entire lives, even when the form of the relationship changes.

And perhaps real love is not only found in holding on, but in remaining capable of being deeply moved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Messy Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who Am I ?

 

May 19, 2026

Who am I? That question has been becoming clearer to me lately.

By writing down my thoughts instead of letting them endlessly circle around inside my head, I am beginning to see that I can actually be everything and anything. At the same time, I do believe we are born with a certain constitution. Not yet fully shaped by circumstances or conditioning, but already very close to who we essentially are.

Through situations, upbringing, conditioning, and change, I have sometimes adapted myself, while at other moments I resisted completely. Looking back at the themes I repeatedly return to, I can see how many different masks I have worn throughout my life. The moment you become aware of an outside world — school, friends, family — I think you continuously begin trying to fit yourself into it.

Age naturally plays a role in that as well. And often the environment you are in. Within family settings, for example, I am a completely different person than I am among friends. In one group I become a clown, somewhere else a quiet withdrawn woman, sometimes rebellious, or suddenly a wise, intelligent, sharp-tongued lady.

It is not a game, nor is it fake. It simply happens, almost unconsciously.

What I do notice is that after I have been somewhere, I can often feel again in the silence of my car how I behaved. As if only alone behind the wheel I slowly return to the Annette I truly am.

How did I even arrive at this reflection about who I am?

I came across a little Zen story that went something like this:

“Do you know the fastest way to disturb your inner peace?
It is not your work.
It is not your family.
It is not even your past.
It is reacting to everything.

In Zen there is a rule of silence:
You do not have to participate in every discussion you are invited into.
Not every remark deserves a response.
Not every insult deserves your energy.
Not every misunderstanding needs to be corrected.

The moment you stop reacting, you stop feeding the fire.
And without fuel, most conflicts die out on their own.

Three things to remember:
Pause. Breathe in and out.
Only respond if it protects your inner peace.
Silence is not weakness. It is awareness.”

When I read that, I suddenly thought about the little young Annette who mostly sat quietly alone in her room. I read books or was busy creating things. I preferred being alone, happy in my own world. My parents sometimes almost forgot I was even there. Understandable in a way, because there was a lot happening within the family, and I had almost literally withdrawn myself into my little tower room.

Perhaps that quiet Annette is still the closest to my essential constitution.

The problem was that not reacting was not exactly appreciated when I was younger. So as a child, you automatically begin searching for what is accepted or appreciated.

I increasingly hope to return to that Annette who does not react to everything. Who does not feel the need to participate in everything. Who dares to stand still, breathe, and simply observe.

Writing things down out loud already removes a layer of stress.

Perhaps that is how I am slowly finding my way toward inner peace.

Perhaps inner peace does not come from the disappearance of all stimuli, but from no longer feeling the need to react to everything that passes by.

Perhaps we all wear different masks without them necessarily being fake.

And perhaps that quiet young Annette is still the closest to who I truly am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Light That Embraces Imperfection

 

May 18, 2026

A quiet day in which not much really happened. Training, Ton still not completely better. He has now been given antibiotics. It is rainy outside, so walking or cycling is not very appealing.

My friend is on holiday in Paris for two weeks. Lovely for her, of course. I have been going to Paris regularly since I was young. There were periods in my life when I spent a weekend there every single month. Walking endlessly through the city, enjoying the atmosphere, having breakfast on a terrace in the morning. Not necessarily acting like a tourist, but simply being there.

In the past, I could still sit inside a nearly empty Sacré-Cœur or Notre Dame. Nowadays, crowds flood these famous churches. Lying on the ground at night looking at the stars at Place du Trocadéro? Impossible now. The place is filled with people twenty-four hours a day.

I could sit inside the Sacré-Cœur for hours. That was where I discovered the many eclectic hidden symbols, the asymmetry, the deliberate imperfection. I understood it, and at the same time I was deeply moved by the light coming through the rose windows. It was the first time I did not feel distance inside a church, but connection.

I used to find the interior of Notre Dame less pleasant. Outside, however, I could lose myself in the endless number of sculptures attached in Gothic style to what is actually a fairly modern-shaped body. But inside, the cathedral always felt dark and heavy to me.

I always visit the place behind Notre Dame as well: the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation. A quiet memorial space where relatively few people still go. Perhaps that is exactly why it touches me so deeply.

Shortly after the fire in 2019, I happened to be in Paris. It was truly shocking to see Notre Dame in that damaged state. It honestly hurt to witness it.

Last year, Ton and I visited the restored Notre Dame. And something remarkable happened there. My heart literally opened. It felt so light, so emotionally accessible. Suddenly you could clearly see the framework, the arches, the structure of the building because the light moved through everything. And especially the colors in the back of the cathedral… truly beautiful. The colors were bright yet soft, almost powder-like. Not heavy or overwhelming, but inviting. It almost pulled me into another dimension. So beautifully done in all its simplicity.

I have seen many churches full of grandeur and ornamentation, beautiful in their own way of course. But this felt different. For me, there is currently no more beautiful or kinder church than the Notre Dame as it is now. I would almost say: do not focus too much on the people around you, but feel. Let yourself be carried away.

To me, a church should be a place of silence and transcendence. I can only experience that when there is spaciousness and lightness. A kind of light in which you can move along as a human being. Perhaps that is why Notre Dame touched me so deeply now. The light did not fall upon perfection, but upon imperfection. As if imperfect humanity was not being judged there, but lovingly allowed to become visible.

I think I discovered something very simple there:
imperfection apparently belongs to life on earth. And precisely the light through the rose windows felt to me like something elevated, almost intangible, that literally places imperfection into the light. Not to condemn it, but to give it warmth, softness, and meaning.

That memorial behind Notre Dame works in a similar way. The space first surrounds you with a kind of moving silence. Then your vision slowly narrows toward a small window through which light is allowed to enter. It is difficult to explain, but for me this is not merely a visual experience. It is physical. As if architecture directly affects consciousness and emotion.

Later my friend sent a message:
“Beautiful cathedral (although we’ve seen more impressive ones), but the atmosphere makes up for a lot.”

Well… everyone has their own taste and their own way of experiencing things, of course. Still, I immediately felt a tightness around my heart and became unexpectedly sad. Strange, really.

Perhaps there is something much deeper there for me than I fully realize myself.

Perhaps some places move us not because of their grandeur, but because they open something inside us that we can barely put into words.

Perhaps human beings long not only for beauty, but for spaces where imperfection is gently allowed to exist in the light.

And perhaps true stillness is not the absence of movement, but a form of inner space where body, light, and consciousness briefly become one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom

 

May 17, 2026

Freedom… what is it really? And is it the same for everyone?

Lately I have been thinking a lot about freedom, being human, and duality. It began with the thought that absolute freedom may not truly exist for human beings. Unlike animals, we constantly attach memories, emotions, fears, shame, and meaning to everything we experience. Even animals do not seem completely free in the end, because they too form attachments and bonds.

From there came the question of what freedom actually is. Perhaps it is not about being completely detached from everything, but rather about being consciously present within the limitations of being human. Maybe there is a form of personal freedom, shaped by our own experiences and conditioning. In that sense, freedom means something different for every individual.

But besides that, there also seems to be something like an absolute or existential freedom. Then I think about the longing to dissolve, to return to some kind of source — something no one truly knows, but which many people seem to intuitively feel. When I continue following that thought, I naturally arrive at transformation and ultimately death. At the same time, these remain open questions to me, not absolute truths.

So I am beginning to see more and more that freedom perhaps does not really exist at all. Maybe animals come closer to it than humans do. We humans attach memories, emotions, and meaning to everything. The so-called peeling of the onion seems endless. Perhaps simplicity ultimately does not lie in becoming completely free, but in taking responsibility for everything you feel, think, and do, without constantly becoming trapped in fear, shame, conditioning, worries, or all the other layers we as humans add to life.

Yesterday I told Ton that writing about what I think and experience increasingly reveals how complex I myself — and perhaps human beings in general — make life.

The more I look at it, the more strongly I feel that the longing for freedom seems connected to the fear of death. An existential fear that may actually be very human, and perhaps even healthy. People search for freedom, for a feeling connected to something intangible.

Perhaps freedom lies precisely in embracing duality. In our personal lives, duality constantly manifests itself. We want to be both autonomous and connected, both receiving and giving, both restful and challenged. Recognizing our own inner contradictions may well be the first step toward a richer life.

I believe Nelson Mandela also spoke about this kind of inner freedom. How you can be imprisoned and still feel free at the same time. Again, that dualism between inner and outer worlds. The external circumstances can be imprisonment, while the thoughts, inner experience, and dignity of a person remain free.

Not because prison somehow becomes “not so bad” — quite the opposite — but because someone can imprison your body without fully possessing your spirit or inner attitude.

Yes… it is becoming increasingly clear to me that freedom may primarily have to do with my inner attitude toward the limitations I encounter in life. Whether those limitations are physical or mental ultimately makes little difference.

I honestly admit that I do not always succeed in this. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, limited, or oppressed. Yet somehow I always find my way out again. Not because the situation changes, but because my perspective on the situation changes.

Perhaps I will keep working on that form of freedom until the day I truly transform.

And honestly, I expect that day to be very far away.

Perhaps freedom does not lie in the disappearance of all limitations, but in the way a person relates to them.

Perhaps it is precisely the tension between connection and autonomy, fear and longing, that makes life human.

And perhaps inner freedom begins the moment a person stops trying to be perfectly free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Pain Speaks

 

 

Shadows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Witnesses

 

May 14, 2026

Once again, a line in a romantic comedy passes by that makes me rewind the scene for a moment.

“Why do you think people get married?”
“Passion?”
“No. Interesting, because I see you as a romantic. So why then?”
“We need a witness to our lives. What does one life matter among billions of people? But in a marriage you promise to be there for all of it. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the ordinary things. Everything, always, every day. You’re saying: ‘Your life will not go unnoticed because I see it. Your life will not go unseen because I am your witness.’”

Wow. Is that really true? I suppose you can look at it that way too.

To me, marriage has always seemed more like a traditional ritual. A ritual is a series of actions carried out carefully, attentively, and in a fixed order, often with symbolic meaning. It helps create structure, express emotions, mark transitions, and strengthen connection. Rituals can be religious, cultural, or personal. Apparently, people need something to hold onto.

Maybe letting go — or truly being free — is one of the hardest things for a human being. At least, that is what I am slowly beginning to think.

I have been married three times.

The first time, I did it out of conditioning. I was young and wanted to fit the image my parents had in mind for me. A celebration during which I felt deeply uncomfortable.

The second time, I married for my husband, to show that someone valued his existence. It was also practical because of the children. No celebration, just going to city hall. Afterward, a coffee gathering with our parents, who met each other there for the very first time.

The third time, once again, I married for my husband. It mattered to him. Sometimes, out of love, you do things for one another. A small celebration with only close family and friends already felt like hell to me. I hardly remember that day at all; I shut myself down in order to get through it.

Not exactly romantic, does it sound?

Do I need a witness to my life? I honestly do not know. Am I not already the witness to my own life?

Marriage also feels, in some way, like an economic system to me. The idea that you bind yourself to someone. That still feels suffocating to me somehow. Being married itself does not bother me. I barely feel it. But the actual day, standing there and saying “I do,” feels deeply confronting. That is probably why I never truly enjoyed it.

In court, witnesses can be called upon. They have seen or heard something. And if you belong to a religious community, I believe they also speak of witnesses.

To witness ultimately means to prove something, I think.

Today I received an email from the Dutch driving authority stating that the medical declaration from an independent neurologist had been received.

Immediately, I felt the tension rise inside me again. Being evaluated over and over. For this. For that. As if I am not capable myself of judging whether I can still drive safely or not. For forty years now, I have repeatedly had to take driving tests after medical evaluations. While honestly, I can drive better than I can walk. My car is my best companion.

In a way, the neurologist was also a witness.

After first throwing a snarl and a growl toward my dearest love, I discovered that for the very first time in exactly forty-five years, the driving authority has decided that after the specialist’s evaluation, I no longer have to take another driving test.

Pfffft…

Not that I am afraid of such a test. I actually enjoy driving. It is more the idea of rules, obligations, dependency, control, fear… all of it.

Rituals are beautiful, but often rigid with time. Witnessing begins to resemble proving, which can so easily turn into judgment.

The rebel inside me immediately feels those kinds of chains.

Perhaps human beings long for both connection and freedom at the same time. Perhaps that is exactly where the tension of existence lives: 

wanting to be seen without being confined. 

And perhaps love is at its most beautiful when someone dares to witness your life without trying to possess it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beyond words.

 

13 May 2026

Sometimes you come across a few lines that keep lingering in your mind. Not because you immediately agree with them, but precisely because something inside you begins to move. Today that happened when I read a text by Robert Anton Wilson.

“To eat, you must be hungry.
To learn, you must be ignorant.
Ignorance is part of learning.
Pain is part of health.
Passion is part of thinking.
Death is part of life.”

My first reaction felt strangely divided. Some sentences immediately felt true. Others made me think: no… wait a minute. And then again: maybe. It was as if my system was not reacting to the words themselves, but to the layers underneath them.

Especially the sentence “Passion is part of thinking” stayed with me. Is passion not more a form of intensity? And is thinking always conscious? At what point does thinking become feeling? Or processing? Or perceiving?

The conversation that followed carried me further and further away from the original text, while somehow bringing me closer to its core at the same time. Because what do we actually mean when we say that we are “thinking”?

Most people mean words. Reasoning. Analysing. Consciously drawing conclusions. But I increasingly wonder if that is only a very small part of what truly happens inside a human being.

Our bodies process too. Dreams process. Silence sometimes processes something. Art processes. Sometimes you only understand something months later, while it had already been moving through you long before words arrived.

And perhaps that is exactly where misunderstandings between people begin.

We use the same language, yet often understand completely different things. Two people can hear the exact same sentence and still experience an entirely different reality. One hears safety where another hears control. One hears freedom where another feels abandonment. And because the words are the same, we assume we understand each other.

Perhaps that is why the word “understanding” is so fascinating. We think it means sharing meaning, while often we are still standing far apart within the same sentence.

I notice that this can exhaust me quickly. Especially when I listen to conversations where many words are exchanged, yet at the same time I can feel that both people are actually having completely different conversations. Sometimes I think: they could just as well be speaking Chinese and Russian. Not because they are unintelligent, but because each person is listening from within a different inner world.

My youngest son taught me an enormous amount about this when he was younger. He understood language literally. Expressions or hidden meanings did not automatically work for him. Sometimes he could become deeply upset when something turned out to mean something different from what was literally said.

Later he would say:
“But Mom, that’s what you said.”

And when Michel and I went back through the conversation, we often discovered that technically he was right. We had meant something else, but we had not actually spoken those words. It made us much more aware of how imprecise ordinary communication can be. How often people expect others to automatically “read between the lines.”

Perhaps my son taught me to listen more carefully to language. Not only to words, but also to meaning, intention and interpretation.

And perhaps this entire insight today simply began with a small poem I happened to encounter online.

Perhaps words are not fixed forms,
but temporary bridges between inner worlds.
And perhaps we do not truly understand each other
when we use the same words,
but only in those rare moments
when two inner realities briefly touch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing to My Own Rhythm

 

May 12, 2026

Now Ton is sick. Even though there was nothing clearly noticeable with me besides fever and general malaise, he still managed to catch a virus. Sore throat, hoarse voice, swollen eyes, fiery red cheeks, and fever.
Today I did not go training until 12:30 p.m., after first going to the blood clinic. It felt a little unfamiliar, but actually I felt quite good. And the best part: there was absolutely nobody at the gym. No people training, not even trainers. IDEAL.
Instead of doing three rounds, I calmly did five. Not at full strength, not an enormous effort, but exactly enough. I felt better afterward than when I walked in. The loss of strength was manageable, although I did notice that I had to breathe more deeply to keep my heart rate stable.
That empty gym truly felt like a gift to my system. I am extremely sensitive to atmosphere, stimuli, and overall energetic load. For me, social and sensory input also costs energy, not just the physical training itself. Such a quiet space makes an enormous difference.
It truly feels like a dream to have a space of my own with this equipment. Training every day in silence, fully focused on my body. For a brief moment I was able to experience what that would feel like. An entire hour alone in the gym… at that point you almost start believing in providence.
Because it was so quiet, I could easily do five rounds instead of three. Very consciously without tension or pressure to perform. Just movement. Afterward I genuinely felt good, and that feeling stayed with me.
Apparently I have found a mode somewhere between building up, breaking down, and recovering.
It seems not to be about wanting, forcing, or proving, but about honestly tuning in and feeling.
I never truly realized how much pressure I always put on myself to function “normally.” Looking back, I can now see that I was constantly fighting my own body. Because of conditioning, because of self-image, and especially because of how I imagined the outside world would see me.
How much suffering a human being can cause themselves.
Being ill or having a disability simply means you are physically different from others. In essence, that is actually a very simple fact. You would think that would make it easy to accept. Unfortunately, people often react differently to those who are physically different. That is probably where the friction lies for me.
I am not pitiful. Quite the opposite, I would say.
Precisely because I lack certain things, I developed other parts of myself more strongly. It made me inventive, independent, and observant. I lost something, but because of that I was also given the opportunity to develop other parts of myself more deeply. That does not make me less human, but fully human.
Only… society often unconsciously disapproves of physical difference. And that is what rubs against me.
Ultimately it comes down to one question: how do I deal with all these different sides of myself?
I cannot change the world or the people around me. That is probably not the point either. Maybe I should learn to see life more as a rhythmic dance. With my possibilities, I will have to find the rhythm of the world and the people around me.
Not rigidly led like a ballroom dancer. More loosely. Moving along. In my own way.
Yes… I actually think that is a beautiful image.
Now that I feel better again, I am dancing once more to the rhythm of the world around me.

Maybe life does not always ask us to fight or overcome, but to learn how to listen to our own rhythm beneath all the noise.

Maybe true strength does not arise when a person constantly overrules themselves, but when body, feeling, and movement are finally allowed to move together.

And maybe freedom is sometimes nothing greater than daring to move through life without shame, exactly as you truly are.

The Safe Place of Anger

May 11, 2026

I have two general practitioners, two women who I think both work part-time. Usually I get the same one, the one I do not completely connect with. This morning I had an appointment for several reasons. First of all, to figure out why I suddenly became so seriously ill this week. Besides that, after a difficult year, I want a very extensive blood test to see how things are really going inside my body.

At home I had already prepared myself. I would stay polite, but I was definitely going to tell her clearly how I experience her as my doctor. Of course I would not mention this to Ton, because he immediately starts relativizing things and telling me that maybe I should look at it differently.

So there I arrive, slightly worked up inside, and of course I get the nice one instead. For the first time in my life I consciously prepared myself to more or less lecture someone… and then it never happened. I really had to make an inner switch at that moment. At the same time I realized it might actually be better to enter a conversation normally instead of immediately throwing all my frustrations and grievances onto the table.

My doctor listened well. We laughed, and we were honest with each other. There are certain examinations I refuse because I already know that, whatever the results may be, I would not go through with treatment anyway. Ton would want to know everything, but for me that sometimes feels pointless. This time my doctor actually understood my reasoning. She only asked what I am still okay with. A fair question.

She understands my frustration and honestly admitted that she does not know anyone with CMT. She also understands that specialists often fail to properly take this disease into account in their treatment considerations simply because they have so little experience with it.

The preliminary conclusion:
tomorrow I will have blood drawn and undergo another, more extensive urine test.

Once I got home, the tension still came out anyway. I became incredibly stubborn and threw the most horrible remarks at Ton. Saying that I could shoot all those people who think they are so smart, and that if nobody takes me seriously, then I will simply survive on my own and become the last woman standing.

WELL, THIS IS GOING GREAT, ISN’T IT?

Of course it makes no sense at all. But apparently the frustration needed to come out somehow.

And maybe that says something important too:
at home, in a place where I feel safe, with someone who feels safe to me, I dare to completely release what I normally keep inside.

Because honestly?
After a stroke, a rare disease, years of adapting, doctors who often know very little about CMT, physical signals that I myself feel very clearly, and now once again such an intense physical experience… maybe it is not strange at all that anger rises to the surface.

Psychologically, people often say that when someone is ill for longer than two weeks, illness also begins to develop a psychological layer. So what does sixty-three years of living in a body that constantly demands attention do to a person?

I keep a lot inside. I often appear tough in my behavior. But especially since my stroke, I have felt less and less willing to compromise with my own feelings and frustrations about all of this.

I now give myself that space, with love.

Only… a little more balance would probably be better.
For me.
And for the people around me.

In this case:
Ton.

Maybe anger is not always the real problem,

but the place where grief, powerlessness,

and exhaustion are finally allowed to exist for a moment.

Maybe safety is exactly that: being able to be so completely yourself somewhere

that even your ugliest emotions do not destroy the connection.

And maybe balance does not begin by suppressing feelings,

but by learning how to let them move without tearing everything apart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Free

 

 

Having to Relax

 

 

How Relaxed Am I, Really?

May 8, 2026

I’m reading a piece by Nicola Jane Hobbs, a psychologist who realized she hardly knew any truly relaxed women. Women take care of others, push themselves aside, and at the same time are still expected to be ambitious. So she started searching for ways to live more authentically.

That immediately interests me. What does “relaxed” actually mean? When does caring become a form of stress? What does self-sacrifice do to a person? And why does ambition still seem more acceptable for men than for women?

But perhaps the biggest question is:
when are you authentic?

She came up with small quote cards to keep in your bag or behind your phone. Little reminders in places you look often. How do you actually throw your internal to-do list out the door?

I do find it interesting to look at the twelve cards and notice how I respond to them myself.

“Being useful is overrated.”

Yes… I think most of us were raised that way. I certainly was. Quite strictly, compared to the people around me. Slowly, I’m learning to let go of that, simply because I realize rest is also important for my health.

And yet, I still feel proud when I’ve been useful. As if I’ve done something right.

“There’s nothing wrong with a messy house.”

Hahaha… this morning I was still yelling at Ton that the stains on the kitchen cabinets were absolutely not okay. It’s just dirt, you can clean it. “Yes, immediately!” my mind says.

Mess makes me restless. In the past, everything had to stand exactly right, down to the millimeter. When I came home, I would first put everything back in place. One of my foster daughters still talks about it.

I’ve let go of the extreme version of that, but it still isn’t easy. And when I do manage to let it go for a while, I feel proud of myself. Unfortunately, it usually doesn’t last very long.

“Have you gone for a walk yet?”

That one is easy. Yes. I try to go cycling every day. To be outside for a moment, to feel the air, the wind, the temperature. That’s something I consciously take care of.

“Be as lazy as you can.”

Coincidentally, I’m sick at the moment and spending the day in bed. I already feel much better, but out of respect for my body I’m still resting. Television on, a book nearby, laptop on my lap.

And maybe the most remarkable thing is that I no longer feel guilty about it.

I grew up with:
“Idleness is the devil’s pillow.”

The fact that this guilt is slowly disappearing actually makes me very happy.

“Take your time, it will be alright.”

That may actually be one of my strengths. Things I cannot immediately change, I can often eventually let go of. Then I trust that a solution, direction, or new possibility will appear in its own time.

And once I do move into action, I usually move quickly.

“Today you don’t have to do anything.”

Sometimes I consciously start my day like that now. Strangely enough, I often still end up doing quite a lot. It simply feels different when it isn’t an obligation.

No duty. No imposed schedule. No responsibility pressing on my shoulders.

Everything is allowed.

And that actually feels quite relaxing.

Since I’m staying home this weekend to recover properly, I’ll continue with the other six cards tomorrow.

I’m curious to discover how relaxed I really am.

 When do you do something
because you have to—
and when because it feels right?
And how much peace appears
when nothing has to be proven anymore?
Perhaps relaxation is not about doing nothing,
but about holding yourself a little less tightly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Silence of Recovery

May 7, 2026

Yesterday it suddenly felt as if my body had decided it had had enough. Just one day earlier I was still training normally. Sweating, moving, using strength. Not perfectly, but steadily. Until that moment at the gym when a woman nearby kept coughing heavily in my direction. I remember thinking: this doesn’t feel right. After that, I forgot about it again.

Only later did it begin.

First the buzzing in my head. A strange feeling of instability. As if my system suddenly could no longer keep hold of itself. Within a few hours everything changed. Fever. Muscle pain. Pain in every single cell of my body. The feeling as if the light was literally going out. Not meant dramatically, but physically that is truly how it felt. I could do nothing anymore. No concentration, no clarity, only lying down.

Ton gave me paracetamol every few hours. Other than that, I mostly remember fragments. The strange thing is that later my Fitbit showed that I had barely slept, while emotionally it felt as though I had almost been unconscious the entire time. Maybe that is for the best. When a body becomes that ill, it apparently takes over temporarily. Thinking fades into the background. All that remains is surviving and recovering.

Today I woke up still slightly feverish, but the real sickness already seemed to be fading. As if the storm was already moving away again. Still, I stayed in bed the entire day. Not because someone else told me to, but because for the first time I truly felt that recovery is not the same as immediately carrying on again.

Maybe that is the greatest change of all.

In the past, the moment I started feeling a little better, I would start moving again. Push through. Don’t complain. Return to normal as quickly as possible. But more and more I begin to understand that health is not only about building strength, but also about preserving it. About allowing rest when the body asks for it.

Not tough. Not proving anything. Not fighting against a limit.

Just listening.

And perhaps that too is a form of strength.

Maybe recovery truly changes the moment you stop trying to overcome the body,
and slowly learn to work together with it instead.
Not every step forward has to be fought for.
Sometimes progress is born in simply daring to remain still
until life quietly returns to the body on its own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who Am I?

May 6, 2026

Who are you? Who am I? A question for an essay to be accepted into university. Or during a job interview. A question from someone at a party trying to sound genuinely interested.

In the past, I would have answered it at length. But even then, I would never have said: “I am Annette Groen and I am a doctor’s assistant, yoga teacher, or painter.” No, even back then I would have said: “My name is Annette Groen and these days I spend my time…”

Now my answer would probably be: I don’t know who I am.

What are people really asking when they ask that question?

I know who my parents are — although even that once felt uncertain. I know what I do and what I love. But those things change over the years too.

There have been so many versions of Annette. Withdrawn. The center of attention. Almost invisible. Impossible to overlook. Opinionated. Down-to-earth. Kind. Empathetic.

My partners were all completely different types as well. With each relationship, another side of me developed. Fears that once directed my life later disappeared again, allowing new directions to emerge.

Being born with a disability gave me an obvious visible characteristic — but so does the color of my eyes. Colored lenses can change that. Even the way I deal with my disability is not fixed.

Victim. Sometimes also the one causing pain. And so on.

Who am I?

Take your pick. I am all of it.

To the people you meet in life, you often remain the person they knew at one particular moment. If I was the carefree one, that is who I remain in their memory. If I was the serious philosopher, that image stays as well.

With family, it works differently. They connect my behavior to a part of themselves. I become their mirror, and everyone holds up a different one. Of course, it works the other way around too.

Still, I hope I can continue to see people — whoever they are — as human beings with endless faces and possibilities. Honestly, that is not always easy.

Putting a label on someone is simple. But perhaps then I miss something. Something I have not yet been able to see.

Who are you— without your roles, your past, your beliefs? 

And how many faces does a person carry without even realizing it? 

Perhaps we are not one fixed story, 

but a movement that keeps revealing something new.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where Light and Shadow Meet

May 5, 2026

Today is officially Liberation Day in the Netherlands. Yesterday was May 4th, Remembrance Day. Thankfully, this commemoration has gradually expanded beyond just the Second World War. Step by step, other groups and later military victims have been included. It is good that this is acknowledged, so people do not feel forgotten.

This year, I consciously chose not to watch television. Only around eight o’clock did I briefly watch the ceremony at Dam Square in Amsterdam. Nothing more. The confrontation makes me cry — and keep crying.

In a small chapel, somewhere along the way during yesterday’s bike ride, I wrote something. In memory of Michel, his family — and with that, also the family of my children.

When I think about the pain from back then, and how it continues through the generations, I sometimes wonder: are there still people without trauma? We all carry something. From our own lives, or from what has been passed down to us.

I now know that these kinds of experiences can even be stored and passed on in our DNA.

Perhaps no one is free from these shadow sides.

It is good to pause with that from time to time. To feel it. That Weltschmerz, that sense of world pain. As a country, it is also meaningful to find a moment of connection in this.

War cannot be justified. That feels very clear to me. And at the same time, I see it as a shadow side of humanity — something that exists as long as there are people.

When I see that someone has been hurt, I feel empathy. Of course. That is not a question.

But it becomes suffocating when someone believes they are the only one carrying that pain, as if it stands apart from everything and everyone. Because who does not carry something within them, in one way or another?

That doesn’t make it smaller.
It may make it more bearable.

I do not trivialize it. But I do see it as an inevitable shadow side of humanity.

Then I think of kintsugi, the Japanese technique I sometimes use in my paintings. The golden repairs emphasize the cracks as part of the object’s history — not something to hide, but something that makes it stronger and more unique.

Could that also apply to us as human beings?
Do all the things we go through — even war and loss — somehow make us stronger?

Today, after my morning training, I decided to take a day of rest. As usual, I sit on the bed with the television on, my laptop on my lap, and my phone in my hand.

In an Argentine series, I hear someone say:
“In Japan, they see shadow as beauty.”

Yes, I think. That’s true.

They call it komorebi — the interplay of light and shadow. Shadow is not seen as a lack of light, but as a space for rest and contemplation.

For me, it is important not to remain stuck in the pain, but to carry it along. As a shadow that is allowed to be there.

And when that shadow is allowed to dance with the light…
then perhaps something emerges that resembles healing.

How do you carry what is dark—
without disappearing into it?
And what happens
when you don’t try to remove it,
but allow it to move beside the light?
Is healing something you do—
or something that arises?

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Burns — and What Returns

May 4, 2026

Despite a strange dream — more like a single sentence that startled me — I slept well. The dogs behaved perfectly in the hotel. Our clothes were almost dry.

We pack up, load my car, and drive to the van to get the bikes. It’s warm, slightly oppressive. The sky dark, almost threatening.

At eleven, we set off on our bikes to explore the North Brabant area further, following ANWB cycling routes. So easy, my phone mounted on the handlebars. It makes me think that cycling paths are designed per region — depending on how much is invested.

Along the main roads, from village to village, there are wide bike paths for two directions. But once you enter the fields or the forest, they become narrow, semi-paved paths, maybe a meter wide. Official routes, but clearly with less attention.

In the forest, they sometimes feel like mountain bike trails: winding, uneven, too narrow for my cargo bike. And still two-way traffic — someone has to step into the bushes to pass.

I love it.

It makes it adventurous. Ton laughs that this is exactly what I enjoy. I find a solution for every challenge. It’s heavier than smooth paths, but I experience that as training.

I always look around. I notice every flower, every small detail. The trees here are remarkably old, the ground uneven. Not quite hills, but there are height differences of a few meters. Heathland, lakes, and ponds everywhere.

I cycle at about 18 kilometers per hour. Not fast, but I absorb everything — flowers to look up later, birds, small movements.

Then I notice something strange. A fire hose lies on the heath, about a hundred meters away. It feels out of place.

Moments later, I see dark patches stretching out before me.

I stop.

And suddenly I understand.

This is the heath that burned a few days ago. A military training ground — I had seen the signs. It was on the news.

I tell Ton and ask him to take a photo. Of the blackened land. And of the hose, as a silent witness.

He doesn’t understand how I spotted it so quickly, from such a distance. But he knows by now that I notice everything.

It reminds me of South Africa, where I once saw land still smoldering after a fire. Completely black. There, some plants ignite to release their seeds.

The atmosphere was eerie.

Two days later, I returned with my daughter to show her. To my surprise, there was already new green growth. Even flowers. It had begun to recover so quickly.

Here, I feel the same. Yes, the land is black. But I know it will recover.

Of course, one story belongs to nature, the other to human action.

The event looks the same. The circumstances differ. But the outcome… perhaps not.

And I find myself wondering:

how heavily should we judge it?

Or am I making it too simple?

What do you see—

when you look beyond the event?

Is destruction an ending,

or a beginning not yet visible?

And how much of what you feel

is shaped by what you know—

or by the way you look?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between Tradition and Movement

May 3, 2026

Traditions. What do I think of them?

They are customs passed down through generations. King’s Day (formerly Queen’s Day), Sinterklaas, Luilakken in the north, Carnival in the south. Or gatherings around birth, death, and marriage. They bring people together, beyond what might otherwise divide them.

Today we stumbled right into one. In the village where we are staying, it was Guild Day. Forty-eight guilds took part in a procession. Around 1200 to 1500 members. Emperors, kings, standard bearers, flag throwers, drummers — everything passed by.

It’s striking how the entire village turns out for it, and how natural it all seems.

For me, it was the first time seeing this in such a way. All those people, seriously dressed in medieval clothing. Of course, I respect that. And at the same time, I feel a slight resistance.

How much do you tie your identity to an age-old tradition?
Is there room for change?

The day began with a church service. That’s where I notice a certain unease — a fear of rigidity. Just as Sinterklaas no longer feels fully of this time to me, I notice that I appreciate when things evolve.

Communities can also find other, perhaps more creative ways to connect and express themselves.

Ton wanted to go to the field where the guild ceremony would take place after the procession. For me, watching the procession was enough. So many people, and a certain atmosphere I wasn’t sure how I would experience.

Instead, we cycled for four hours through the forests and nearby villages. In pouring rain. Despite rain gear, we ended up soaked to the skin.

And still… I enjoyed it.

At home, I would never choose to go out cycling or walking in this kind of weather. But now that we’re away, we just do it. It feels active, refreshing, healthy.

The dogs sat in the cargo bike under the cover, cozy in their baskets. Every now and then a little head would pop out — so cute.

Finding a working charging station turns out not to be so easy. Clearly, we haven’t quite mastered that yet.

Back in the hotel room, we quickly change out of our wet clothes and relax. A few hours outside like this is surprisingly tiring.

I’m curious what tomorrow will look like.

It was another good day.

What do you hold on to—

and what is allowed to change?

And how do you move

between what remains

and what shifts?

GUILD DAY

Outrunning the Rain

May 2, 2026

Weather forecasts. The whole week was supposed to be beautiful. Today we booked a hotel for two days, planning to go cycling from there. First to our granddaughter’s birthday, about an hour’s ride through a forested area. Sounds perfect.

But now the forecast suddenly predicts heavy showers and thunderstorms. From the afternoon on, all evening, and tomorrow as well. My daughter even texts to ask if we’re really coming by bike.

I tell Ton that we’ve had bad weather forecasts so many times before, and it always turns out fine. We decide to go with two cars. Ton takes the van with the bikes, and I drive my own car with the dogs. At the hotel, I check the weather radar again and we’ll decide what to do: cycle anyway or continue by car.

The forecast changes. Rain only expected around ten in the evening.

So we go by bike.

I usually just assume the weather will cooperate. And if not, we have rain gear.

Normally, I would drive straight to my daughter’s house. Now we cycle through the area where she lives. It immediately adds something to my sense of her life. That alone makes me glad we chose this. No regrets about this little getaway.

Visiting birthdays is not my favorite activity. Honestly, I don’t really enjoy it. In summer, when we can sit outside, it’s better. Inside, I tend to feel restless. Arriving by bike, though, I notice I feel fresher and more alive.

Luckily, we can sit outside in the garden. The dogs are calm — being close to us is enough.

The ride back to the hotel turns into an adventure. The bike navigation leads us onto forest paths, unpaved, through loose sand. With the cargo bike, it’s heavy. I have to get off and push several times. Sometimes Ton takes over. The sand is so soft and uneven that my ankles bend like matchsticks and I fall into the sand.

Sweat runs down my body.

All I can think is: I didn’t train this morning — this is my training.

I laugh and tell Ton I actually enjoy the effort.

We cycle toward the setting sun, a blue-red sky ahead. Behind us, dark clouds gather. A few drops fall, but we stay ahead of the rain.

An eventful day. Out with the van, the bikes, and the dogs.

Quite nice.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

How often do you let yourself be guided

by what might happen?

And what happens

when you simply go anyway—

and discover along the way

that it turns out just right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Remains — and What Fades

May 1, 2026

Memory… how does it really work?

I notice that mine is very selective. Things that made an impression — emotional, painful, or moments of joy — have stayed with me. Words, sentences, images. But interactions with people often have not.

Especially when I share a past with someone, I find that the other person has held on to very different memories. I notice this with my sister, my children, and today also with my foster daughter. She recalled moments that meant a lot to her. I could imagine the situation, but I couldn’t remember it.

Did I experience many things as neutral back then?
Is that why my memory let them go?

I notice many shifts within myself — in who I used to be and who I am now. Sometimes it even feels as if I have played with my character. Quiet, invisible, assertive, bold, playful, present, insecure, distant — I have been all of these, in different phases.

Many people have passed through my life. Others have always remained.

For a long time, I needed tension and stress to move forward. The calm I now experience is something I have to get used to. Sometimes confusing. Sometimes even a bit dull.

And yet, that calm also creates space. Space to move inwardly. I see it, I feel it, but it is still largely unexplored. And that makes it exciting again.

This afternoon, the conversation turned to a mutual friend from the past, whom I haven’t seen in fifteen years. She sent me an email with many attachments — almost like a book. The intensity I remembered from her was clearly present in that message.

My own attitude has changed. I prefer to leave existential questions open. My ideas are just that — ideas. Convictions I once held have softened into a “maybe.” The need to know, or to debate, no longer feels necessary.

My foster daughter spoke about her life and asked how I now see and experience things. I think it gave her some peace to hear that I don’t need to explain everything.

That I really only have one question left:

How do I deal with it?
Or… how do I respond?

What do you remember—

and what do you let go?

And how much of who you were

truly remains?

Perhaps the answer is not in knowing,

but in how you move

with what arises.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Giving Help, Asking for Help

April 30, 2026

We’re going away for a long weekend. A hotel booked in North Brabant. From there, we’ll spend three days cycling through the forests. On Saturday, we’ll cycle to my granddaughter’s birthday.

Today we bought bicycle bags at the ANWB and took suitcases out of storage. On the way, we stopped at a terrace for lunch. The anticipation of a trip, short or long, is always enjoyable.

Maybe it sounds strange, but I can feel so happy with a sunny day, running errands, and making preparations.

Back home, everything is clean. I take care of the plants.

A friend, who lost her husband last year, asks if I can help her with her tax return. The funny thing is, I really dislike doing this kind of thing myself. Yet I do it for her.

I once handled my sister-in-law’s estate. For this friend, I have also taken on the role of executor.

What is that?
That I feel almost blocked when it comes to these things for myself, but I take them on for others?

Do I want to be liked?
Can I simply not bear to see someone struggle with it?

I know the ropes by now, so in reality, it’s not that difficult for me.

In daily life, I’m not necessarily the most friendly or charming person, but where I can, I offer help.

Would I be someone who wished to receive help myself?

I would never ask.

Is it still a kind act if there is a psychological explanation behind it?
Am I still authentic?

I don’t know.

It remains a question.

And yet… it gives me a good feeling.
And I’m glad it’s taken care of for her.

When do you truly give—

without reason, without intention?

Is there such a thing as pure help,

or is there always something of yourself within it?

And does that make it less real…

or simply human?

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Strength to Trust

April 29, 2026

Today began with a strength assessment. Always a little tense, because it reveals what has been built in silence. Then followed the heaviest session so far. No long build-up, but short, powerful, direct. A warm-up, a pause, and then the pillars. Again and again. A quick, forceful push or pull, ten seconds of rest, and repeat. Three rounds.

I felt it immediately. This was different. Not “just training,” but truly engaging my body. Not beyond the limit, but right up against it. My muscles had to switch, my breath had to follow, my entire system organized itself around those brief bursts of strength.

And there is something special in that. A year ago, my body was mostly tired. Heavy. Unpredictable. Now it has become a conversation. I ask something, my body responds. Sometimes hesitant, sometimes surprisingly strong — but it responds.

What touches me most is that it’s not just about strength. It’s about trust. Trust that my body can learn. That it adapts. That it remembers.

I see it in the numbers. In steps that accumulate without forcing them. In weights that slowly increase. In connecting my Fitbit, turning my day into one continuous whole. No longer separate moments of effort, but an ongoing movement. Closer to who I am now, closer to my rhythm. Not obsessive, but supportive. As if, after all the medical interventions, I decided: I take this back into my own hands.

And yet it doesn’t feel like forcing. More like moving along with something already unfolding.

Maybe I’m on a plateau. Or, as it feels to me: a resting point. A place where everything reorganizes. Where muscles, nerves, and trust find each other. Where my body says: wait, I need to integrate this.

And so I do. I wait. Not standing still, but deepening. Beneath the surface, it continues to move.

After training, I have lunch with a friend. In the sun, against the strong wind. A soulmate. Someone with a similar background, similar layers. We speak the same language. About taking responsibility for what you feel. About how everything that happens outside touches something within. But what is touched belongs to me, not to the situation. The world happens outside of me, but my experience arises within. In everything, I come to know myself.

He works as a coach and counselor and guides people step by step toward a broader awareness:

1. Participation

2. Perception

3. Observation

4. Compassion

5. Transformation

It is always good to see him. Recognition matters.

Back home, my youngest son is there. It’s striking how a grown man becomes a small boy again with his mother. Sitting next to me, playing with the dogs, taking something from the kitchen.

Later, I receive a call from the company where I bought my colorful walking sticks. A cheerful conversation with the owner, who loves that I want them all and buy a new one each month. I choose one each day to match my outfit. To me, they feel like accessories rather than aids.

He asks me to write something about them and maybe send a photo. Because of my story, I now receive a discount.

I end my review with:

I prefer to turn necessity into opportunity.

When does strength become trust—
not because it is proven,
but because it is felt?
And how much grows in silence
while you think you are standing still?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Generation Further, A Feeling Closer

April 28, 2026

My granddaughter is celebrating her birthday. She was born four days after we discovered that Michel was ill. He had arranged a “grandfather day” at school, planning to take care of her every Wednesday in Maastricht. He never got to experience that. But he was there for her birth. He even read to her — something he found very important.

I was allowed to be in the operating room. I was there for her very first breath. Becoming a grandmother for the first time is something special. A different kind of presence. More aware.

I love my children deeply. I went through a divorce, and later we became a blended family: one daughter of mine and one of Michel’s. It was complicated. We made mistakes, and they left their mark. Later, we had two more children together, and after Michel passed away, I took in a teenager. My heart was always large enough to welcome people and let them become part of our family.

As a parent, you want to be perfect. But you’re not. My five children each carry their own memories — good, difficult, and everything in between. They are all adults now, living their own lives. They don’t live nearby. We mainly call each other when there’s something to share.

We gave our car to my second daughter. She came to pick it up with her ex-wife. It was nice to see them both. The next day, Ton's eldest son visited my youngest son at the restaurant where he works, together with his daughter. We received a photo on WhatsApp. A small moment, but it means a lot.

Today I see a photo of my granddaughter having lunch with her divorced parents. It’s so good to see that this is possible.

One of my daughters has taken distance from me almost a year ago. Since then, I haven’t heard or seen anything. We are not all the same. She needs this space — far away from me. Rigorous, but necessary for her.

Ton shows me a photo on Instagram where she is standing with two friends. I am happy to see her smiling. She looks well. After a long time, this is a small crumb of life.

My adopted son is almost always the first to respond in the family group chat. He is there. Always connected.

And my grandchild… I can love her fully. I am the silly, loving grandmother, always happy to see her. She is a light in my heart.

A generation further,
yet a feeling closer.

How does love move

when distance appears?

Does it disappear—

or does it change its form?

And how much remains present

in the small moments that still exist?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving the Crowd to Itself

April 27, 2026

King’s Day. There’s always something special about watching the royal family visit a city. Am I that devoted to the monarchy? Do I believe in fairy tales? Am I a dreamer? Or is it simply my nationality? Either way, the romantic in me awakens.

All my life I’ve watched this day on television. First the parades, later the visits to cities. A wedding, a coronation — I watch. With my family, we used to wander through the flea markets. Sometimes we even had our own stall. In recent years, we would cycle past it all.

Today, it was incredibly crowded in the center of our town and in the city across the river. From stage to stage, noise everywhere, people packed tightly together. No space, only the sky above me.

Almost automatically, something in me switches off. Where I usually take everything in, now nothing enters. There is only one focus: finding a way out of the crowd.

Fortunately, we manage. Outside the center, it is suddenly quiet. The streets are empty. Still, it takes time for my body to settle, to come out of that inner flight mode.

We cycle past friends, sitting quietly in their garden with a drink. There, I slowly open up again.

On the way home, we ride through a large nature reserve.

Back home, I feel how tired I am. I fall asleep, completely drained.

It may sound like a firm conclusion, but for me it is clear:

I won’t do this again.

I’ve seen it, experienced it, even enjoyed it in my own way in the past. But I no longer need it.

From next year on, we will choose the quiet places
and leave the crowd to itself.

When do you know something no longer belongs to you—
not because it is wrong,
but because you have changed?
And how much peace appears
when you no longer have to join in?

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nature of the Beast

April 26, 2026

As long as I can remember, I have done things almost obsessively.

As a child, I would take entire book series with me on holiday. I preferred sitting outside on the grass, reading for days on end, until every book was finished. If I discovered there was another part missing, I would do everything I could to get hold of it as quickly as possible. My mother would sometimes get angry — I had to come to the beach. I would find a shaded corner and continue reading, completely unaware of everything around me.

Later, as a young adult, I collected romance pocket books. Waiting, in a way, for a kind of surge. And then suddenly it would begin: reading dozens of books in a row. And just as abruptly as it started, it would stop again.

When the video recorder became popular, I started renting films. Preferably a whole stack at once. Series like The West Wing, all seasons, all episodes. Michel loved it too. In the end, we watched almost everything the video store had to offer.

At home, we would turn the living room into one big bed by placing mattresses next to each other. We would rent all the Harry Potter films or The Lord of the Rings, and spend entire weekends in our pajamas, lying on the floor watching films together. The children loved it.

These days, I sit on my bed in the evening with the TV on, my laptop on my lap to write, and I play games on my phone. I still watch series — episode after episode. It even has a name now: binge-watching.

Probably unhealthy. Probably with all kinds of consequences. I believe that. But binge reading, binge watching, binge painting… I think it’s simply the nature of this creature.

Whenever something captures my interest, I dive into it. Fully. And just as easily, I step out again.

Was I a pioneer?
Or simply a bit obsessive?
Does it fit the way my mind works?

These days there are so many psychological theories about everything. About what is good and what isn’t. About how much we consume, both mentally and physically. Maybe it’s stubborn of me, but as long as it feels right, it is right. As long as it doesn’t stop me from functioning.

After Michel passed away, and the children had left home, I didn’t turn on the TV at all for years. Not until Ton came back into my life. Apparently, I can do without it too.

This lady has done her share of binging in life.

I’m no longer ashamed of it.

I simply move with the flow I live in.

When does something become “too much”…
and when is it simply who you are?
And how much really needs to change
when it carries you
instead of holding you back?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is it enough?

April 25, 2026

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I’m not exactly sure why—usually it has to do with too much pain. This time it was different, no tangible stress. Just no sleep, I suppose. I finally drifted off around six in the morning. So I skipped training today—my body clearly wasn’t rested.

I got a message from my sister that my brother had been operated on his foot. Quite painful, and another procedure still to come. Practical. Factual. The way it often goes in our family.
And yet… underneath those words, something else is happening.

I notice myself reacting. Quite directly too. Not even angry, more tired. I hear myself saying that it all comes from one side, and I wonder why I even keep making the effort. It’s not a new thought, but it keeps returning more often, and more clearly. My brothers never ask how I’m doing, not even when they know I’ve been in the hospital. And still I cycle by, have a cup of coffee, keep things moving. As if I’m trying to maintain something that I’m starting to question whether it truly exists.

My sister says she doesn’t get that either, that she’s the one who asks. That this is just how it is with us. And she also says that there is love, it just doesn’t come out. I believe that too. I really do. And when we’re together, it’s often actually quite pleasant. We laugh, there is contact. But still… it remains somewhere on the surface. Their lives are different, their interests too. I understand that, but I find myself wondering whether trying to hold on to this contact is actually becoming a disillusionment.

And then I come back to myself. Because in the end, that’s where it is. Not with them.

Is it enough?

I notice that I’m already loosening my grip. I expect less, leave more to them, no longer force anything. And yet… there is still something. Because if it truly didn’t affect me anymore, I wouldn’t be asking this question. Apparently it’s not completely free yet.

My sister says I should listen to my feelings, but that they can shift again. And that’s true. Today I see the world a bit more somber. I didn’t sleep well, and that colors everything. I recognize that in myself, how things can shift, how tomorrow might feel different again. But somewhere I also know this isn’t just about today.

It’s no longer a sharp pain. No anger. More something soft that keeps returning. A quiet knowing that the movement comes from one side. And the question underneath it is becoming simpler, though not necessarily easier:

How long do I want to keep this like this?

Not out of anger or rejection, but because I wonder what still feels true. What is real… and what might only be an idea I’m holding onto.

Maybe this is one of those phases where nothing has to be decided yet. Where it is enough to simply see things as they are. That love can exist without being visible. That contact can exist without a real meeting. And that within that, I slowly begin to feel my own boundary.

It’s becoming clear to me that when I’m not feeling at my best, the family I come from always brings up a sense of loneliness.

So there’s really only one thing to do, and that is to go out cycling in this beautiful weather. Into nature, filling myself with sun, light, and the love of life itself.

Back home, I think for a moment about the conversation with my sister. I turn on the TV and hear exactly what I already knew:
“Hope comes when you least expect it. You will find it, or it will find you.”

Maybe love is not always visible in what is shared,
but felt in what is missing.

And maybe the question is not whether it is there,
but whether I can live with the form in which it shows itself.

When does acceptance become freedom…
and when does life ask me to gently let go?

 

 

 

 

 

What Moves Me Without Reason

April 24, 2026

Moved. Why does something touch me so deeply? I cannot find a clear mechanism within myself. There are times when serious things happen or are told, and I remain completely calm. And then, at other moments, I see or hear something — on television or elsewhere — and suddenly, tears well up in my eyes.

Over time, I have come to understand that it always relates to me in some way. Sometimes through past experience, sometimes through something I may only encounter later in life. That last part fascinates me the most: as if, somewhere deep inside, you already know what lies ahead.

When it touches me like that, I recognize it now. With Soldaat van Oranje, it was clear — it had to do with my own family and their experiences during the war. But when it isn’t clear, I no longer search for explanations. I trust that, at some point, it will reveal itself.

Perhaps it is through these experiences that I have come to feel that time is not horizontal, but vertical. Not something that unfolds in a straight line, but something that can be present all at once. There is no predicting the future — it can already be felt now.

It is difficult to explain.

I watch a documentary about the return of temple guardians. Artist Jikke van Loon is dedicated to the symbolic return of two Japanese temple guardians, Agyo and Ungyo. Imposing wooden figures from the fourteenth century, now part of the Rijksmuseum collection.

They once guarded the entrance gate of a temple near Hiroshima. Now they stand against a wall. Their function lost. Displaced.

Jikke felt that. That sense of displacement. It led to her project Issho-ni / Tomo-ni — together. An attempt to restore connection, not by physically returning the statues, but by opening a dialogue about their meaning, their origin, their place.

You see what the temple once meant to the villagers. How distance has grown. And how, through this project, something begins to open again. Not only physically, but emotionally.

They are “just” statues. And yet, they move me deeply. Tears run down my cheeks. It is about cultural heritage, about meaning, about connection to a place. And I feel that throughout my whole body.

In the end, Jikke van Loon does not return the statues physically. She creates artistic interpretations — including versions in Delft blue — symbolizing the connection between the Netherlands and Japan. The entire village participates.

I cannot fully explain how.

But it reaches me.

So beautiful to witness how connection can work.

What truly moves me

when I do not know why?

Is it memory—

or something yet to come?

And how much already lives within me,

without needing to be understood?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming into Motion

April 23, 2026

Last Tuesday, the chain of my cargo bike broke. Luckily, it happened fairly close to home, so Ton could continue cycling. He came back to pick me up with the van, and we drove straight to the bike repair shop. I had already called to say I was having trouble and asked if I could bring it in.

When we arrived, the mechanic rushed toward me, clearly stressed. He was extremely busy, he said, and had no time left. He was leaving for vacation on Saturday and didn’t know how he was going to finish everything. Maybe a colleague could take a look, but it would probably not be ready until Monday. He apologized repeatedly.

I reassured him. It’s inconvenient not to be able to cycle, but it’s not a disaster.

Yesterday, during the intermission of Soldaat van Oranje, Ton checked his phone. A message: my bike was already finished.

After training, we went to pick it up. The mechanic was much calmer now and apologized again. He had been so overwhelmed that he had lost track of everything. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he had even worked until four in the morning.

“Really,” I said, “I didn’t expect you to do this. Let alone give it a full service.”

New tires, brakes… everything had been done.

While applying a bit of oil to the new chain, he said:
“You look like a queen on that bike, so happy. I love seeing someone get so much joy out of cycling. You’ve already done 6,500 kilometers—amazing. That’s why I wanted to return it to you in perfect condition for these beautiful days.”

Maybe it sounds strange, but now that I feel better mentally and physically, it seems as if more positivity is coming toward me. In a quiet, natural way.

After a beautiful ride along the river Lek, we return home. I am so aware of how good I feel, and I compare it to a year ago. I decide to look up my blog from April 24, 2025.

As I read it, I feel how big the difference really is. Not so much in what is happening, but in how I experience it.

A year ago, I was much more in my head. I tried to understand what was happening to me. Why I was so tired. Why things affected me so deeply. As if I were observing myself from a distance, trying to put it into words. Vulnerability felt like something I still had to learn.

Now it is different.

Not because everything has been resolved, but because I am in the middle of it. I need to understand less, and I feel more. Things are allowed to be there without me having to explain them. Where I used to be strict with myself, I now notice softness. Less “I shouldn’t complain,” more simply: this is how it is.

My body feels different too. Back then, it was heavy, tired, limited. Now it moves. Sometimes still searching, sometimes with small interruptions, but it moves. I work with it instead of against it. I listen, adjust, continue. Not at full force, but in alignment with what is possible.

And that brings a sense of calm I didn’t know before.

It’s as if, over the past year, something has shifted from outside to inside. Less focused on how things should be, more on what is already there. And because of that, it seems as if something outside responds as well. Or perhaps I simply see it differently now.

I read my old text with understanding. Without judgment. It was exactly where I was.

But I also feel that I am no longer there.

That I have arrived somewhere else.

Without being able to point to the exact moment it happened.

And maybe I don’t need to.

When do you realize you’ve moved forward…
not because everything changed,
but because you did?
And how much really needs to shift
for everything to feel different?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Cannot Be Done — And Yet We Do It

April 22, 2026

On television, viewers are constantly reminded that the musical Soldaat van Oranje is finally coming to an end. I’m not a fan of musicals, so I had no real interest. Still, a few million people have seen this production and speak very highly of it. So, at the last moment and out of curiosity, Ton and I decided to go anyway.

And honestly? The whole concept is remarkable. The entire auditorium continuously rotates from one set to another. We were seated in the front row, almost with our noses on the stage. We could practically smell the actors — at the very least, we could clearly see the emotions on their faces. The half-singing, half-speaking — something we normally both dislike — faded into the background because of the way the entire production was designed.

A few times I was so moved that tears ran down my cheeks. I’m not entirely sure what caused it. The theme? War, friendship? Or the honesty with which it was performed? Something touched me.

During the intermission, Ton and I both realized we had become a bit seasick from all the rotating. After the break, I was more prepared, and fortunately it got better.

On the wall of the restaurant, a quote is written:

“In every person’s life there are moments when they say to themselves: ‘Well, that’s not possible.’ And then they do it. The quality of your life does not depend on what happens to you, but on how you respond to it. There is little you can do about the first, but everything about the second.”

I sit facing it and think: yes, that’s true. It’s not so much about preventing or curing, but about how you deal with it. Perhaps that is the key.

In the entrance hall there is a bar with hundreds of small bottles of orange liqueur. Unfortunately not for sale, otherwise we would have taken one as a souvenir. On the way back, we drive through Wassenaar, inching forward in traffic. A moment where nothing is required. Letting go of concentration.

And suddenly I think back to Queen’s Day at my eldest daughter’s school. Drinking countless orange liqueurs with a group of mothers I was friendly with at the time. One of them, a little tipsy, looked at my blouse and asked, “Are those real?”
“Hahaha, of course they’re real,” I said.
“I want them too. I’m going to have them made.”

Later she divorced, remarried, and moved to Wassenaar. I smile at the memory as we sit in traffic.

It’s also a way of changing your situation. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively.

I tell Ton a few anecdotes about those Queen’s Days. Meanwhile, more memories surface. I keep those to myself. I don’t need to name them. It’s a familiar road, layered with the past.

In that moment, I choose to let it pass.

And it works.

Even now, as I write it down, it feels like something that once was —
and no longer is.

What makes something feel impossible…
and yet we do it anyway?
And when does the past become something
that no longer pulls—
but simply passes by for a moment?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living in Layers

21 April 2026

Over the past few months, I have painted a lot. Not even to finish something, but to observe. To shift. To feel what resonates and what does not yet. Sometimes I place something down and leave it for weeks. Then I pass by, look again, and suddenly see it differently. Something shifts. Not only in the painting, but also within me. I sometimes call this “mopping.” Looking until it looks back.

And suddenly I see that I have begun to do the same with my body. Where I once wanted to correct, solve, improve, I now observe. Feel. Adjust. No longer moving from everything to nothing, but moving within a margin. In the past few weeks, many things happened. A fall, a painful foot, a knee that temporarily refused to cooperate. In the past, that meant stagnation, setback, frustration. Not anymore. Now it is part of the whole. A disturbance in the layer, not a break.

Today I connected my Fitbit to the EGYM app. A small technical moment, but it felt like something larger. Not because I need numbers to know how I am doing, but because I suddenly see a broader picture. Not just that one moment of training, but the entire day. My heart rate, my movement, my recovery. Perhaps less flattering, closer to my actual age, but therefore more workable. After all the medical consultations, all the advice and protocols, I have, somewhere, decided to take this part back into my own hands. Not obsessively, not controlling, but as an additional layer of observing. Close to myself, and increasingly distant from what does not feel right for me.

I still train, but no longer to prove that I am stronger. I train to keep moving. Sometimes I halve it, sometimes I continue. Sometimes it feels heavy, and sometimes… suddenly light. As if my body is beginning to recognize something. Not consciously, but somewhere deeper. As if muscles and nerves are learning to understand each other again.

For a moment, I thought I had reached a ceiling. But that is not true. It feels more like a plateau. A place where nothing seems to grow visibly, but beneath the surface everything is organizing itself. Muscles. Nerves. Trust. According to some, what I am doing is not possible, but my body seems not to care. It searches, learns, and recovers. Not because I force it, but because I give it space.

Just like in my paintings. I place something down, look, shift, wait. And one day, it feels right. Perhaps that is what life is. Not creating something perfect, but allowing something true to emerge.

What is asking for movement today,

and what may simply rest until it reveals itself?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Light and a Word That Lingers

 

April 20, 2026

The weather forecast had promised us slightly better weather. The temperature felt fine, so we decided to go cycling — toward the part of the sky where the clouds looked somewhat white. Leaving the dark clouds — literally and figuratively — behind us.

We set off while it was still lightly raining. The black sky behind us and the white cloud cover ahead created an almost fairy-like atmosphere. The yellow of the rapeseed fields became almost fluorescent. Ton and I kept talking about how the yellow, purple, and pink of the flowers seemed to come alive in this light. In that sense of wonder, I barely noticed the drizzle or the cold wind anymore.

We see swans, geese, coots, and moorhens sitting on their nests. Soon we’ll start seeing chicks again. It makes me so happy!
So many cycling paths — through the countryside, along small waterways and rivers, through villages. Beautiful houses, farms, villas with large gardens and wide open views. Farm shops, B&Bs, home-based beauty salons — perfect ways for women to work from home.

At the edge of a farm, I notice a sleek, modern sign: Epicurean coaching. It stands out. The way my mind works, I mentally stumble over a word like that.

At some point my calves start to feel stiff, and I tell Ton we should stop at the first bench we see, to rest and enjoy the view. It takes a while, but eventually we find a table with two benches by the water. A man is already sitting there. We ask if we can join him. He says yes and immediately starts talking about how beautiful and peaceful it is here. He tells us about other places in Europe he finds beautiful, and that he would actually like to live in Luxembourg.
“But,” he says, “my wife is buried here, so I can’t leave anymore.”

Ton and I listen politely and smile. Neither of us really feels the need to continue the conversation. We greet him kindly and leave him with his thoughts. When we cycle, we don’t talk much — we mostly just look.

After about ten minutes, I say:
“‘I can’t leave because my wife is buried here.’”
Ton laughs. He knows I’ll get stuck on a sentence like that.
I continue:
“It’s interesting how differently a sentence like that can live. One person locks themselves in with it, while another might feel free to move in a different direction.”

I leave it at that. It felt good that Ton heard it too.

Back home, I sit down at my laptop. An ad appears in the sidebar: Epicurean cutting board.

What…?! That word again. I need to look it up.

Epicurean refers, on the one hand, to Epicureanism — a philosophy focused on moderate pleasure and inner peace — and on the other hand to a brand of durable cutting boards and kitchenware made from compressed wood fiber.

I laugh.
It’s basically that saying:
“Everything that’s ‘too much’ is no good — except being content.”

My father used to say that so often.

It probably originates from Epicurus’ philosophy and has lived on that way over time. And now, apparently, it has resurfaced — in the form of Epicurean cutting boards and Epicurean coaching.

What makes something linger—
a sentence, a word, a moment in the light?
Is it coincidence that it returns,
or does it begin to speak
only when I am ready to hear it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life in Motion — What Love Has Taught Me

April 19, 2026

In my life, I have known two very different relationships.
And both were real.

One relationship was intense.
Everything went deep.
Feeling, searching, touching — nothing stayed on the surface.
It was a connection that carried me, that opened me, that showed me things I might never have faced otherwise.

The other relationship is calmer.
More rooted in everyday life.
Sharing meals, talking, making plans.
Less grand, less overwhelming perhaps — but present, stable.

In the past, I would have thought that one was better than the other.
That depth lived in intensity.

Now I see it differently.

Both relationships have touched something different within me.
In one, I was confronted with my depth, my surrender, my ability to feel everything.
In the other, I am learning something else.
To stay. To be present. Not to disappear into the grand, but to remain in the ordinary.

And honestly… I sometimes find that more difficult.

Because life is not always intense.
More often, it is simply ordinary.
Conversations that lead nowhere, days that repeat themselves.

And yet, something happens there.

I notice that I no longer have to leave.
That I no longer have to search for something greater in order to feel that things are right.
The depth is still there, but it no longer needs to prove itself.

When I was still teaching, I often said:
in principle, you can have a relationship with anyone.
Not because everyone is the same, but because every relationship touches something different within you.

Only now do I truly see that reflected in my own life.

One relationship showed me how deep I can go.
The other is teaching me how to stay.

And maybe that is what it’s all about.
Not choosing which one is better,
but seeing what they allow you to develop.

Perhaps love is not one single form.
But a path where you keep meeting different parts of yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heaven

April 18, 2026

“What is heaven?” a child asks his mother. Grandpa is no longer here, but he has gone to heaven.

It’s quite remarkable, really. That we explain things to children while not even knowing for certain if they are true ourselves.

Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, angels, Jesus, Mohammed, God, Arjuna, fairies, gnomes, heaven, hell… it’s only the beginning of a long list of things we believe in, or feel something about. Belief, legends, myths, fairy tales — or perhaps truths. To me, they are all allowed to exist. I don’t feel the need to exclude anything.

Everything we see, hear, smell, feel, taste or believe — everything that is — has the right to exist. Each person takes from it what they need to understand the world and themselves. And in that, everyone is unique.

The question of what heaven is brings me back to my youngest son.

My father was laid out in our living room. On a kind of stretcher with cooling underneath, surrounded by a curtain. On the day of the cremation, all the children and grandchildren were there. My son was three years old.

Years later, during a group conversation at school, that same question came up: what is heaven?

He told the class, with full conviction, that when you go to heaven, you go on wheels. Not driving, but lying down.

Someone had said that grandpa had gone to heaven. And he had seen how the undertakers removed the curtain, rolled the stretcher out, and took my father away.

That image had stayed with him.

I have always been quite direct with my children. When they asked what had happened to grandpa, I said: he was ill and he died.
“What is that?”
That’s difficult to explain. Someone no longer lives, only the body remains.
“Where does that person go?”
I don’t know exactly. It’s a mystery. There are many ideas about it.

If he imagined that grandpa had gone to heaven on wheels…
then I thought that was a beautiful image.

And even years later, he still remembered it that way.

For me, heaven is literally the sky. The clouds, the blue vastness, the atmosphere, the stars. But figuratively, it is something else. A feeling of freedom and happiness that lives within me.

For me, heaven begins here, on earth.

I experience it when I create. In nature. In moments of stillness and space.

And if I am ever gone…
you might find me again in my paintings.
Or outside, in nature.

Then you are visiting my heaven.

Does heaven exist somewhere far away…
or is it already within us?
And when an image stays with us,
who decides…
what is true?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young on the Inside

April 17, 2026

Today we met up with friends of mine. They are both eighty years old. It’s remarkable to have a conversation with them just as we always have. Nothing seems to have changed.

They recently bought another large camper and spent two months traveling through Spain. Soon they’ll be heading to Sweden to visit their daughter. They laugh about it themselves — such a massive vehicle, at their age. They know people might think they’re crazy. But what does it matter? As long as they enjoy it together, as long as it gives them freedom.

I’ve known them for a long time. Nearly twenty years ago, they bought a house in Spain. He still rides his motorcycle. Ton was surprised to see how active and adventurous they still are.

The older I get, the more my ideas begin to shift. Also about age. About what is possible, what is not. What fits, what doesn’t.

To me, they are an example. Simply continuing to live, to do, to explore — for as long as it is possible. And when the body eventually says, “it’s time to slow down,” then you can always decide what comes next.

I’m beginning to see how little age really says. One person is old at seventy, another remains vibrant well into their nineties. It’s so individual. Perhaps it’s genetics, or the way you live. Staying active, eating well, remaining socially connected, continuing to challenge yourself. Or maybe it’s simply a matter of luck… or chance.

For me, one thing is clear.
I may grow older in years, but inside, I remain young.

My opinions are fading. They seem to dissolve over time. It makes me softer. Kinder. Perhaps wiser — though I don’t fool myself. Every day I still learn. From what I see, hear and feel.

I enjoy getting older more than I ever enjoyed my younger years.

I feel like a blessed person.

Do we grow older in years…
or younger within?
And what remains
when everything that once felt certain…
softens over time?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meaning

April 16, 2026

Yes… there it is again. A sentence I hear, and it stays with me.

There is no motive, so there is no meaning. You only think that because you are looking for meaning. But meaning is not something you find — it is something you give.

Today I had to go to an independent neurologist for my driving license evaluation. Because of my disability, I drive an adapted car. In the past, I had to be assessed every two years. It caused a lot of stress and was also expensive. The word evaluation alone already brings resistance. Why do I have to be assessed again and again? As if having a disability automatically means being incompetent.

Five years ago, I said this out loud. How humiliating it felt. That you constantly have to prove that you are capable of participating. The neurologist understood my frustration and arranged for the next evaluation to be five years later.

Today was that day.

This morning, Ton asked me something, and I snapped at him immediately. That says enough. For me, evaluation equals stress. And stress means a short fuse.

That’s not who I want to be. So I paused, took a few deep breaths, and consciously tried to go to the hospital without prejudice.

We went by van so we could go straight to the forest afterward and enjoy a bike ride. The sun was shining. That alone already brought a sense of ease.

The neurologist turned out to be a young, approachable woman. Her questions felt genuine, not procedural. The examination confirmed what I already know: my core functions well, and my limbs respond through visual control. Because I take good care of my body, it remains strong. My speech is limited, but I don’t need that to drive a car.

Everything went smoothly.
And I walked out of the hospital feeling light.

Had I given this evaluation less meaning?

Is not assigning meaning a form of letting go?

My driving license itself matters to me. But the tension wasn’t in driving — it was in the meaning I had attached to the evaluation. By letting that go, something simple remained. A formality. A meeting between two people.

And suddenly… there was ease.

A little later, I was cycling, completely free of stress.

Back home, with a healthy glow on my cheeks, I turned on the television.
And right at that moment, I heard that same sentence about meaning again.

Am I searching for meaning,
or am I placing it everywhere myself?
And what remains
when I stop doing that…

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Drop

April 15, 2026

My husband reads the newspaper and watches the news. He worries about what is happening in the world. I used to do the same. I kept myself well informed about both national and international events — a way of maintaining general knowledge, you could say. Since Michel passed away, I have consciously turned off the television and cancelled the newspaper. I have taken distance from all the suffering that reaches us through the media. That doesn’t mean I know nothing about the world — enough still reaches me.

I used to have opinions. About politics, wars, injustice. Now I try to stay away from that. I have the feeling that nothing is quite what it seems, that there are always more perspectives than the ones we are shown. If you look at history, nothing develops in a straight line. On every level — micro, meso and macro — the lines of peace, war and awareness move up and down.

I hold on to a simple cliché: change the world, begin with yourself. I believe that is the only place where I can truly make a difference. I believe in the single drop in the ocean.

In the car, Ton asks me what I think the king and his wife should do. Whether they should go to President Trump or not. I laugh. I don’t know, of course. I see it as a diplomatic role. So I simply say:
“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
Ton looks at me, surprised. Sometimes it’s not about having an opinion, but about communication. Maybe it works that way too.

My heart aches when I see what is happening in Gaza, in Iran, in that entire region. I think of Mesopotamia, of Sumer — the oldest civilizations. I was already fascinated by them as a teenager. So much of our origin lies there. And now… people destroying themselves and their surroundings in the name of power. It is hard to comprehend. And yet, it seems to be a law of human nature that we keep returning to it.

What can I do? Who can I change? Who can I hold accountable?

Only myself.

I think of a story from the Mahabharata. A small bird lays her eggs on the shore. A wave takes them into the ocean. The bird begins to empty the ocean, drop by drop, to retrieve her eggs. It seems impossible. But the bird believes she will succeed, as long as she continues.

Arjuna sees her and asks what she is doing. He points out the impossibility. But the bird continues. Patient. Loving. Determined.

In the end, after a long time, Arjuna decides to empty the ocean in one single act. The bird finds her eggs.

I believe in that quiet miracle of simplicity.
Myself… as one drop in that ocean.

Is the world too vast to change,
or am I too small to try?
And what happens
when one single drop…
simply keeps moving?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Word

 

 April 14, 2026

There are words, sentences, and moments that are etched into my memory like images. At first glance, they may seem ordinary. But the fact that they continue to evoke something within me tells me they carry meaning. At least for me. I’m very aware that this meaning may not be the same for someone else. It reflects the way I move through life: curious, but not searching. I let things come to me. There is no need to hold on — they return on their own, when the moment calls for it.

I am not particularly religious, though I was raised within a Christian tradition. I would describe myself as eclectically spiritual. Whatever resonates is welcome and helps me give meaning to life.

As a child, I was fascinated by the Bible. I would lose myself in the stories. Even then, I saw more metaphor in them than literal truth.

“In the beginning was the Word.”
That sentence has resonated within me my entire life. Whatever its meaning may be, the Word holds weight for me. I listen closely to what people say — and how they say it. Sometimes something sounds kind, yet I hear something entirely different beneath it.

Maybe that’s paranoia… it could be. But that is how it works for me.

Today we took the van — bikes and dogs with us — and drove to the Betuwe. It was a sunny day, with fields glowing yellow from rapeseed, dandelions, and buttercups. Trees in full bloom, red, pink, and white. A soft, sweet scent in the air — it felt like a dream.

We cycled along paths without traffic, surrounded only by nature. Then through small villages, where time seemed to stand still. Well cared for, clearly loved. We found ourselves amazed by how much there is to discover in our own country. We’ve made a plan to explore the Netherlands by bike.

It felt as if I had stepped back in time. This afternoon I cycled through a village celebrating 1,025 years of existence. The upcoming festivities were already being announced.

Riding over the cobblestones, I caught something in the corner of my eye — a line of text on the wall of a small church.

Bam.

A hundred meters further, I said to Ton, “Can you go back and take a photo of that church?”

It read:
“Your Word is a lamp for my feet and a light on my path.”

Beautiful.

I understand that it refers to the Word of God. That may be so. But I read something slightly different:

“The Word is a lamp for my feet and a light on my path.”

A small difference…
but for me, it goes deep.

I don’t go looking.
It simply enters, through the corner of my eye.

Am I searching for meaning…
or does meaning find me?
And how much of what moves me
was already there…
long before I noticed it?

The Red Thread

April 13, 2026

History repeats itself. It sounds like a cliché, but within families you see it happening again and again. I think of it as a red thread that runs through different situations — sometimes clearly visible, sometimes more subtle.

We all want to be unique. At least, I felt that very strongly when I was younger. Being compared to someone else felt like a direct insult. When I had children of my own, I started to see it differently. They are unique, and yet they carry traits that are so clearly mine.

They are grown now, and every now and then I see them walking paths that I once walked.

At the birthday of my oldest granddaughter, who just turned sixteen, I spoke with her other grandmother. She looks so much like her mother — you can clearly see the family resemblance. I told her how, years ago, I was shopping in the city when a man stood next to me and kept looking at me very intently. I asked him why. He told me I looked exactly like one of his students. It turned out to be my daughter. You don’t always see that resemblance yourself, but to someone else it can be obvious.

My daughter now has a blended family of her own, just like I once did. Nowadays that’s not unusual, but the dynamics can still be complex. I recognize certain things in what she is going through.

She calls me for advice.

Even though she was young at the time, she still remembers how difficult things could be. It makes me happy to see how carefully she considers her responses now, how she tries not to lose herself the way I sometimes did.

Her first instinct is still to give and to adapt. But she also sees that this isn’t always recognized or appreciated. So why take on responsibility that isn’t truly yours?

With the calm and perspective I have now, I can tell her honestly that I would make different choices today. She doesn’t have to follow my advice. She will walk her own path, with her own lessons. Maybe she will take something from it, maybe not. Time will tell.

When she was younger, she used to ask:
“Mom, should I wear the red, the blue, or the green sweater?”
If I said, “the red one,” she would reply, “No, it’s between the blue and the green.”
“Okay, then the green.”
And in the end, she would come downstairs wearing the blue one.

Inside, I always had to laugh.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

I am proud of my children. They are navigating their own uneven paths, and sometimes it seems they learn faster than I did.

Maybe that’s how it works across generations.

The red thread remains…
but slowly changes its color.

Do we repeat the past,
or slowly rewrite it?
And how much of what is passed on
changes…
without us even noticing?

 

 

 

 

 

A Place Without a Name

April 12, 2026

This time, I want to share something sensitive. It brings up a lot within me.

It started last night. A friend I hadn’t seen in a while came over. It was nice, and I was happy to see her again. She has had a difficult year after the passing of her mother. For a long time, she didn’t have the energy to stay in contact with friends. I understand that — grief can bring everything to a halt.

And yet… something happens within me.

I listen to her story, and to others who have lost their mothers. How heavy it is. How deep the sense of loss. And I notice that I don’t recognize it. Not a little… but not at all.

When I say out loud that I haven’t felt grief, people often respond that I must be suppressing it. But that doesn’t feel true to me. It isn’t suppression. It feels more like an emptiness. Or perhaps better said: a missing connection. I don’t miss anything, because there is nothing to miss. And that is difficult to explain.

When others speak about their feelings, I sense that something in me cannot connect. As if a link is missing. It isn’t a problem. But it is there.

This morning I wake up early and stay in bed for a while. I turn on Netflix and start watching Trust Me: The False Prophet. The story affects me. I see how people grow up in a world where truth and lies become intertwined. How beliefs slowly shift, and how morality is influenced.

In the final episode, a woman says: “My whole life, I was raised with lies.”
That sentence hits me like a knife.

It’s not the same, but it touches something I recognize. Growing up with lies. Not as a specific event, but as an underlying layer. Something that shapes you, without you fully knowing where it lives.

I tell Ton about it. And while I’m speaking, something becomes clear. A family, a system, a place where something fundamental is off… may never fully heal. You can understand it with your mind, but there remains a place you can feel — and cannot find.

Perhaps that is the place where my sense of loss could have been.

And perhaps it touches something else as well.

That I sometimes wonder if, in my own role in life, there is something I have missed. Something I may not have been able to pass on. The difficult part is that I feel something… but I don’t know what it is.

Today, this insight doesn’t bring confusion.
It brings me closer to myself.

Is it only possible to miss something
if it was truly there to begin with?
And what happens to a feeling
that never had the chance to exist…
yet still makes itself known?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing Has To

April 11, 2026

Yesterday I didn’t write. Why not? Very simple: I didn’t feel like it. I spent the whole day on the road picking up our new van, driving the scenic route behind Ton. All in all, it was quite an eventful day. Tired but satisfied, I just wanted to relax afterward.

Skipping my blog is literally stepping out of my comfort zone. When I decide to do something, I normally don’t deviate from it. Certainly not out of laziness. Because that’s what it was… right?

This morning my body still felt tired. I decided not to go train. Yesterday I had already done one round less. Today, I simply cancel it.

What is going on with me?

I’m someone who keeps going even with a high fever. Someone who continues despite pain or setbacks. Someone who, after a severe stroke, went out for dinner with friends just a few days later, as if nothing had happened.

Have I become wiser? Where does this shift come from? Was it habit? My way of being? My comfort zone? Or was there something underneath — insecurity, fear, the need for reassurance? Afraid that everything I build might disappear again?

Honestly? I don’t know exactly. Maybe a bit of everything.

What I do see now is that I’m listening to how I feel. That I’m less strict with myself. Nothing has to, everything is allowed. Who knows, in a while I might be able to say that many self-imposed stress factors have disappeared.

I’m curious to see whether I will notice that, both inside and out.

Looking at yesterday and today, I can only say that — for me — I’m doing something quite new.

Is this slowly becoming wiser?
Or am I secretly just turning grey?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making Plans Together

April 9, 2026

It wasn’t very busy at the gym this morning, but the people who were there were clearly enjoying themselves. There was laughter. The sunshine and the beautiful weather seem to make everyone a little playful. Yes, that’s the right word. People appear full of energy, lively and light.

Ton and I had decided to cycle to our storage unit. During the winter months, he moved some things there, and I hadn’t seen it yet. A ride with a purpose always feels good. On the way, we stop for brunch at a café-restaurant we used to visit regularly last year. There’s only one table left on the terrace. It almost feels as if it’s waiting for us.

The waitress greets us warmly. She’s happy to see us again. That feels good. Sitting in the sun, Ton and I start talking about what we might do once we have the van.

This time, Ton begins.

I love that… it almost makes me feel emotional. And at the same time, it surprises me. Why does this touch me so much?

I’m used to being the one with the plans and ideas. Michel would follow me in that, almost without question. Ton needs time. His first response is often more reserved, as if he wants to feel into it before stepping forward.

For sixty-three years, I have followed my own ideas. But making plans together, letting ideas grow through conversation… that is so much more enjoyable.

More enjoyable than leading and being followed.
More enjoyable than having to fight for something.

This is what makes me happy: dreaming together, making plans together.

With Michel, we had a busy life with family and work. I remember sometimes speaking out loud about how it would be when we could be together more after his retirement. He didn’t want to think about it. As if he couldn’t imagine it. I could feel that the idea didn’t sit well with him. We never got to experience that together.

Now, with Ton, we live together — and yet also each in our own way. That’s how it feels to me. I realize that coming together later in life and building something shared takes time. We love each other, we share a life, but it grows gradually.

Cycling together started as my initiative. We’ve been doing it for three years now whenever the weather allows. And we truly enjoy it.

But the fact that Ton is now the one speaking about plans…
that adds something new.

It may seem small, but for me, something shifts.
Something deepens.

And on a day like today, I realize how important that is to me.

Is being together the same as moving together,
or does it begin when you start looking ahead as one?
And what begins to form,
when two lives don’t just meet…
but slowly grow into each other?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dream That Shifts

April 8, 2026

What is it about getting older? A sad film or a touching story makes me feel sentimental and tearful much more quickly these days.

Today was warm outside, the kind of day that invites you to go out for a bike ride. Ton and I have been talking for a while about how wonderful it would be to have a van — one where my cargo bike, Ton’s bike and the dogs could all fit. It would greatly expand our range. We dream about it, but don’t really see it as something within our reach.

And still… that old feeling of limitation, caused by my condition, always rises for a moment. Not being able to ride a regular bike also means that a simple bike rack is not an option.

After my training, I’m home and, as I often do, I start searching online for a van. Just like I often look at houses. Am I fooling myself? Maybe. Do I get frustrated? No. I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember. What is wrong with having a dream? What is wrong with continuing to look, even if it doesn’t seem realistically attainable?

Today I come across an advertisement for an electric van. I show it to Ton and ask if we could go and take a look. Normally, he wouldn’t want to, especially if he thinks something is out of reach. But this time, he calls. We’re welcome to come by. It’s somewhere in Utrecht.

We decide to take the scenic route. Every time again, I enjoy the meadows, the trees, the nature and the villages in the Netherlands. We really do live in a beautiful country.

We’re allowed to take the van for a drive. Soon we find ourselves on a very narrow road, running alongside a winding stream. I think to myself: this feels more like a bike path than a road. And there we go… zigzagging in that van, with no end in sight. Hahaha, that was quite something.

Back at the garage, we make a decision.
We buy the van.

In the car, it’s quiet. To avoid traffic, we take the scenic route back again. I feel strange. Almost as if I’m startled. Even a little emotional. You would expect me to feel excited, maybe even elated.

I say it out loud to Ton.

He looks at me and feels exactly the same. He is usually more emotional than I am, but now we both feel it. Strongly. Connected.

Something has shifted.

We have made a dream real.
And as we drive, we can already see the possibilities ahead of us.

It makes us quiet…
and at the same time, we feel a deep anticipation for what is to come.

Is it the fulfillment of a dream that moves us,
or the moment something suddenly becomes possible?
And what happens inside,
when what once felt far away…
comes close?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Same, in a Different Light

 

April 7, 2026

Every morning I check my email. Most of the time I can delete messages without opening them, almost without thinking. This time I notice an unusual first name. My eye lingers and my finger stops. I read the message. I’ve won a DIY Award with my latest creation Power of Stillness. They only have my email address, not my home address. What luck that the sender has such a distinctive name.

I immediately send messages to everyone I know who voted for me. A stream of kind responses follows. A wonderful way to start the day.

We cycle through part of the Biesbosch and decide to see if family is home. For that, we head back toward the inhabited world. In the avenue we’re cycling through, the sun shines straight into my face. The tightly pruned trees stand out as dark shapes against a bright blue sky. It feels as if I’m cycling straight into a fairytale. I stop. I want to take this in. This is an unintended form of art. I take two photos: one against the sunlight — because that’s what makes the image so striking — and one with the light, to help remember what I actually saw.

My cousin and his family are home. Mother and daughter sit behind the sewing machine, my cousin is ironing, his son is outside reading a book in the sun. Warm and homely. As always, welcoming. Beyond the initial conversations, real conversations emerge.

How do you deal with dark thoughts?
Do you fight them?
Can you? Should you?

The son is religious and struggles with this question. I tell him that I sometimes have very violent images in my mind. That I speak them out loud to Ton, but that I don’t fight them. I let them pass. I know I am a good person, not capable of acting on such thoughts. To me, everything exists within a human being — from light to dark and everything in between. We live in a world of opposites, from beginning to end. Perhaps we first learn, and later only deepen what we already carry within us. That thought gives me peace.

We cycle back home. I see the trees again, now in a different light. The image is completely different. And yet they stand there the same. Perfect. Unchanged.

Does what I see change,
or does the light in which I see it change?
And if everything remains the same,
what is it that truly moves?

When Color Appears

April 6, 2026

Easter Monday. A sunny day to go out for a bike ride. We were clearly not the only ones — it seemed as if all of the Netherlands had set itself in motion, on bicycles or in cars, heading out to enjoy something.

I notice every blade of grass, every flower, every change in nature. We cycled this same route two weeks ago. We like to ride the same path regularly, so we can follow the growth and blooming.

But today, something else caught my attention.

A car. In a beautiful khaki green metallic color.
It stood out to me because I almost never see that color on cars. I often tell Ton that black and all dark colors should be banned. If there have to be so many cars, then let them at least be colorful. The streets would immediately feel lighter and more cheerful.

But what happens, to my great surprise?

We come across six different cars in exactly that color.

Of course, once home, I look it up — curiosity being what it is.
And it turns out: green is currently a trend in car colors.

Who knows… maybe in darker times, people unconsciously choose more color. To make their surroundings feel a little lighter, a little more alive.

For me, it was striking.

At home, Ton was apparently reading my website. On the homepage it says:
Widow, Empty Nest, and Grandmother — together they formed the word AWAY.
A word that carries both absence and movement.

He noticed that the name of my website, Colours in eMotion, actually carries the same message.

Colours in eMotion — colors in motion through emotion.
Or…

colour sine motion — color without movement.
Sine being the Latin word for without.

WOW!!!

First of all, I love that Ton, like me, starts to associate and connect. We know of each other that we count planks, notice lines, follow tiles. He spots language errors everywhere — but this is new. It shows how, as a couple, you always end up coloring each other a little.

Secondly, a memory surfaces.
The website was created after Michel passed away, but that feeling of absence in motion was already very present. The name Colours in eMotion came to me purely intuitively.

Just like with my paintings, where I often only come to understand the meaning or depth later on. My paintings speak to me — I call that dweilen.

And now I notice that while writing, I find myself in the same kind of bubble or flow as when I paint.

Perhaps the words will also tell me more…
than I initially intend.

Is it coincidence that something suddenly catches your eye,
or does it only begin to exist the moment you see it?
Is the world moving…
or is something within me moving along with it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter

April 5, 2026

Today is Easter Sunday. It is quiet in the house.
Once, this was an important day for my family, often together with the family of my friend. We would prepare an elaborate Easter brunch and hide eggs in the garden for the children.

Times change. My friend has passed away, my children have grown up and have let go of the family tradition, probably to give it their own meaning.
To be honest, it does feel a bit empty.

The days that were once filled with people, food and togetherness have come to an end within my family. No Easter celebration, no Ascension weekend, no Christmas, no New Year’s celebration. I haven’t celebrated my birthday for years either. On the one hand, I truly feel my children should not have obligations. The pressure of “having to” from my childhood — and later on as well — is something I do not want to pass on to them. And I myself am not drawn to the busyness in our apartment. That I sometimes miss it at the same time… is therefore understandable.

It creates space to give these days my own meaning.
The sense of freedom I wish for my children is something I may also embrace for myself.

Today I found myself exploring what Easter actually means. In a typically Annette way, I started to reflect on it. The Christian Easter story speaks of the resurrection of Jesus.
Well… rising from the dead. Is that even possible?
Does this story literally tell that the son of God dies and comes back to life?
Or is the Bible — and this story — a metaphor?

I then think of pivotal moments in life that suddenly make you see things differently. A radical shift. That can take many forms. When I think of death and resurrection, I also think of nature. The constant cycle of life. Plants die, yet leave behind seeds and spores. Animals and humans die, yet leave new generations behind. As long as something is not extinct, it remains part of this cycle.

Hahaha… it also makes me think of the children’s song “On one tree a cuckoo, simsalabim sala doe saladim.” That cuckoo returning every year — I already heard it in the air last week.

Looking purely at the word “resurrection”…
Re: again, anew, back.
Surrection: to rise.

It can mean so many things: to arise, to emerge, to appear, to recover — but also to rebel. All of these meanings are part of not only my life, but of everyone’s life, I think. Perhaps we all experience one or more figurative deaths — and rise again.

My thoughts then move to fairy tales. It appears there as well. Think of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and The Frog Prince — always symbolic of a transformation for the better.

But then… the Easter Bunny and egg hunting.
I really had to look that up, because what does that have to do with Easter?

Originally, a hare or rabbit symbolized fertility in pagan cultures — a symbol of spring and new life. The Easter Bunny only appears in writing in the late 17th century. Of German origin, where the Easter Bunny would bring eggs to children, somewhat comparable to the Saint Nicholas tradition. In Greek mythology, the hare also appears. In one legend, the spring goddess Ostara transforms a bird into a hare, which does not forget its origin and therefore lays eggs. Germanic tribes would offer eggs to this goddess at the beginning of spring.

All in all, from various traditions — religious, spiritual and narrative — customs have emerged around this time of year, which we now call Easter. Everyone celebrates it from their own perspective.

While standing in my studio to print something, my eye falls on the title of a book: The Illusion of Life.
Yes, I think… that is exactly what it is for me.
Who am I to know what it is all supposed to mean?

Is emptiness the end of what was,
or the beginning of what has yet to take shape?
Is rising something that happens after a fall,
or something that continuously presents itself — without beginning or end?
And if everything keeps moving,
what does it mean… to be?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing Light

April 4, 2026

I’m happy that it’s finally cycling weather again. Spring, the awakening of nature. Experiencing and observing this has truly become a shared hobby for Ton and me.

What stands out most right now is how the grass, the dandelions, and the rapeseed almost seem phosphorescent. As if there is light within them. The colors are young and fresh, and that makes them appear to glow.

The only time I have seen colors this intense before was while diving in the Maldives. Back then, I thought such colors could never be matched above water. Today, it dawns on me that when nature awakens, that same vibration can indeed be seen here as well.

Apparently, an assumption from the past can simply shift. Is it because I have started to look differently? Or because my experience has changed? Or because I give words to my days, my observations, and my thoughts?

This evening, Ton and I were watching Who is the Mole?, filmed this year in Tanzania. We were lying on the bed, the dogs beside us, something to drink within reach. On the screen, the savannas and animals appeared. Elephants, giraffes, antelopes.

Just last week, I told Ton that animals in the wild look different from those in a zoo. Not only freer, but as if they carry light.

I experienced that very strongly in South Africa. Animals in their natural habitat have a presence I have never seen anywhere else. It is difficult to put into words, but it is there. A kind of light, a presence that can be felt.

As I watch, I recognize it immediately. The same light I saw outside today. Perhaps it lies within me. What I see is not only in the world around me, but also shaped by how I look, how I feel, how present I am in that moment.

By seeing nature this way — luminous, alive, almost vibrating — something shifts within me. And we… we are simply part of that.

How close can a person come to happiness…
just by seeing this?

Perhaps not something great happens every day,
but I can choose to see greatly every day.

A New Perspective

April 3, 2026

On a tree, a cuckoo, sim sala dim, bam bas, sala doe, sala dim… That is the first thing that comes to mind when I hear someone talk about the cuckoo.

The cuckoo that lays its eggs in another bird’s nest. A master deceiver. Its eggs adapt to the color of the nest, and once the chick hatches, the other eggs are pushed out. So small, and already so driven by survival.

Then One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest crosses my mind. The cuckoo as a symbol of madness.

And suddenly, I think of my mother.

I have written before that she had a narcissistic personality disorder. Growing up in such a family leaves its mark. Unbelievable things happened. Painful, heavy, but sometimes also absurd and almost laughable.

I can still hear her say, in that mysterious, suspicious tone:
“Well… that’s what they call stealing a child.”

She meant that women would become pregnant without their partner’s knowledge, to bind him to them. Only much later did I realize that the saying people judge others by their own nature might have been more appropriate here.

Today, for the first time, I see a different metaphor. Not Narcissus, but the cuckoo.

We children… from different nests, but of the same mother.

As I follow that image, I become curious. How is the cuckoo actually seen? In Europe, it is associated with spring, but also with infidelity. That does seem to fit.

But what does the cuckoo do in nature?

It eats hairy caterpillars that other birds avoid, even poisonous ones. Through its breeding behavior, it forces other birds to become more alert, to develop stronger defenses. As a migratory bird, it connects different ecosystems. It is even considered an indicator of a healthy environment.

That surprises me.

Just as in nature every disadvantage also has a function, perhaps the same is true for human beings.

I have lived through and felt the darker sides of my mother. But there were other sides as well.

And perhaps this is the moment.

To turn my gaze, in the final trimester of my life, toward the light. Not to deny the darkness, but to be able to see the whole.

Because ultimately, that is what it is…

My story.

Perhaps I did not come from one nest,
but from one story.
What I saw does not change,
but how I look does.
And in that, everything shifts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Different Moral

April 2, 2026

At the moment, I’m reading Mongolian folktales. It’s interesting to notice how it physically affects me. Shock. Even a sense of being disturbed by the brutality of the stories. A lot of killing and violence.

When I take a bit more distance, I begin to see something else. Standing up for the common people, for the underdog. Respect for nature, and an alertness to the behavior of animals. They are, in essence, fables — short stories in which animals display human traits. A tribute to ordinary people, and at the same time a subtle satire on those in power. After each story, something lingers. A life lesson, without being spelled out.

“And they lived happily ever after” is something I have not yet come across. Nor a shepherd boy or a frog turning into a prince.

By reading folktales from other cultures, you begin to understand their world. Their environment, their way of living. Where hunting has long disappeared from our daily reality, it may still be close to life for nomadic people.

And then, suddenly, a moment. In one story, a man beats his loyal dog to death with a stick. My heart skips a beat. Truly. Is this a folktale?

That’s when I notice something in myself. To be able to read and understand these stories, I have to let go of my own sense of morality for a moment.

Perhaps that is what reading asks of us. To step into the world of the storyteller without immediately judging it. And it works the other way around as well. When I write, I enter a kind of magic myself. Words appear, and afterwards I often think: did I really write that? As if I discover my own world through them.

Reading has never really been my natural inclination, but perhaps this is how I learn to enter the worlds of others. I absorb what resonates with me. The rest simply fades away.

What remains,
remains on its own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Lost Day?

April 1, 2026

In the morning, I usually check my WhatsApp quite quickly. This time, someone sent me a cartoon. She: “Darling, I cheated.” He: “So did I.” She: “April 1st.” He: “June 12th.” My first reaction is neutral. Okay, funny. While brushing my teeth, I suddenly realize: oh right, April Fool’s Day. Something I haven’t really paid attention to since I was young.

We feel a bit slow and decide to go to the gym later. It’s almost empty — luckily not a joke, we can just train. Back home, we look at each other. “I’m going to take a nap,” Ton says. “Good idea, me too.” The weather is actually nice, so I still think: I’ll go for a bike ride later.

We lie down… and fall asleep immediately.

I wake up at six in the evening. We look at each other and start laughing. What just happened today? Was I really that tired? I didn’t feel it that way at all. I thought I would rest for an hour and then continue the day.

What I do notice is that I dreamed the same dream as during the night. As if the night simply continued into the day. A repetition, but more conscious.

Is this what they call a lost day? Does that even exist? Or is it simply rest presenting itself? I assume it was needed. My body gave itself what it needed, without me thinking about it or directing it. Normally, I would say I don’t take naps during the day. That’s something older people do, not me. But this time, I didn’t even feel that resistance.

Maybe that says something. That I no longer have to label it as lost, but as given.

Rest.

Nothing was lost today,
the night simply continued for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Becoming Visible

March 31, 2026

For my painting Power of Stillness, I ordered plexiglass from a plastic sheet supplier. I had a clear idea in mind, but I found it quite intimidating since I had never worked with it before. I watched videos on YouTube to learn how to drill and handle the material without damaging it. Well prepared, I started working. With every circle, I was sweating — so focused, so careful not to cause cracks. But it worked. And I’m really happy with the result.

Then I received an email from the company asking if I wanted to participate in a DIY Award. It felt strange. For me, creating is not a competition. It is a way of getting to know myself, of understanding and growing. Everything I make is a part of me, and that doesn’t align with winning or losing. But when I looked into it, I realized it’s not about the most beautiful project, but about how you use the material. What you do with it, how you approach it, what choices you make. A sharing of ideas that can inspire others. That felt different.

The next step was that people could vote. Which meant sharing it. With family, friends, and acquaintances. I sent it through WhatsApp, Facebook, and Instagram. With hesitation, with tension, and also with a sense of embarrassment that I know isn’t necessary, but is still there. And then the responses started coming in. So positive. So warm. A relief. Why do I still make it so difficult for myself?

Looking back, I can see the steps. Through Ton, I started my website — step one. Participating in a few exhibitions, but hanging my work and then leaving quickly, no physical presence of myself — step two. After my stroke, I began writing consistently on my website — step three. And now this — asking people to vote — step four. They even asked for a photo of the project with me in it. That felt uncomfortable. Being visible is still a challenge.

And suddenly I see it reflected in my work. The plexiglass I use is sometimes clear, sometimes colored, sometimes frosted. Everything is visible, but each in a different way. Sometimes completely transparent, sometimes filtered through color, sometimes softened and diffused.

Perhaps that is my path as well.

Not everything has to be clear all at once.
Not everything has to be visible without a filter.

But step by step, layer by layer,
it may come into view.

And today, something else is present. Gratitude. For the responses, for the steps I am taking, and perhaps also for the fact that, very gently, I am becoming a little more visible.

Not all at once,
but exactly in the way that fits me.

 

 

 

 

Fifty Years Later

March 30, 2026

We have been friends for fifty years. We have been through highs and lows together, both literally and figuratively. Close at times, distant at others, and sometimes completely apart. Sharing that kind of history is something special. We both feel a bit startled by how long it has been, because we don’t really feel those years. Maybe only when we look in the mirror.

We have both had several relationships. Both divorced. And now we are both with men who are fourteen years older than we are. Synchronicity?

Ton has gone out to do some groceries. She asks if I can make coffee myself now. No, that is still a challenge. Laughing, she rolls up her sleeves to do it herself. And at that exact moment, Ton walks in. We both burst out laughing — the maestro immediately takes over.

She pauses in front of my painting Power of Stillness. It touches me how people respond to it, and now she does too.

The atmosphere is relaxed. We talk about one of her children, who has now changed his first name for the fourth time. She tells how this time it affected her a bit more, and she exaggerates her reaction while telling the story. We laugh. At the same time, I briefly think about how our children often hold on to our first reaction. What lies underneath is not always seen.

She gives me a small book with quotes from Paulo Coelho. It opens to a page:
Laugh at your worries and insecurities.
View your anxiety with humor.
It will be difficult at first,
but you’ll gradually get used to it.

While we are still laughing, I feel how fitting this is. I don’t say it out loud, but I take it in.

A little later, her husband arrives. I tell them about a tune that has been playing in my head:
“And he disappeared to nowhere, it was on a Monday, the northern sun was shining.”

Ton looks it up and plays it for us. After two verses, we’ve heard enough, but when we start talking again, he suddenly says: “Shhh!”

We burst into laughter. We picture ourselves sitting in a nursing home, being entertained with old Dutch songs.

Then her husband asks why one dog still has her leash on and the other doesn’t.
“So you can tell them apart,” my friend says.
“Yes,” I reply, “I’ve taken off my glasses — otherwise you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between us either.”

We laugh until we can’t breathe.

So wonderfully silly.

And maybe exactly right.

Fifty years later,
we are still laughing about nothing.
And in that… is everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I Finally Saw

March 29, 2026

I don’t often talk with people around me about my preferences for films and series. Even with my closest friends, I don’t really have that connection. Sometimes I don’t even understand myself why certain films or series stay with me. I’ve mentioned before that I enjoy anime and Asian series, but also films that people often say women don’t watch. As if it somehow doesn’t belong.

Apparently, I’m not a “typical” woman in that sense, because The Deer Hunter made a deep impression on me. Not so much because of the war itself, but because of the strong sense of community and what trauma does to a person. That Russian roulette scene… the madness of it, and at the same time the question: where is your breaking point? Do you even know? I don’t think anyone does, until they find themselves in such an inhuman situation. That kind of psychological intensity keeps me captivated.

I notice that I go through phases in what I watch. Sometimes romantic comedies, sometimes documentaries, then animated films or historical dramas. And now, war films. A need arises suddenly, and it is complete. And just as suddenly, it disappears again.

In the early nineties, I watched the series China Beach. Every episode. Later I watched it again online a few times. And over the past weeks, it kept coming back to me. I couldn’t find it anywhere anymore, so I ordered the complete series. Yesterday it arrived. Today it’s still raining. Ton is out, and I start watching again.

Every episode begins with Reflections by The Supremes: Through the mirror of my mind, time after time… Just that first line alone.

And then, after one episode, suddenly that moment. Eureka. After thirty-six years, I know what it is that touches me here.

This series is written from a female perspective. Not as a victim, but as strength. Women who carry, connect, and remain standing within the environment of war. Nurses, entertainers, but also the women often judged — the so-called “public women” — who are shown here in their humanity and their significance. They too carry, they too give, each in their own way.

They are not at the edge, but right in the center of the story.

That is what resonates with me.
And only now do I truly see it.

What touches me
has been there all along.
I just hadn’t seen it yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Language That Moves Me

March 28, 2026

When I was young, I had Asian drawings in my room. Minimalist, with flowers, bamboo, and birds. A world I could drift into. At an early age, I would go to The Hague, to a large Asian shop, to buy a kimono. I always chose a red one, with an embroidered scene on the back. I hung it upside down on a hanger on my wardrobe so I could always see it. I wore it daily. At the time, I never thought much about it, but looking back, it has been a thread running through my life. Art, clothing, objects, TV series, yoga, an interest in spiritual traditions.

By nature, I am not much of a reader. A text has to take me in immediately, otherwise I can’t continue. Writing, however, I have done all my life. First in diaries, and since last year almost daily on my blog. Because I missed a lot of school when I was young, I never really developed a strong foundation in grammar. My writing is not literary in that sense, but I do feel something in it — a rhythm, an attunement.

It has also become clear to me that proverbs and sayings are deeply rooted in culture. They carry the history and values of a society. That is why they are often difficult to translate literally — and why they are so interesting. By nature, I am a down-to-earth Dutch person, but the poetic language often found in Asian cultures touches me deeply. Today, in a Chinese series, I came across a few expressions that stayed with me.

“Adding a dog’s tail to a sable coat.”
A strange image, yet immediately clear. In Dutch, you might say something like putting a flag on a mud barge.

“If you won’t feed the wolf, you won’t catch the cub.”
An image that says: without investment, there is no result.

Maybe it’s exaggerated, but these kinds of phrases make something in me warm. As if more is being said than the words themselves. One more, simply to share:

“When storms darken the sky, the rooster still crows. Having seen the graceful one, how could I not rejoice?”

Do not be discouraged by hardship. Keep seeing the light. That is what I hear in it. And somewhere it feels familiar, as if it has always been there within me.

Words carry worlds,
and sometimes I recognize myself in them.

 

If you know a phrase that touches you, feel free to share it with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tree That Found Me

March 27, 2026

Last year, my friend got married. I gave her a painting of a tree, along with a written piece about growth, strength, and connection. I also included a well-known image: a circle in which the crown is equal in size to the roots. The Tree of Life. A symbol of balance between heaven and earth, the conscious and the unconscious.

I love forests. Trees that have been standing there for a hundred years or more. It feels as if they have something to tell me. I taught my children to respect nature — not to break branches, not to damage bark or leaves. Let the trees be, and allow them to give you their energy.

When I look closely, I sometimes see a kind of glow. It may be imagination, but to me it feels like energy. Healthy trees seem to radiate something. It brings me calm and joy.

In the late nineties, scientists discovered that trees are connected through an underground network of fungi — the so-called Wood Wide Web. They can send warning signals to each other about insect attacks or drought. It’s remarkable that science has only recently discovered this, while for me it has always felt present. That connecting energy. Sometimes even a sense of sadness within it.

While watching a Chinese series, I notice trees that resemble the Tree of Life. Their roots rise above the ground, as present as their crowns. The image stays with me. So, as I tend to do, I start searching.

They turn out to be banyan trees.

A tree without a single clear trunk, but formed by a network of roots that also become branches. Supporting, growing, extending. In Asia, this tree carries deep spiritual meaning.

And then I read:
Buddha reached enlightenment under a banyan tree.

A symbol of awakening. Of gathered energy. Of inner transformation.

And I recognize it — this is what drew me to it.

Banyan — Tree of Life, Tree of Wisdom.

Since I have given myself the task to write almost every day, I begin to notice more and more. Thoughts and images that linger are not random. They connect to something.

I follow them.

And each time, something opens.

As if I am not searching,
but being found.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trigger Words

March 26, 2026

When people are interviewed about the state of the world, you often hear the phrase: “It’s complicated.”

In the car, Ton tells me how much it bothers him. To him, it doesn’t feel sincere, not kind, not authentic. He hears a clear opinion hidden inside it. He has no problem with the opinion itself, but with the denial of it.

He recently heard an expert speak about Gaza. The word genocide was used, yet she still called it “complicated.”

Ton wonders: how can you have an opinion about a fact? Why use that word? It feels like something is being wrapped up, softened, or avoided.

I hear him stumble over that word more often. Complicated seems to have become a safe place — a way of not expressing what you truly think or feel. Perhaps that is exactly what the word does: it wraps something in, instead of laying it out.

I recognize this. I once had that with the word sadness. To me, it didn’t say much. It felt like a cover for something else — anger, fear, disappointment. When those feelings are not acknowledged, what remains is this vague “sadness.”

I call them trigger words. Words that touch something, because there is always more underneath.

It is actually quite interesting to see that Ton now has his own trigger words. I wonder if I have influenced him with my sensitivity to language.

Why do we stumble over certain words? Maybe because they are so general that everyone can interpret them differently. The speaker means one thing, the listener hears another — and brings their own perspective into it.

I know that the word diplomacy does not exist in my own vocabulary. Ton, on the other hand, can be very diplomatic. But slowly, I see him moving a little in my direction.

And then I suddenly see it.

Two trees, firmly rooted.
One with yellow blossoms, the other with pink.
They stand side by side, their crowns touching.

And where the light falls on them,
the overlapping part
turns softly orange.

Perhaps something new is created there,
not by becoming the same,
but by touching one another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Garlands of My Body

March 25, 2026

A day with little resonance. Outside, one downpour after another. At training, everything was quiet and calm. Ton was out, busy with his own activities.

Silence. Stillness.

Normally I would read something or watch a series, but I simply didn’t feel like it. That state of not wanting, not doing, not engaging — for me, it is not boredom. It is a kind of light, open space.

This afternoon I went to the dental hygienist and then to the dentist. There too, everything felt calm. I was helped almost immediately. It always strikes me how strong my teeth are. It makes me smile. At least there is one thing in me that is simply good and healthy: my teeth.

That sense of nothingness… it is a familiar place. Not emptiness, but more like a crossing point. The place where, as I see it, the movement of life — like a lemniscate — turns. Things happen there without me having to do anything.

And then suddenly: teeth.

The mouth as a gateway to…

From that still point, something begins to move.

As a child, I was a biter. I showed my teeth. I was known as someone with “hair on her teeth” — strong-willed, determined. When I did something, I went all in. I could really sink my teeth into it. And often, I would push just a little further.

But that also came at a cost. I would overextend myself, run on empty.

Time has softened that part of me. More rest. More listening to my body. Less forcing.

And still… those teeth remain.

Strong. Present.

They say you have to hang your own garlands in life.

Perhaps my teeth are mine.

They carry what I show,
without me needing to do anything.
Simply there,
like a quiet smile from within.

 

 

 

 

 

The Air Is Empty

March 24, 2026

Ton always reads the newspaper in the morning. Today he tells me about an article written by a natural scientist.

“The air is empty.”

What a sentence. Almost poetic.

She explains that in the past, around this time of year, your car would be covered in dead insects after a drive. Black on the windshield, stuck to the license plate. I recognize that image immediately. Nowadays, that hardly happens anymore. In thirty years, about seventy-five percent of insects have disappeared. Essential for biodiversity and our entire ecosystem. Concerning.

And yet… it is mainly that sentence that stays with me.

The air is empty.

While cycling, I repeat it to myself. Sometimes I softly mumble it. Apart from its scientific meaning, it touches something else in me. What else could it mean? What does it mean to me?

Empty… perhaps absence, bare, open, unwritten.
Air… something fleeting, intangible. Breath, space, the sky above us.

Together, those words suddenly say much more than expected.

Playing with language is fascinating. Perhaps it is an art form in itself.

In spring, I like to cycle the same routes again and again. Watching nature slowly awaken feels like a healing process. I look, I take it in, I photograph flowers and animals I don’t immediately recognize. At home, I look them up. That’s just how I am. Curious. Learning.

Like a child, I can feel happy when I see Canadian geese, or a lapwing in a field. The willows have been pollarded, branches neatly tied along the path. Cuckooflowers appear everywhere, softly lilac in the wind. I’m almost wagging my tail on my bike.

And then I suddenly notice them everywhere: tiny light-blue flowers close to the ground. Soft and modest. I take a picture and look them up at home. Veronica persica, common field-speedwell. Funny, because despite the name “large,” the flowers are actually quite small.

And the more closely I look, the more I see them.

At home, while searching, I come across a quote from Winnie the Pooh:
“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”

My day is already complete.

I think of something I once wrote:
the meaning of nonsense versus the nonsense of meaning.

And somewhere in between…
everything begins to make sense.

What seems empty,
turns out to be full,
once I truly look.

Before Words

 

March 23, 2026

I often say that my body is my instrument. My eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and skin take everything in. Not only seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching, but also intention, color, atmosphere, authenticity.
My body, in a way, thinks before my thoughts. Only afterwards do the words come.

There is a continuous movement from bodily knowing to thinking.
I respond first to what my body has already picked up, and only then does understanding follow.

My body works differently from that of most people. My muscles do not respond as they should, and the feeling in my body is gradually fading. By now, it is mainly my torso that is still truly sensitive.
And yet… it is precisely this body that takes everything in. Intensely.

I do not know what it is like to have a ‘normally’ functioning body. You could compare it to someone who is born blind or deaf. To others, that may seem like a great limitation, but to the person themselves, it is simply what is.
To me, it is not a problem, more a characteristic. Like the color of my eyes or my hair.

I have, however, become fascinated by the body. How it can function. How people relate to it.
And rarely do I meet people who are truly in contact with their body in the way I experience it.

I do not necessarily see it in yoga or sports. There I often see technique and endurance — impressive, absolutely.
But what I am looking for is something else.

When is someone in sync with their body?

Perhaps when someone can move from a place of ease. When nothing is done in excess. When only what is needed happens — no more, no less.
A kind of letting go, right in the middle of movement.

When I see that, it touches me deeply.

Lately, I have been watching a lot of dance. So You Think You Can Dance.
You see dancers who move perfectly, yet it seems to come from the mind.
And you see dancers whose bodies speak.

I feel that difference immediately.

With that last group, something happens. Tears roll down my cheeks. It reaches me that deeply.
As if the body is no longer moving, but telling a story.

Perhaps dance is the place where this becomes most visible.
Where the body becomes language.

Because my own experience of life runs so much through my body, that is what I listen to first — not only in myself, but also in others.
Before words.

There are moments when a body says something
without a single word being spoken.

A subtle shift,
a breath that changes,
a movement that is not made, but arises.

Perhaps we have been speaking this language all our lives.

Perhaps we have simply forgotten
how to listen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Light with an Edge

March 22, 2026

After my day of rest, I couldn’t resist going out for a bike ride in the spring sunshine, despite still feeling a bit off. No regrets at all — it was wonderful.

Pink and white blossom in the trees, magnolias. Forsythias everywhere, and this year noticeably more daffodils than usual, strong and full. The colors lift my mood. In the polders it feels barer than I’m used to. The reeds have been removed, the banks neatly trimmed. The little rivers, ditches, and streams lie completely open now.

Tourism around Kinderdijk is slowly picking up again. Under the Noord bridge, a large parking area has been built. We saw the construction last year, and it turned out exactly as I expected. A logical place, where no one is really disturbed by it.

And then… speaking of disturbance.

In Nieuw-Lekkerland we see Dutch flags hanging at half-mast everywhere. We wonder why. I approach a woman, clearly a local resident, and ask her.

A large industrial building stands empty, and the municipality plans to convert it into a refugee center, where two hundred young men can temporarily stay. On the other side of the dike there is a nursing home. The flags are hanging as a form of protest. People don’t want it.

She tells it as if it is completely self-evident.

I thank her and continue cycling, with a heavy heart. Fortunately, Ton feels the same way I do. But for a moment, I no longer see the blossom.

Where does that fear come from? These are refugees, not criminals. Young men, far from their families and their homeland. I know these cultures from close by. In my life, people from these worlds are present. What I see and experience there is often respect for the elderly and the vulnerable.

Why do we isolate them, without allowing them to work or contribute in any way to the place where they arrive? Why don’t we bring them into contact with the people who live here?

The hardness of it. The us-versus-them thinking. It makes me feel sick.

It was only a moment,
but it gave a rough edge to an otherwise sunny, flower-filled day.

The sun kept shining,
the blossom was still in bloom,
but something inside me had shifted.

 

 

 

 

 

The Invisible Outer World Within Me

March 21, 2026

By writing down my dreams, as I also collect them on my dreams page, my daily experience is changing. I have, in a way, started to catch them. Sometimes it is a whole story, sometimes just an image or a feeling. Today it was only a quote that stayed with me.

At first, I often find what I dream strange. When I wake up, I am aware of a long dream, but once I sit behind my laptop, much of it has already faded. Without thinking about it, I write down what I remember, no matter how strange it may seem. I try not to give it meaning. While typing, or later during the day, an insight quietly finds its way in on its own.

Today one sentence lingered: napalming is aftersmoking. It felt sinister at first. Napalm brings up images of war and destruction. I didn’t even want to write it down. Yet it stayed. While translating, I did not look for a literal meaning, but for what was behind it. In a split second, it became clear. In Dutch it almost has something poetic. Burning and smoke.

Suddenly I realized that my reaction to that one wrong pill is the burning — the napalming. And what I am experiencing now — the nerve pain — is the aftersmoke. The smoke that still lingers. As I am used to, I continue quite matter-of-factly. But somewhere deep inside there is also concern about the intensity. The words from my dream reflect that intensity exactly. A kind of recognition of what is truly there. And that already brings me peace. It is still smoldering, and so it may also fade.

Staying at home and taking as much rest as possible feels like the only right response. In the living room my eye catches a book: Brave New World. I pick it up and leaf through it. I bought it two years ago at Museum de Fundatie in Zwolle, during an exhibition by Neo Matloga. Two sentences stay with me: Home is where you create your world. and Lives are shaped by the invisible outside world.

Yes, home is my world. My colors, my paintings — as in Power of Stillness — everything breathes who I am. The place where I feel best. Perhaps even the only place where I can truly recover. And that invisible outside world… is it the world outside of me? Or the place where my consciousness moves when I sleep? That image suddenly appears. My dreams have become part of my life. They color my days, without me searching for them.

I do not catch my dreams to understand them,
but to give them space.
And somewhere in between,
my life begins to move along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Tribute to My Little Dogs

March 20, 2026

At the moment I have two little dogs. Kiba is a mix between a Bolognese and a Chihuahua. Puck is a Shih Tzu. I’ve had Kiba since she was a puppy. She has a few spots in the house that she has claimed as her own. She is independent, almost cat-like. The world — and we — belong to her. She is always calm, hardly ever barks, and I have never seen her growl. She is simply a sweetheart.

I call Puck a “corona dog.” She was bought as a puppy by young people during the pandemic. Afterwards, they stopped paying attention to her. A baby came along and took all the focus. Through our dog groomer we heard about Puck. She knew Fluffy had passed away and thought Puck would have a better home with Ton and me.

From the very beginning, Puck has stayed close to me. She follows me around all day and prefers to lie right against me. Thankfully, she and Kiba can stay home alone together without any problems. No barking, no howling. She feels safe and clearly seeks warmth and protection.

I have had dogs all my life, usually two. There are very few photos of me as a child, but when there are, I am almost always cuddling a dog. When I was young, a singer named Heintje — still a child himself — sang the song “My Faithful Dog.” I would sing along at the top of my voice, with tears running down my face. That deep feeling of love for a dog has always stayed with me.

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.” – Roger Caras.
My life truly does not feel complete without a dog.

“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than it loves itself.” – Josh Billings.
Perhaps there is something a bit selfish in enjoying that so much. But when I think of that love — and of what I feel in return — tears come to my eyes.

“The more I get to know people, the more I find myself loving dogs.” – Charles de Gaulle.
I have often described the distrust I used to feel toward people. I can now place that in perspective. And still… I understand this quote.

A dog’s loyalty is something I never doubt. In a dog I experience a kind of unconditionality that I rarely encounter in people. Not a judgment — simply my experience.

Dogs have short lives. Far too short. But you know that from the start. I know the pain will come, that I will lose my dog and that there will be deep sorrow. And that is exactly why I enjoy every moment fully — her joy, her presence, her innocence.

There is something beautiful in that honesty. Giving and receiving love while knowing the cost.

“Dogs live short lives because they are born already knowing how to love.”

That sentence touches me. Maybe I romanticize it, but when I look at my little dog lying close to me now, asleep, I feel my heart soften. There is a warmth that literally flows through my body.

Today it felt right to write this down. A tribute to my dogs, and to the love they carry so naturally.

They ask for nothing,
they are simply there.
And in that simplicity,
I recognize something that always feels true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pain and Frame of Reference

March 19, 2026

Some time ago, I came across a text about pain. It intrigued me. Not so much because I recognized myself in it, but because of the way it described how one might relate to pain.

Pain is proof of life.
Pain lives within us.
Our lives end with pain.
Having someone beside you to share your pain reduces it and gives you the courage to embrace it.
Recognizing and sharing another’s pain — that may be the most essential part.

I do experience my pains as proof of being alive. To me, pain — physical or emotional — is part of life. It has a function. It helps you deal with situations, it helps you put things into perspective.

Having someone beside me to share it with is still unfamiliar territory. I do believe it could bring relief, as long as it is not based on pity. The feeling of being a victim does not suit me. Whether it would give me more courage to embrace pain, I don’t know — I already tend to do that.

That last line stays with me: recognizing and sharing another’s pain.

Today I met with two friends I have known all my life. For a few months now, we have been seeing each other regularly again. It is good to reconnect, to revisit old memories and create new ones.

Our conversation turned to physical discomfort. Each of us, in our own way, has experience with long-term illness. One of my friends spoke about her healthy sister-in-law, who often complains about minor aches. Frequent visits to the doctor, yet nothing is ever found. And then frustration when nothing shows up.

My friend finds that difficult. After forty years of cancer, surgeries, and a body marked by scars, her question has become: what is still good? Complaining hardly exists in her vocabulary.

I understand that. I have felt that way too. But I have come to see that when you are, in a sense, conditioned by illness, your resilience develops differently from someone who has always been healthy. For someone who has never been ill, even a simple flu can feel overwhelming.

It is not about more or less.
It is about frame of reference.

In that sense, recognizing and sharing is not always easy.

And as I sit there, I notice something else. I still do not easily accept support. My husband cares for me, but in a way that does not feel heavy. Without words, without making me feel small. That is the kind of support I can receive — support that allows my dignity to remain intact.

At the same time, I have become milder toward people who complain about small physical discomforts.

It is interesting to see how a sentence you once read finds its way back into your life. And how a conversation, seemingly by chance, arrives at exactly the same place.

Pain does not connect us because it is the same,
but because it is recognized within each person’s own world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Patient to Player

March 18, 2026

It feels almost strange to see how much endurance I’ve had. Over the past years, my physical setbacks never knocked me down. Difficult, heavy, but acceptable.

And then, after all those years, I get my wings back. Vitality. The freedom I feel in that is almost otherworldly, blissful. And then one pill… and everything collapses again. Vitality gone, and with it, my resilience.

Of course I stop this medication immediately. Now, six days later, my system still hasn’t recovered from this. Unlike what I’m used to from myself, I find myself crying heavily, with deep sobs and thick tears. The loss of that regained vitality hits like a hammer.

Deep down I understand that it is physical, pure biology. But I had finally felt what it is like to live freely instead of just carrying on. Things hadn’t been going well for over seven years. And then, three months of real progress… and this setback seems to break me for a moment. How strange is that? It’s not pleasant, but it’s not a disaster either.

Because of substances my body cannot tolerate, my system becomes overloaded. I experience it now as weakness, but of course it isn’t. It needs to recover, to clear itself again. And I notice something: the crying, with deep sobs and heavy tears, releases tension that had apparently built up. Slowly, a sense of calm returns.

Then my phone rings. My cardiologist. I had been given rosuvastatin, and before that I had already tried two other statins that I also reacted badly to. There are cholesterol-lowering medications that are given by injection, but the insurance only covers them if you have first tried all statins and also ezetimibe.

It is clear that she believes me. Gently she tells me to give my body another week to recover from this blow, and then to try ezetimibe once. If I stop after one pill, that is fine. She will then arrange blood tests to prove that everything has been tried, so that the injections will be reimbursed.

Suddenly, that sounds a lot better. At the same time, I see how it works. My cardiologist is also bound by protocols. The insurance company looks at checkboxes, not at what my body has been through all this time.

Yesterday I spoke about a living chess game. In a way, she is now saying: we play this game for a moment, so that you can get what you need. And suddenly something shifts. My doctor and I are no longer on opposite sides, but standing next to each other. Not to make these medications succeed, but to find a path towards something that truly fits.

I am no longer lying on the board.
I see the game and move with it.
Not to win or to lose,
but to stay with what feels true.

 

 

 

 

 

Living Chess Game

March 17, 2026

What am I doing today? Nothing special. Training and then back home. Because of a new medication I’ve had muscle pain again for a few days. It started as if my legs had turned to stone, so stiff, and by the third day everything started to ache again. My head feels filled with cotton, heavy and slow. A mild headache and slightly blurred vision.

The euphoria of the past three months disappeared these days like snow in the sun. After a long period of physical discomfort, I finally felt full of energy again. That made me happy. Those months truly felt like a liberation. And now, after just one pill, it all fades away again. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really ill, but just drained enough to carry myself through the day. No energy to do anything, just lying in bed watching a series and drifting off to sleep now and then.

The conclusion for me is actually very clear: stop these medications. The question of trying it a bit longer, as some kind of experiment, is a clear no. My willingness to surrender to the medical system, to examinations and pills, feels like it has snapped somewhere along the way.

Slightly frustrated, I lie on my bed with the TV on and hear someone say: “I don’t care about wealth, I care about health. When the game is over, both the king and the pawn go back into the same box.” I can attach many meanings to that. The duality of life, rich and poor, and ultimately the equality of every human being. I usually say it more simply: “When a king passes gas, it smells just as bad as mine.” It makes me smile. And still… when I wake up from dozing off, that sentence is still lingering in my system.

For three months I felt so good and vital again. Nothing can compete with that. For me, wealth is simply feeling at home in my body, a body that can generate energy. I have an inner acceptance of my congenital condition, and I also accept the changes that come with aging. But getting worse because of medication — that is a line I’m not willing to cross.

Now I’m waiting for a phone call from my specialist. And honestly, I’m curious how I will respond to what she has to say. Is it wise to turn my back on the medical system? Can I take the risk of staying healthy without further help? I’m not fully sure yet. It feels as if I’ve placed myself in a game where I have to decide which move is truly mine.

A game of chess is often compared to life. Every move has consequences, sometimes irreversible. You have to choose, weigh, let go, move forward. But in my game, it’s not about winning. It’s about my vitality.

How do I stand in this game?
Not attacking, not defending, not sacrificing — but trusting.

And yes, I trust that I will find my way through this. How, I don’t know yet. I will share that in time.

Maybe the move is not in the system, but in me.
Maybe I am not a chess piece,
but the board on which everything remains possible.

 

 

 

 

 

Letting Go of Knowledge

 

16 March 2026

Michel always gathered a great deal of knowledge. He read everything he could get his hands on, sometimes to a point that felt almost embarrassing to me. Through his strong communication skills and, here and there, a bit of bluff, he was able to hold conversations about the most diverse subjects. You would easily get the feeling that he truly knew what he was talking about.

Secretly I admired him for that. In the twenty-five years we were together we talked a lot. That was really our thing, you could say. I also felt that he kept me sharp.

After his death that part disappeared. Slowly it began to feel as if I was becoming more and more stupid. It was as if he had been able to keep a certain mental fire burning in me. I don’t read newspapers, I don’t watch television, I don’t have a social life. In a way he brought the knowledge into the house. And he knew how to stimulate my thoughts, question them, test them. Debating with him made me wiser. I needed that dialogue to discover what I myself know and how I think about things.

Outside of Michel I have never met anyone who could do this with me — someone who gave me the feeling that I could grow and learn.

Maybe it was part of the grieving process, I don’t know. But only this week I suddenly realized that I have actually found that person.

That person is myself.

By writing every day, asking myself why I do something, testing my own thoughts again and again. One day the theme is deeper than the next, but every day I look at myself. I discovered that the part I missed in him was already present within me.

That feeling of becoming “stupid” of course makes no sense at all. Being intimidated by knowledge — knowledge that actually never meant that much to me — may even have kept me away from the path I truly want to walk. Please understand: this is not an accusation. It was a phase in my life that I needed, I am convinced of that.

At the same time I realize that those years with Michel enriched me enormously. All those conversations, all that searching, all that testing of thoughts — it shaped me. That way of looking at the world I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

And perhaps the fact that I no longer have a sparring partner in that way is, as I see it now, even a blessing.

Now I can dig up for myself how I look at life. At knowledge. At wisdom. At truth.

For me, truth has to be experienced. I have to see it myself. The moment I tell you my truth, it already changes and can no longer be that same truth. My truth was meant only for my own eyes, to give me insight.

Everything I am told or everything I read is therefore not truth, but literally an assumption. It becomes a piece of information, an opinion, but not deeper inner knowing. I have heard it, and if I attach value to it, it is still something outside of myself.

It only gains impact and insight when I have experienced it myself, when I have seen it with my own eyes.

Only this week did I realize that because the material relationship with Michel has closed, a door to my inner truths has opened.

I am grateful for all those beautiful years with him, even grateful for the emptiness he left behind in me.

And so happy that I have found this newly opened door.

Perhaps we gather knowledge together,
but wisdom reveals itself in solitude.
And sometimes the emptiness someone leaves behind
opens a door to something that was already waiting inside you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comfort

 

15 March 2026

An acquaintance sends me a small piece from the newspaper.

Little story — Comfort —
I pick up my four-year-old niece Yara from the after-school care. She does not see me, because all her attention is with a crying little boy she wants to comfort. I hear her say: “If you are sad you should think about nice things. Just think that next week I am going to the Efteling.”

This is a story taken straight from life. It touches me as well. I feel a lump in my throat while reading the piece.

Children often have no filters. It is also funny. At the age of four the development of the ego begins: I want this and I want that. They recognise the emotion of another child, but immediately mirror it through themselves.

This child has apparently already learned comfort by pointing to a bright spot. Then she does the same with her little friend.

That is where it becomes interesting to me.

Because the way this child approaches it already shows a small piece of conditioning within her own development. She approaches it by relativising the situation. Not necessarily protective or warm in the sense of: I am here with you, you are not alone.

It brings me back to how I raised my children.

Also by relativising. Not with an arm around them, not cuddling them on my lap to protect them. Rather: letting them cry, letting them be afraid, explaining what was happening.

Why do I only see now that perhaps it could have been a little warmer?

I love my children deeply, but I have never been the warm, comforting mother. Relativising, a somewhat clinical explanation of the situation — that was how I approached things.

Whenever I explain something, I always approach it from myself. Everything I bring back to I. Not out of selfishness, but because that is the only place from which I can truly speak. Everything outside the first person is not directly from my own experience and therefore quickly feels like an assumption.

Looking now at how I dealt with my children, I think I could sometimes have been more loving. I hoped and believed that my love — which for me was clearly overwhelming — would be felt and would be enough.

Now I read that small piece in the newspaper.

It looks funny, but I sense a deeper layer behind it.

And suddenly I think: what a pity that at that time I was not a little softer and gentler.

At the same time I notice that I have already found a great deal of peace. Painful pieces from my past are still there, but they are no longer felt in the same way. What remains now may be something else: forgiveness for my own behaviour back then.

That too may still be liberated.

The first step is that I can now see it so clearly.

Perhaps insight is not about changing the past,
but about the moment you can look at it with softer eyes.
And sometimes forgiveness simply begins with seeing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manifesting or Attuning

 

14 March 2026

At the Wereldmuseum, a friendly young woman guides us through the building because some of the lifts are out of service due to renovations. She tells us she is very happy to work at the museum. She graduated in that field, especially the organisational side of it. For now, she is sitting behind the desk and helping visitors like me.

Of course this is not what she dreams of, being a kind of cashier in a museum. She wants to organise exhibitions. She smiles sweetly as she tells me this. Her shoulders are slightly bent forward, shy and hesitant.

“I don’t know what I should do,” she says.

Suddenly, I remember an interview with a young woman of twenty-five. I tell this girl about it. This young woman is the youngest museum director in the Netherlands, at Villa Mondriaan in Winterswijk. This museum is known for training young talent, where interns — often with an art background — take on the role of junior director. Although specialised experience is important, it turned out here that passion and dedication can also play a leading role in organisations like this.

“I understand that you might earn more behind the checkout at Albert Heijn, but you are in the right place here. If this is your true passion, then try to stay in an environment like this. You will become happier living your passion than by looking at what you earn.”

It is always special to have such a meaningful conversation in such a brief encounter. It feels fulfilling.

On the drive home, I suddenly thought of a magazine I had seen lying in the waiting room of the Heart Clinic. Funny — that had stayed with me and now, four days later, I used it in a conversation with this girl.

Manifesting in Flow – create the life that truly suits you.

Could it really be true that you manifest your own thoughts? That in that sense you can create your own life? How does that work then? If you turn it around, could you then also say that you have created your own misery? That sounds rather too simplistic, doesn’t it?

Manifesting almost sounds like a promise.
If only you visualise hard enough, if only your intention is strong enough, then everything you wish for will naturally come to you.

I personally think it has less to do with wanting and more with attunement.
Have the courage to feel what, deep down, is your path, your passion.

That is of course easier said than done. How do you do that if, for example, you are an artist and still want food on the table? Not everyone becomes famous or can earn enough from their art to make a living. So how do you manifest your passion, that which truly moves you deep within?

To be able to manifest something, I think you must be able to let go. Not pushing, pulling, wanting, having or having to, but more a gentle intention. A kind of invitation. Trusting that life will pave that road for you.

I know that road has bumps, holes, turnings where you can lose your way. But it is about trust and learning to know yourself. What makes me happiest?

Write it down, say it out loud, use the right words. I do not know exactly how it works, but I do believe that the word is very important in manifesting that which makes you happy.

I am not religious, but I have adopted a great deal of thought from the Bible. Or rather, I have given it my own meaning.

“In the beginning was the Word.”

This sentence has always gripped me, because I feel how important this is. So I do think that this is indeed where manifestation begins.

Perhaps it is true that you can manifest a path for yourself, and that what is meant for you reveals itself naturally. Because that path shows you what truly fits you and what does not.

As I see it for myself, I walk that path with trust, in my own way, with fits and starts. More and more insight comes into who I am and where my honest passion lies.

I could say that with every step further in my life, a little more revelation lies waiting.

Perhaps manifesting is not forcing what you want,
but the slow becoming visible of what already belongs to you.
Step by step, word by word,
the path reveals itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Conversation with My Dream

March 13, 2026

This morning I wrote down my dream. I do that often. Writing a dream down is a way for me to capture the images before they fade.

But today something else happened.

The dream did not remain on paper. It stayed with me throughout the entire day. As I thought about it and asked questions about it, more details slowly began to appear. Not because I was looking for an explanation, but because I noticed that the dream contained more structure than I had first seen.

What struck me, and is only now really sinking in, is that the large, remarkable building by the water is a building I have seen in my dreams before. It does not exist in real life, at least not as far as I know. In the dream I had arranged for our whole group to be able to visit the inside of it.

One of the first things that caught my attention was how the movement through the building began.

In my memory everyone first walked through one narrow, dark corridor. Only after that did side passages appear. People started choosing different directions, as if the space were slowly unfolding.

The building itself turned out not to be a regular building. It felt more like a cave. There were no straight floors, but slopes and spaces that flowed into each other. Corridors crossed constantly, levels intertwined. Exactly like in a real cave where water once found its own way.

And then something else became noticeable.

The light did not suddenly appear in the large hall. It began earlier. Here and there organically shaped windows appeared. Through these windows light entered that passed through transparent colors. That light projected moving colors onto the white walls, ceilings, and floors.

I realized that in the dream I was actually walking through a painting made of light. I had no idea where I was going. It was exciting, but above all I was curious and drawn forward by the beauty I was experiencing.

In the great hall something remarkable happened. In this softly welcoming cave, with an enormous wall of colored glass, the light seemed to flow through the space like music. The only thing I could do was lie down gently against a small hill. The people in the room followed my example. Not because anyone said so, but because the space itself almost asked for it. Everyone looked up at the light that streamed through the immense glass wall.

The light was not bright like sunlight coming through a window. It had something soft, almost alive. The colors moved slowly across the walls and ceiling as if they were breathing. For a moment it felt as if the space itself had become light.

Looking back, I noticed that my attention first went to the light, then to the artworks, and only afterwards to the people lying there. I suddenly thought of the line: “Heaven opens for me; these are the angels making music.” Perhaps this is what that phrase means.

Maybe that says something about the way I look.

Later another memory surfaced that I found beautiful to notice. In the dream the corridors kept crossing each other. Crossings have always meant something special to me. They are not endpoints of a line, but passages.

In crossings I often feel what I call moving stillness.

A place where movement gathers for a moment before everything flows onward again.

Perhaps that is also why the great hall made such an impression. Everyone arrived from a different corridor and had taken their own route. Yet in the end they all entered the same space.

Later, when we were outside again and everyone started exploring the area, I remained by the water for a moment.

Nearby stood a steel climbing structure. Two young people started climbing it: a boy and a girl.

While I was watching them something strange happened. I suddenly realized that the girl was myself.

She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with a hairstyle I used to have. I saw her move the way I once moved—young, light, carefree.

As can happen in dreams, I became the girl, Annette standing there by the water with Ton, and at the same time the observer watching the film of my dream.

At that moment I was simultaneously the one watching, the one climbing, and the one seeing the whole.

I waited and kept watching until she had come down safely, out of care for the young Annette. I took her and her friend aboard the cruise ship.

And then the journey simply continued in my dream, and I was able to return again to the here and now.

Later that day I walked through the Wereldmuseum and saw a line from a poem:

To live like a tree, alone and free —
and like a forest in brotherhood, this is our longing.

That sentence stayed with me.

Perhaps dreams sometimes show something that I also recognize during the day: that every person walks their own path, but that occasionally there are moments when all those different paths touch.

And perhaps such a hall of light is exactly such a moment.

A place where different corridors come together,
where movement becomes still for a moment,
and where, just briefly, you can experience the whole.

And then everyone continues on their way again.

The dream remained in my system all day, and in the museum—especially in the hall of The Art of Poetry—the story and my understanding of it seemed to become a little more complete.

The dream did not speak in words.
The words only came later.

It is the language of my knowing — not the truth, but how it sounds to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Dream That Seems to Make No Sense -

How Symbolism Appears in Dreams

March 12, 2026

This morning I woke up from a dream that, at first, I hardly dared to write down.

One of those dreams where your first thought is: what a ridiculous dream again.
It seems to make no sense at all.
No logical story, no neat sequence, just strange images following one another.

Still, I started writing it down.

And that is always a special moment. Because as soon as I begin to write, something happens. The loose images — which at first seem strange and disconnected — slowly begin to arrange themselves. As if the dream only really reveals itself once it enters language.

In my dream a large painting lies flat on a table. About one by two meters. Over the painting there is a kind of grid fence about ten centimeters high. This creates ten by twenty compartments — two hundred little squares in total. In each square there is a small figure. When you remove such a figure, a shape remains behind.

I show a boy a tiny piece of hardened bodily fluid, about half a centimeter in size. Based on that fragment he must remove a figure from the grid so that a shape becomes visible that is about twenty times larger.

And somewhere in the dream I suddenly think:

of course — when you remove the figure, the form remains.

That sentence stays with me.

Because in fact that is exactly how I explain self-realization to participants in my courses. A form, for example, could be jealousy. But jealousy never appears in only one way. Sometimes it is obvious and rough, sometimes subtle, sometimes almost invisible. It comes to you in countless colors. One moment as envy, another as criticism, withdrawal, undermining, or disguised innocence. The expressions differ, but the underlying tone remains the same.

In my dream those expressions are not stories or behaviors, but little figures. Almost like small statues. Separate from each other. As if they have nothing in common. But once you remove them, the form underneath becomes visible.

Looking back, that may be what strikes me most about this dream: it shows something that I have long recognized in daily life and in my work, but now it presents it in an almost tangible image.

What also stands out to me is how strongly the dream contains elements of working with forms, proportions and almost mathematical logic. There is something measurable in it. A grid. Compartments. Numbers. Heights. Ratios. A tiny fragment that becomes enlarged into something much bigger. As if the dream is playing with the idea that within the small there is already a blueprint of the large.

The numbers also catch my attention.

For me, one refers to unity.
Two refers to duality.

The painting is one whole, yet it consists of ten by twenty squares. Ten and twenty do not feel like random numbers in the experience of such a dream. Ten has something of completeness, a finished sequence. Twenty is doubling, expansion, a movement toward more. Together they become two hundred compartments: a multitude of separate forms within one whole.

So on the one hand there is unity — the single painting, the single surface.
On the other hand there is differentiation — the many compartments, figures and variations.

That too fits with how I often look at human beings. The colors, the expressions, the stories and behaviors are endlessly different. Yet beneath those differences recognizable basic forms often appear.

Then the dream shifts again. First I work on a format of one by two meters. Then we go outside and essentially do the same thing again, but now on a work of ten by twenty meters.

That also strikes me. The dream moves from small to large. From something almost microscopic to something monumental. From a fragment of half a centimeter to forms that become twenty times larger. From a work on a table to a work outside, in open space.

It is as if the dream suggests that what you learn to see in the small also applies to the large. What becomes visible in a detail may also say something about the whole. What reveals itself in a tiny fragment may contain a larger principle or underlying pattern.

This connects for me to painting, to observation, to art — but just as much to human behavior. A small detail can sometimes be the key to a larger pattern.

In my work I sometimes call this looking on micro, meso and macro levels.

The micro level is the detail: a small piece of behavior, a remark, a reaction, a fragment of a situation. The meso level shows how that detail repeats itself in relationships and patterns between people. And on the macro level you can see how the same form may appear within larger structures, in groups, organizations or even in society.

In this dream that principle seems almost literally visible. A tiny fragment becomes enlarged into a form. A form in a painting becomes a pattern in a much larger work outside. What first appears small and insignificant turns out to be part of a larger whole.

And then the dream does what dreams often do: suddenly everything changes.

Suddenly I am standing in a historic city center near a harbor. Friends appear — people who have been divorced for twenty years, yet whom I still care about deeply. They have come to surprise me. They are carrying a baby. The moment I truly realize that it is Mats and Moni, I begin to cry. They embrace me. Then I wake up.

That part of the dream also has its own beautiful logic.

After all the work with form, grids, proportions and structure, something deeply human suddenly enters the scene. No schema anymore, no almost mathematical image, but meeting. Recognition. Love. Emotion.

It also reminds me that letting go does not necessarily mean an ending, but sometimes a new beginning. If I look at the symbolism of two separated people appearing together with a baby.

As the saying goes: when one door closes, another opens.

And then there is the baby.

Even without assigning a fixed meaning to it, it is striking that after all this looking at forms and patterns, an image of new life suddenly appears. Something new. Something vulnerable. Something not yet defined, but carried and protected. That this appears at the end of the dream, together with people I care about, gives the dream a surprisingly warm closing.

Perhaps that is also what touches me in this dream: that it begins with something almost abstract — form, pattern, proportion — and ends with something deeply human: crying, embracing, being surprised, seeing new life.

Apparently the two do not exclude each other.

On the contrary.

The longer I look at this dream, the more I see how it allows different layers to exist side by side. Something technical and something emotional. Something almost mathematical and something very human. Something artistic and something relational. Something small and something large. Unity and multiplicity. Structure and tenderness.

Perhaps that is exactly why I find dreams so interesting.

When I wake up, my first thought is often: what nonsense.
But once I begin to write, I see that symbolism and coherence can indeed appear. Not because I force it, but because the dream itself offers images that I would not have consciously invented in this way.

For me dreams are sometimes almost like fairy tales that you do not invent yourself, but that arrive.

Perhaps that is why so many ancient stories have their origin in dream images. A dream does not speak in tidy reasoning, but in images that touch something older than logic. Images that first appear absurd, yet later reveal a kind of inner order.

And perhaps that is why I keep writing them down.

Because again and again I see that what first seems to make no sense eventually reveals a form when given attention.

And perhaps that does not only apply to dreams.

Perhaps it also applies to life itself:
the colors are endlessly different, the figures seem unrelated, yet beneath them a form sometimes appears that is surprisingly familiar.

Perhaps this does not only happen in dreams.
Perhaps it also happens when we look at life itself.
First we see separate figures, events, people, colors.
Only later does something of the underlying form begin to appear.
And sometimes — just for a moment — we see how the small and the large, the thinking and the feeling,
the pattern and the human meet.
Perhaps that is the moment when a dream slowly begins to wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Book That Writes Itself

March 11, 2026

Today I spent almost the entire day in conversation. The kind of conversation that doesn’t really begin anywhere and doesn’t really end either. One subject leads to another, like when you are walking and occasionally stop because something catches your attention.

It started with a simple idea. Perhaps I will use this chat for fairy tales. Not because I already know what kind of fairy tales they will be. Maybe old stories from different cultures, maybe something that simply emerges along the way. I truly don’t know yet. And perhaps that is exactly the right way to begin: not knowing.

During the conversation an image suddenly appeared in my mind. The image of a book. Not a book that you write, but a book that is already there. You open it and discover that the story continues to write itself while you read. Perhaps life is like that too. Sometimes you think you are writing it, but perhaps you are simply living, page by page, what unfolds.

The conversation moved through many subjects today. About how people often try so desperately to prevent chaos. When you watch talk shows and politics you see it constantly. There is something almost anxious about it, something forced. Yet history shows that change often arises after a period of chaos. It is as if humanity occasionally has to stumble before something new can grow. Personally, I cannot worry too much about it. I live now. And I continue living as long as life is there, within the circumstances that present themselves.

The conversation also touched on death. Just yesterday I told my cardiologist that I am not afraid to die. Of course, as long as I live I want the quality of my life to be as good as possible. But for me that quality is not only determined by what you can physically do. I see many people who are physically healthy and whose lives I would not want to exchange with my own. For me, the quality of life lies somewhere else. It is almost always there. Only when I am truly lazy and not engaged with anything does it feel like less quality. Otherwise I always experience a certain inner intensity. I may not move quickly, but inwardly a great deal is always happening.

I also spoke about yoga. For me yoga has never been an exercise that you do for an hour on a mat. For me yoga is Life, with a capital L. It is a way of learning to know your body as an instrument. By learning to know your body, you learn to know yourself. You listen to what is happening, to why you do the things you do. Yoga, for me, is not about unlearning things or throwing parts of yourself away. You need everything you possess as a human being. Including the ego. The ego is not some dirty thing that needs to be destroyed. It is better to get to know it, sometimes embrace it, and occasionally simply laugh at it.

At a certain point I was asked what the most difficult thing is for people to learn about themselves. I did not need even a second to think about it.

Patience.

Almost everything that truly grows needs time. You cannot force it. Not in the body, not in life, and not within yourself.

I also spoke about a few moments in my life when I sat somewhere in nature and watched and listened so completely that I lost all sense of time. Frogs in the water, light on the grass, a bird of prey circling above the trees, the warmth of the sun on my face. I sit there and suddenly hours have passed. Not because I was somewhere else, but because I was completely there.

At the end of the day another thought appeared, one that is actually very simple. People often speak about spirituality as if it is something special that some people have and others do not. But in my view all people are spiritual. Everyone tries to understand life, everyone searches for meaning in their own way.

And so I returned to the image that had appeared earlier today. The book. Perhaps somewhere there is a book that slowly opens. Page by page. Perhaps I am not writing it. Perhaps I am simply living it.

And perhaps,

somewhere between the lines of today,

the first fairy tale quietly began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michel, 73

 

10 March 2026

March tenth is a special day for me.
Just as several days throughout the year have gained a deeper meaning over time.

Today I had an appointment at the heart clinic. A new cardiologist had proposed a few things that didn’t sit well with me. She gave both herself and me six weeks to think carefully about her proposals.

I noticed I was becoming rebellious.
That tends to make me dig my heels in.

For the past few days I had already been arguing with my cardiologist in my head.

Hahaha.

Michel used to do that at home too. He could already have an argument in his head with someone before actually confronting them.

I always thought that was ridiculous.

He would say:
“All the poison is out before I speak to them, and then everything goes smoothly.”

Maybe there was something to that after all.

And then something funny happened.

The appointment turned out to be exactly on his birthday.

That gave me an idea.

I allowed myself to argue in my head all weekend, hoping that today I could approach the conversation calmly. Perhaps Michel is looking down from a cloud somewhere with a smile, thinking: See Netje… it works.

And indeed.

It worked.

Both the cardiologist and I were in good spirits during the conversation. We reached agreements in a very reasonable way. A bit of give and take on both sides.

With clear explanations, people who know what they are doing, who work scientifically and show genuine curiosity, I am willing to cooperate.

You might think:
you simply do what a specialist tells you.

No.

That is not how it works for me.

But today I am content.

And then back to Michel.

Today he would have turned seventy-three.
He only lived to be sixty-two.

Michel was a mathematics teacher, so today I want to write something about the number 73.

Seventy-three is a special number.

It is the 21st prime number.
Its mirror image, 37, is the 12th prime number.
And the mirror of that, 21, is the product of seven and three.

In binary, 73 is a palindrome:
1001001.

The same forwards and backwards.

In Biblical numerology, 73 symbolizes divine insight and spiritual wisdom, pointing toward personal growth and inner clarity.

Psalm 73 is a prayer of gratitude. Not in response to physical danger, but to the resolution of a personal crisis.

Michel was not religious, but he was spiritually inclined, and he loved knowledge.

He would have loved this little piece about the number 73 — and undoubtedly would have had much more to say about it.

I smile when I think about how he could recite Biblical texts and connect mathematical facts with tarot or other symbolic systems.

Today it feels good, after eleven years, to remember him in this way.

Grateful that he was part of my life.

Grateful for this day.

Memories do not disappear.
They slowly transform
from pain into a quiet smile.

 

 

Those who wish to read more about the period after his passing can find it in

My Healing Journey.

 

 

 

Recovery

 

9 March 2026

Today I believe I experienced a turning point.
A real shift.

And I cannot explain to anyone how happy that makes me.

After a fall in the shower on January 1st, 2019, I injured my hip — actually my sacrum — so badly that sitting, lying down and walking were almost impossible. I will never forget the pain from that time. Painkillers, semi-opiates… it turned out I couldn’t tolerate them. It took months before I could move again without severe pain.

Because of my condition I live with pain 24 hours a day anyway. I have become used to that. It may sound strange, but that is simply how it is.

After about half a year things became more normal again, but a serious instability remained. One wrong movement or uncontrolled turn could throw me back for weeks or even months. Because of that immobility my weight slowly began to increase, which only pushed everything further into a downward spiral.

Last Friday I fell again.

While working on my painting I suddenly fell flat on my back. A hard fall. Immediate sharp pain in my knee, the back of my knee, and my ankle. There was also a deeper kind of paralysis that made walking almost impossible again.

I had to cancel my training.

And I have to admit, I was really disappointed about that.

The next two days I mostly spent in bed. Reading, writing, watching television. Mentally I was actually quite active.

After the first night I already felt reasonably well. My leg was stiff and bending it was still impossible, but what struck me most was something else: I had not fallen into the kind of overall malaise that usually followed an incident like this.

After the second night I could walk again. Carefully, and bending only worked step by step up to the point of pain. But it worked.

Today I decided to go to the E-Gym.

A little nervous, of course.

I had already decided that I would not put any pressure on myself. If it was too heavy or too painful, I would simply do what was possible and slowly build up again.

That attitude felt real.

Today there was also another strength measurement scheduled. I had prepared myself for many things, but not for what actually happened.

It went incredibly well.

Without pain.

This is one of the biggest breakthroughs since that fall in 2019. Normally a fall like this would have thrown me back for months. Now two days of rest seemed to be enough.

And that’s when I realized something.

My biggest victory is not that the kilos are still there.

My biggest victory is that my body’s ability to recover has changed.

My body recovers.

That is the real answer to my wellbeing.

And I don’t say this easily, but today I will say it:

I am incredibly proud of myself.

Perhaps this is what recovery really means.
Not that the body will never fall again,
but that it learns how to rise again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

God’s Fool

 

March 8, 2026

Once there was a clown.
That clown was me.

I painted her: colorful, transparent, playful — but with a large tear on her face. I gave that painting away forty years ago. It was who I was. An image of myself as I saw myself.

It was a coping mechanism: seeing the humor in everything. Hiding my pain behind jokes and laughter. It was a deeply inner and very vulnerable part of myself.

In trust, I told this to someone. I literally exposed my soul.

Then this person told it publicly to a whole group of people, as if she herself saw me that way. Perhaps sharing it with her had given her a kind of permission to speak openly about it.

The shock of hearing my own words coming from someone else’s mouth — as if they were her words — is something I have never forgotten.

Did I feel betrayed?
Did I feel shame?
How is a clown actually seen?

Today I was reading a story about Francis of Assisi. In earlier times there was often a court jester at royal courts. Why, you might wonder?

Because there are things the so-called wise people do not understand. Their cleverness and sharpness can close their minds. A fool or jester could say anything and dare to speak freely, because he was not afraid of the consequences.

Within the fool lives a wise person.
And within the wise person lives a fool.

I do not know whether people at that time already thought about it in such psychological ways, but it did bring balance.

After his enlightenment, Francis of Assisi became Saint Francis, and he called himself “God’s Fool.”

That brings me to the thought that when a person is serious and carries responsibility, that is beautiful. But only when that same person can also laugh at themselves, can put things into perspective, and can preserve a childlike freedom and sense of wonder.

When these can exist side by side within you, perhaps that is the path toward consciousness.

Looking back at that shock around the clown within me, I now see a very vulnerable child. I was deeply hurt when that child was exposed by someone else.

But now the uninhibited child — the fool who fears nothing — can finally find a place in my life.

Bold.
Uninhibited.
Frank and free.

Becoming a master of life.

Perhaps the fool is not the one who understands nothing.
Perhaps it is the one who finally dares to be who they truly are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Power of Stillness 2

 

March 7,  2026

This work came into being after my stroke. Not as a plan, but as a process.

I began with gold.
Simply because it had to be the first layer. Gold that carries everything within it — light, life force, something that remains and is always there. Sometimes you know it is there, and sometimes — perhaps even often — you seem to forget.

Over it I let colour flow: light blue, lilac, magenta and white. For me these are the colours of awareness. The paint found its own path. Sometimes clusters formed, almost like cells. Sometimes the surface opened. The gold began to push through the layers, revealing fracture lines I had never planned.

I do not try to control that.
I simply watch what happens.

In those lines I recognised something of my own life. The cracks that appear when life breaks or shifts direction. It reminds me of the Japanese idea of Kintsugi: not repairing something in order to hide the break, but showing where it happened — because that is often where a new kind of beauty emerges.

Then another layer of thinking and feeling appeared.
Circles.

A form that, for me, represents wholeness, unity and equality — something natural and honest.

They are not painted, but placed above the work as a new dimension. Transparent plexiglass that catches the light and changes with the angle from which it is seen. As if you are looking through a different lens. The same reality, but deepened.

At the bottom something earthly appeared.
Raw wool. From the sheep. Dyed in the same colours as the painting. The soft, the tangible — life that also needs ground beneath it.

And then the question arose: can the canvas carry this?

Just as a person sometimes needs a stronger spine to move forward, the work itself needed reinforcement. The back of the panel was strengthened. Then the building began: drilling, fixing, creating space between the layers. Wooden beads became small carriers of that space, like planets in a galaxy — part of the universe, just like you and me.

The process was technical.
But it was also a metaphor.

About how a human being grows. Not by adding something new, but by deepening into what was already there. The form remains the same, but the colours change.

For me this work is about gentleness.
First towards myself.
And from there, towards the world.

In that stillness, there is strength.

Power of Stillness

The form had always been there.
Only the light changed.
And in that new light
it became visible
what had been whole
all along.

Power of Stillness

 

March 6, 2026

They say the last stretch is the hardest. Unfortunately, that was certainly the case today. My painting is finally finished, but it did cause quite a stir.

Through a moment of inattention I fell very hard. I twisted my left knee, and my ankle is now swollen, deep purple and painful. I also fell flat on my back. Let’s knock on wood — strangely enough I don’t feel my hips yet, even though that has been a weak spot for me for years. It really was a heavy fall.

Now I am sitting on my bed writing this little piece, in quite a bit of pain.

Still, I may be mistaken, but I have the feeling that I won’t be as badly off as I would have been in past years. Because of my daily training I think I have gained more strength in my body to recover from this — like a healthy person would. At least, that’s how it feels. Maybe it is wishful thinking. But something in me is different.

A moment ago my husband asked if I would like to have a glass of wine to toast the completion of my work.

After two glasses of wine I am now a little tipsy. I’m not used to drinking alcohol. So it is also a bit exciting to see how I will finish writing this blog piece. If something goes wrong, it will be because I allow myself to be carried away by my mood instead of paying attention to my own actions. My clarity seems somewhat blurred at the moment.

My painting, my work, is finished. It is my own creation. It is the result of years of being myself, up to this moment. There are many things I have done, and many things I think could have been done better. But I cannot and do not want to keep control over that. I have to let it go.

My mind is creative. Creative with thoughts.

By observing myself and my work I see light blue and lilac light — the colors of my spiritual awakening. I see transparent and frost-like circles that refine or soften. I see stillness, silence and movement. The gold rising through the cracks. It symbolizes the beauty of loss, failure and pain.

Life sometimes feels like chaos, but in reality it is almost a mathematical pattern in which we move and in which we may place our trust. I think of quantum physics, and I am convinced that even that goes another dimension further.

All I can do is translate a cosmic movement with earthly precision and sensitivity.

Working on Power of Stillness brings out all the aspects of who I am at this moment.

And in the final stretch I crossed my own boundary once more — by falling, shouting at my husband, and now, after two glasses of wine, feeling a little drunk.

What am I drunk on?

On releasing my deepest movements?
On the flow that took over for more than a week?
On exposing transparency?

Or simply on exhaustion?

Perhaps completion is always a little dizzying.
Because something that lived inside you for a long time
is finally allowed to enter the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maintenance and Liberating

March 4, 2026

This morning I woke up with a word that had remained from a night full of dreams: liberating. Not liberation, but liberating. The difference was even corrected in the dream. “No,” was said when I thought the word liberation. Not an end point, but a movement. Not something that is achieved, but something that creates space while life simply continues.

The night before, another word had lingered: maintenance. I hadn’t written it down. I was tired and went to bed early. But when I thought about it this morning, it seemed as if those two words followed each other. First maintenance, then something liberating. As if a system first asks for care and attention before movement can arise again.

It did not feel grand or spectacular. More like gentle sobriety. Calm. Moving stillness.

Moving stillness — that is actually the best way to describe it. Not stagnation, but not restlessness either. A current that moves without making noise.

And somewhere in that quiet the word ether appeared. Not as a thought that needed reflection, but as a clear knowing. Space and connection at the same time. Because space is connection. Without space, connection suffocates. Without connection, space becomes empty.

Perhaps that is also why my dreams lately seem to need fewer and fewer images. Sometimes only a word remains. And that is enough.

I woke up fully alert, took my beads apart, and began the day.

Perhaps that is what liberating means. Not that everything is solved, but that enough space appears to start moving again.

And that is exactly what happened: movement.

First training, and then continuing with my painting. At least that was the plan. Ton had taken the car to a garage, and I started pre-drilling the beads I had made. Outside it was bright and sunny. I realized I still needed screws and thought I could pick them up by bicycle at a hardware store ten kilometers away. Being outside — fresh air, wind, sun — perfect.

It seemed like a healthy way to take some distance from my creation.

After cycling twenty-six kilometers we returned home, with screws, but also quite tired. After resting for an hour I continued working on the painting. It is fun and exciting, but also an intensive task.

When I began to feel my muscles again, I decided that tomorrow is another day. I can simply stop.

A liberating thought.

And better maintenance of myself than I have been used to giving.

Am I finally going to learn it?

This responsibility, freedom, and love for myself?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing Is Enough

 

March 3, 2026

“Hello, we were unable to deliver your package to your address.
New delivery location: THE LORD SERVICE 2 OUDE VEER PAPENDRECHT, 3353 GS.”

I am simply at home. No one rings the doorbell. And then I receive this email. This happens so often. In the past, I would truly get angry about it. Filed complaints and so on. They don’t feel like coming by, so they prefer to take it straight to a pickup point. That way the driver gets off work earlier. Understandable — it’s nice weather.

The pickup point, if I’m unlucky, has the same issue: not processing it right away because people want to sit on a terrace as soon as possible. So with a bit of luck, tomorrow.

Sa Ta Na Ma. Breathe in, breathe out.

I feel irritation — practical irritation, because it simply isn’t true.
But also an old charge. In the past, this would really make me angry. Not anymore. I see the mechanism. I even relativize it now, because I can also see the human side.

In the past, this was one of those moments when my sense of justice would fully switch on. The invisibility. Not being taken seriously. Not ringing the doorbell.

That touches something old in me.
My nervous system now remains calm.

In my self-realization course, I always tried to help people find the form — not the color, but that one container concept that more or less determines their life. Once they find that one word, they begin to recognize the thousands of colors in which it appears.

What lies underneath for me is that I am allergic to any form of manipulation.
What UPS is doing now is also a form of manipulation.

The form is called manipulation.
The color can have thousands of different expressions.
In the end, the container concept is: MANIPULATION.

My childhood was full of it.

My body recognizes it immediately. This is not about the package that wasn’t properly delivered. The words in the email do not match the behavior. The truth is shifted, responsibility is denied. And with that, my intuition is undermined.

That is what I am allergic to.

My nervous system recognizes the pattern before my mind analyzes it. That touches me — I notice it again and again. A reality is being created that does not align with what is true. And that is exactly what manipulation does.

What is remarkable is that I still register it physically right away, but I no longer become angry. I can now better distinguish between their behavior and my reality. Seeing is enough. That already brings peace.

Through these small events — which nevertheless contain the container concept that has shaped much of my life — I can observe a shift in my response.

The form will always remain a theme.
I will continue to recognize and acknowledge more colors.
My reaction will move more and more toward calm and acceptance.

That is where my inner growth lies.

What does not align, I recognize.
What I recognize, I no longer need to fight.
Seeing is sometimes already liberation.

 

 

 

 

 

Millimeter Work

 

March 2, 2026

After spending two days mostly in bed again, I was able to go train early this morning. Hours of painting in a row had been just a bit too much. Less than usual, because I had gone to bed on time. Still, I need to take more rest breaks — even if it simply means setting my timer to go off every hour so I take a fifteen-minute pause.

My slow rehabilitation after the stroke succeeded, so holding onto this agreement with myself while working is something I can — and simply must — do.

For my creation I needed wooden slats, screws, new drill bits, and a work plank.

Ton came up with the idea of asking the sawmill about leftover scrap wood. I would not have thought of that myself — but why not? At the sawmill he is given a plank from the waste bin. They do mention that it is actually not allowed.

At the checkout, Ton honestly explains how he got the plank. The woman in question, rather large in stature, stands in front of him with her legs apart, hands on her hips, chest and chin thrust forward, and says in a curt, harsh tone:
“That’s not allowed! Take that plank back.”

Ton tries to say something in a friendly way. She does not listen, remains in her confrontational posture, and repeats relentlessly:
“It’s not allowed!”

Ton calmly walks back to the sawmill. I step aside and wait around a corner, somewhere I can no longer see this woman. Still, I continue to feel this unkind behavior in my body. Even later, in the car, the feeling has not disappeared.

“Why do I always keep feeling these kinds of things for so long?” I say to Ton.
I don’t understand why people act like that. I don’t like it.
Is that really what I’m asking myself? Or am I simply angry?
Well… I don’t know.

With a restless feeling, we drive to another hardware store. As soon as we enter, I hear a cashier speaking cheerfully. We walk to the saw section at the back of the store. An employee says:
“Oh yes, there’s a large bin in the back. Just have a look and see if there’s something you can use.”

So friendly.

The woman at the checkout is happy for us that we found a suitable plank. I tell her that her cheerful mood and customer friendliness have made my day better again.

We stop by the supermarket on the way home. In front of it Ton says, “Just park the car here for a moment, I’ll be right back.”

While I’m standing there, a huge truck approaches. He drives straight toward me and deliberately blocks me in. A young driver turns on his high beams and calmly sits there waiting. I have to make strange maneuvers to get out. Millimeter work. Half over a high curb.

I drive around and find another spot. Then I see him simply reverse his truck. So yes — deliberate teasing.

Fortunately, the cheerfulness of the cashier was still lingering, and I was able to smile at this petty behavior.

Once home, I immediately started sawing and drilling. One hour — and then I wisely stopped.

My plan to visit my sister in the hospital, I let go. Tomorrow is another day.

Normally, once I am up, I immediately carry out everything I have in mind. Now I have to make choices and distribute my energy more wisely.

It worked today.

But… still much to learn in that regard.

What touches me may be there.
What exhausts me may wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Emerges Is Allowed to Be

 

March 1, 2026

I never know exactly what I am going to make.
I begin.

A first layer of gold and silver. I know it “eats” the acrylic. How exactly, I don’t know. I once discovered that by accident. Almost everything I can do, I have learned this way — by doing. Not through manuals, but through curiosity.

If something turns out differently than I expected, I don’t call it a failure. I continue with it. I have never thrown anything away because it “wasn’t good.” Sometimes I store a work in my studio. Years later, it suddenly reappears. As if it has been waiting for me.

This painting began to eat. The gold crept into the cracks, the top layer pulled open. I could keep watching it as it dried. That moment always feels magical to me. I do nothing, and yet everything happens. The material continues working.

It made me so happy. Truly happy. Not proud in the sense of “look at me.” But joyful. Content. Every step felt right. As if I were listening to something inside me that knew exactly what needed to happen.

I realize that in ordinary life I may not always have had enough self-respect. That I adapted, swallowed things, held myself back. But the moment I create, that disappears. There is no doubt. There is no negotiation. What emerges is allowed to be.

I never find anything I make ugly. Not even the wasp’s nest. Because it is always honest. It is a step in a process. And every step is right in that moment.

Now I already see what the next addition will be. It will gain an extra dimension. Light and shadow. I still need to call technicians to ask how to handle the material. In my mind, the image is complete. But from experience I know it will change during the making. It usually does. And it almost always becomes better than what I could have imagined beforehand.

That may be the most beautiful part of all.

I am simply happy and content with what I create.
And that is enough.

In the act of making, I am not smaller.
There is no doubt, no judgment, no negotiation.
There, I listen.
And what I hear takes form.

 

 

 

 

 

The Magic Wand Is Not Needed

 

February 28, 2026

Someone asked me:
“If you could instantly be healed by a magic spell, would you want that?”

I had never asked myself that question before. It is interesting. Because in moments when things feel heavy, I often think about what it would be like to simply walk. Or how life would feel without pain. But to stand there — point blank — with the choice to suddenly be healthy?

When I thought about it more deeply, I wondered: what would I get in return?
Would I still be such a persevering person?
Would I still search for ways to make life more livable?
Would it benefit my creativity?
Would I still look at people the way I do?
Would the HALO effect begin to operate in a healthy Annette?
Is that something to be happy about?
Would I want to be like my healthy friends?

All those questions rushed through my mind.

Has my disability not shaped me into who I am now?
I strongly feel that I can — and may — be content with who I am.

Some people acquire scars during life. Some are born with them. A few seem to have some kind of free pass and encounter little pain or sorrow.

I am also blessed in that the storms I encountered were not immediately felt by me as insurmountable obstacles.

Because of the question, I suddenly felt light, like a butterfly.

I thought of a butterfly emerging from her cocoon. She must struggle to break free so that afterward she is strong enough to fly. If you help the butterfly out of her cocoon too quickly, she will not be strong enough. She may flutter briefly, then land and die.

In a way, this applies to people as well.

Perhaps this sounds dramatic, but in that sense I was born with fortune. No golden spoon, but a powerful beginning — with the possibility of becoming mentally strong enough to withstand all elements.

In short: the magic wand is not needed.
The magic lives within me.

No magic spell.
Just living.
Which turns out to be magic already.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bruised Grass

 

February 27, 2026

“Where you place your attention, that is your life…” I read in a magazine.

Goodness. That is quite a statement. In my case, it means my life is far more colorful than one might think at first glance.

What people can see on the outside:
I get up, write down my dream if I still remember it. Wash, eat, train. Stay home when the weather is bad. Write, paint. When the weather is good, I cycle or walk with the little dogs. Every now and then, a visit to a museum.

On the inside:
I see and hear so much passing by. My associative memory is always in a kind of overdrive. I watch many films and series. Every day there is something I have seen or heard that stays with me.

It gives my life its color. Out of curiosity, I often look things up — to understand what something is really about, or simply to know more.

Since the age of twenty-four, I have been declared 100% disabled. And yet my days are always full, and I am truly never bored. Human behavior, nature, art, science — you name it. There is almost nothing that does not interest me.

Later that day I came across a poem by Jeong Ho-Seung. I would like to share it:

__

Grass, too, has its bruises.
Petals, too, have their bruises.
Walking across a field that I used to walk with you,
I sit to watch the changing evening colors
as leaves of grass speckled with bruises wave their hands.
It’s the petals with many bruises
that have the sweetest scent.
—

What a beautiful image to express the pain and vulnerability of life in this way. The beauty of nature — which I often use as a metaphor myself. The sweet fragrance released from bruised petals. The inner richness that can be found through hardship.

The blades of grass sway in the wind despite their bruised tips. How beautifully resilience and acceptance are described here. It also shows that we all carry pains and scars within us. In that, we can find connection through communication. Every blade of grass is unique, and at the same time, just a blade of grass like any other.

The peace of simply being a bruised blade of grass brings me closer to the essence.

For me, the essence is very small in its greatness.

What is bruised still breathes.
And sometimes, it even smells sweeter.

 

 

 

 

Friendship

 

february 26, 2026

On the radio I hear an interview with someone who is currently performing in the theater with a theme very much of our time.
He tells how, during the corona period, he was gaming online. There he met a boy in Norway with whom he later developed intensive online contact. He experiences this as a true friendship. That is why he wrote a theater piece around this theme.

He also has a friend with whom he plays squash once a week, followed by a beer and conversation. Personally, he does not consider one friendship to be inferior to the other. In both cases there is connection. In both cases there is an exchange of personal thoughts and experiences.

Interesting, I think.

It brings me back to my mother, who once wrote letters to my father in the Dutch East Indies. After his death, she destroyed those letters. They contained an intimacy meant only for the two of them, not for anyone else.
I also think of my sister, who for a long time communicated with her current husband only through letters. They fell in love without physical contact. She experienced those letters as deeply intimate.

Why should an online friendship not be placed within that same framework?

Can we really speak of online versus “real life”?
That would diminish online communication, as if it does not belong to real life.

Perhaps the theme of that theater piece is indeed: online versus in person.

What are the differences?

In person — you smell someone. You see someone, not only their appearance but how they move, how they are present.
Online — no optical noise. More focus. Perhaps, because of that, even more depth.

Could it be that when one sense falls away, another sense becomes stronger? Or perhaps even something like a sixth sense? As sometimes happens with people who have a disability, where the loss of one faculty deepens another.

I find this way of rethinking things, like Loesje, refreshing.

With the energy of my training still in my body and the conversation on the radio lingering in my mind, I can continue my day with good courage.

Perhaps true closeness is not about distance or proximity,
but about attention.

Whether you sit across from one another
or thousands of miles apart —
where words land
and silence is shared,
there friendship lives.

 

 

 

 

 

Liberating Self-Respect

 

February 25, 2026

My body reacts to a sentence I hear:
Men fight the hardest when they have been neglected by their mother.

This is how it works for me: I see something and can always recall that image. Or I hear something and it lingers close within my awareness. Sometimes I encounter the theme later in life. Sometimes it speaks immediately. The first thing I do is ask myself: why does this stay with me?

Do immediate clues arise? Can I do something with it right away? If not, it can be parked. It will present itself when the time is right. That can vary from a day to years. Eventually it falls into place like a puzzle piece.

This sentence immediately brings me to my brothers. To our family. What do I stumble over?

I experience the stereotyping as problematic because it links behavior to gender and points to a single cause. Human behavior is rarely mono-causal. Attachment, temperament, culture, parenting style, genetics, social position — everything plays a role. This quote is powerful because it is vivid, not because it is complete.

Neglect affects every child, doesn’t it? One may fight, dominate, compete. Another withdraws, adapts, or becomes a perfectionist. Yet another develops hyper-responsibility or empathic over-sensitivity.

What happens to people who receive too much love and protection? Could that not lead to fear of failure or strong dependency? Or to rebellion in order to feel autonomous? Is it not true that too much protection can be just as limiting as too little care? It is more subtle, I think.

Do the two extremes automatically create opposite characters? Or is it not as straightforward as a saying suggests?

Isn’t the core question for everyone simply:
Am I safe being myself?

Is there not always something contained within a quote, a proverb, a saying? And yet — isn’t it too short-sighted? Isn’t it more like looking through a lens than looking at the whole landscape?

Is a quote sometimes used as something to hide behind? To avoid taking responsibility?

My thoughts go to my father. He was almost glued together with proverbs and sayings. Perhaps that is where my resistance lies when I hear such interpretations.

My father did not take responsibility for the dysfunction of my mother. He saw it, even acknowledged it, but he was not willing to correct it, to stand up against it, or to help us as children.

I feel no sadness, but I do find it regrettable that he did not take more from his life. That he did not gather the courage. That belongs to him, not to me.

More and more I am beginning to recognize my subtle resistances. That is beautiful.

This morning I felt in a different way that I do not always have to be the one who steps toward others in order to generate interest in me. If someone wants to read my dreams or blog, they can save my website on their phone. I stop facilitating. I stop carrying. I stop adjusting.

It feels liberating. It has to do with priority. How much do I have or feel that for myself?

This is a small shift with enormous inner impact. Tears come to my eyes as I write this. Not out of sadness, but out of liberating self-respect.

What I no longer carry
does not fall apart.
It returns to where it belongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing Has To. Everything Is Possible.

 

February 24, 2026

Over the past months I have been intensely focused on training, getting fitter, and writing my dreams and blog. Several times ideas flew through me to start painting or creating something. But I noticed there was no response or action within me to actually bring them into form.

Today something shifted. How shall I put it? It’s tingling. But the flow isn’t fully there yet.

In the past, when the flow came, I would shut myself away in my studio. I would work as if in a trance. I let whatever emerged from me unfold and would go on day and night if necessary. It was fine if someone brought me food or something to drink, but I became irritated if they wanted to talk to me.
When I finished, I usually collapsed completely and often needed weeks to recover from such a creative outburst.

Until now, my life consisted of either running or standing still. When I felt good, I extracted everything from it as if these were my last moments in this life. Afterwards came a total breakdown — sick in bed — in order to come to a halt again.

There has always been an acceptance that this was simply how I functioned. This is how I want to live, and the people around me must accept that. After all, I am already grateful to still be here.

After my stroke — which ultimately had more impact on me than the neurological condition I have lived with my entire life — something changed.

During the first six months of rehabilitation, I could not improve myself through brute force or endurance. This path required patience, careful pacing, and honest attunement. Not perseverance, but resilience. Not hardening, but softness. Not a destination, but alignment.

Never before had I felt the need to approach something slowly or in a reduced way. Now I had no choice. And it brought me to a new insight.

Do I want to grow old? YES.
Then I will have to distribute my energy calmly. Pushing my limits is no longer necessary. If it’s too heavy? Stop. Continue at another moment. Listen to my body — it quickly signals resistance.

I have been doing this for a year now. I feel calm. Freed from all the “shoulds.” From all the stress I imposed on myself.

These days I do it differently. I no longer work in my studio but in the living room. There is a lot of light there, and my work remains part of life itself. It can literally continue speaking to me. Now I simply try to go to bed and trust that the flow will not disappear. This way I no longer exhaust myself.

The tables are set up in the living room. The canvas, foam, wool, and paint are waiting for me.

Nothing has to. Everything is possible.

What a wonderfully peaceful feeling.

What grows slowly takes deeper root.
What is not forced, remains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Showing Up in a Mysterious Life

 

February 23, 2026

On Netflix I watched The Last Words of Eric Dane. A handsome, athletic actor who passed away last Thursday, February 19, from ALS. He was fifty-three years old.

The mystery of life in its pure outward form. Why does something like this happen to a healthy, successful person? As everyone has experienced or witnessed in their own surroundings — a child, a vibrant person, suddenly ill, in an accident, gone. How is it possible? Why? Is there a purpose to it? Is there a purpose at all? In short, life is mysterious.

I am writing now from the memory of watching this interview. In doing so, it becomes clear to me what specifically stayed with me.

A few things stood out…

• He spoke about the discrepancy between his inner world and his outer world. About being a sensitive, vulnerable person with many insecurities, feeling he had never been enough. The outside world saw him as this handsome, successful actor. That friction had always been there. He also reflected on a history of alcohol and drug abuse.

• His father ended his own life when he was seven years old. His mother was young and could not fully sense or understand the impact on her son. He was raised by his grandmother, whom he loved deeply, but she passed away only a few months later. According to Dane, trauma never completely disappears because it becomes encapsulated at a cellular level. You can learn to live with it — that is all.

• He had never truly been able to open himself to people, yet this illness made him softer, more open, more available.

• All the outer layers and participation in life are slowly stripped away. What remains is simply the person he is.

The interviewer responded:
“So it has literally flipped — from inwardly closed and outwardly open, to inwardly open and outwardly closed.”

Beautifully said. Because that is how I see it too — a transformation within matter before the transformation into the immaterial presents itself.

When asked what makes a good father, or a good human being, Dane answered: “Showing up.”

Wow. That is so true. Being present at moments that matter to your loved ones. Being there for your friends simply by coming.

It briefly brought me back to my own parents, who never came to watch a sports game, a performance, or anything else we did as children. They did not even attend graduation ceremonies. Nothing at all.

If you ask me whether that was a trauma, I have to honestly say I did not experience it that way. It was simply normal for us children.

I do wonder whether I have done this enough for my own children. Being there when it is needed. I believe I attended performances and graduation ceremonies, yes. Visiting friends is something I do little of. But being there when it truly matters — that I do.

In any case, I found “Showing up” to be a striking answer.

After my stroke, much has changed within me as well. I am still here. And I hope to continue hopping around on this earth for a long time to come.

Why one person becomes ill and another does not — we do not know. Whether there is a purpose in it remains an open question. But I do see that illness can create a shift. That it can strip away layers. That it can bring someone closer to who they truly are.

Perhaps that is the only thing we can do in the time we are given — to appear.
To show up.
Simply come. Be present.
In this inexplicable, mysterious life.

What is taken away sometimes reveals what was already there.
A human being without decoration.
A heart that finally dares to appear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Inner Architecture

February 22, 2026

My inner architecture is not about walls and roofs, but about how space, color, and life take shape within me. Looking at houses is not an odd habit for me — it is a way of being.

For as long as I can remember, I have looked at houses with real estate agents. In the Netherlands, abroad, at the edge of forests, with large open spaces and deep gardens. Preferably with a piece of woodland of their own. I often know exactly what is for sale. Not because I am dissatisfied with where I live. On the contrary. I am always happy to be home. I often say it out loud: “What a lovely house we have.” Ton laughs at that. He knows how important my own space is to me. And he is part of that space.

Still, I look. Curious. Hopeful. Not to possess, but to feel. How does the light fall? Where would my work hang? How would the floor flow? What does this house want? I impose nothing; I attune. First the house, then the sofa. First the space, then the color. My current home is turquoise and green, with marmoleum Asian Tiger under my feet. Sheltered. Like a place in the forest in the middle of chaos. It carries me. It regulates me. I have learned to make every place I live my own, whether large or small. Tidy disorder. Everything has its place, yet you can see that life happens here.

And yet, slowly, another image is forming. Soft yellow walls. Light. An orangery. My paintings and texts together. A wall where visitors may write or paint if they wish. They don’t have to — they may. Solid stairways so people can choose their position. High, low, close, at a distance. Not a gallery, but a field. Welcome. Rest. Moving stillness.

I notice that my path does not change in form, only in color. From forest green to yellow. From shelter to openness. Not because my life now is lacking, but because it is ripening. I dream without rejecting my present existence. If it ever becomes reality, beautiful. If not, I will continue painting and writing as I eat and sleep. It is daily hygiene of body and mind.

Perhaps that is my inner architecture. I do not build walls to protect myself, but spaces in which I can breathe. And when I cycle past a house, my imagination immediately begins to arrange it. Not out of lack, but out of vitality. Some people walk into clothing stores. I walk into real estate agencies. They ask: what suits me? I ask: where do I belong?

Perhaps my dreams are neither deception nor literal truth, but direction. An organic image that forms without haste. I do not need to force anything. I listen. And when something is right, I know it. KLARO.

What color is your inner architecture? And do you already live in a sheltered place — or are you ready for light?

What am I truly building when I look at houses?
Is it a dream of stone — or of space within myself?
When does shelter become light?
And do I dare to trust that my inner architecture will always bring me home?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trix, a Waterfall and a City Full of Animals – Naturalis and Zootropolis 2

 

21 February 2026

Yesterday we visited the Naturalis Biodiversity Center in Leiden with our granddaughters. In the great hall stood Trix, the nearly complete Tyrannosaurus rex who carries no complicated Latin name there, but is simply called Trix. The girls were a little restless at first, but the moment we stepped inside something shifted. High ceilings, bones larger than their entire bodies, time suddenly no longer a number but a space you could stand beneath.

“This is the most impressive,” they said without consulting each other.
I asked why.

Because she is almost entirely complete.
Because you can really see her.
And because she has a name.

That last part stayed with me. A skeleton is old, distant, millions of years gone. But give it a name and it becomes someone. Something you can relate to. Something that remains.

A City Full of Animals

Today we sat in the cinema watching Zootropolis 2. A city full of animals, all different. Big, small, predator, prey, fast, cautious. In the car I asked what the film was really about. They searched for words. I helped a little.

About differences.
About how being different does not mean being dangerous.
That you are not automatically right simply because you are you.
That another perspective can make your world larger instead of smaller.

They listened, looked out of the window, lost in thought. It wasn’t a grand conversation. Just a gentle back-and-forth movement of ideas.

A Jungle with a Waterfall

At home they began painting with my materials. Paint on their hands, brushes between their fingers, aprons that are actually too big.

One called her painting Mini Jungle. In the center a waterfall falls. Not a thin line, but a firm, light stream running from top to bottom. You can see the brushstrokes as water. Dark walls on either side, bright green grass below. A leopard sits at the front and watches. A monkey hangs, birds fly. Everything lives. The waterfall does not divide the jungle; it flows through it.

The other painted a Tropical Sunset. An enormous yellow sun half sinking into the water, a sky of purple and red that is not careful, birds in the distance, a palm tree silhouetted in black against the color. It is large, almost cinematic. They give their world a name, and in doing so it becomes theirs.

As I sit there and watch, I see the line between yesterday and today.
Trix received a name and became someone instead of a species.
In the film, animals learned not to reduce each other to boxes.
At my table, colors blend without fear.
And in the middle of a jungle, water falls.

Movement between dark and light.

I don’t have to make anything of it. It is enough simply to see it. Perhaps that is what I most want to pass on: space where differences are allowed to exist, where something receives a name and comes closer, where a waterfall may simply flow without someone insisting it divides the jungle in two.

If I am honest, I feel something warm there. No grand pride, no educational triumph. Just gratitude that I am allowed to sit there while their worlds come into being.

Trix received a name.
A jungle received a waterfall.
A sunset received color unafraid of purple next to red.

Perhaps that is all we do.
Not making each other smaller than we are.
Not reducing one another to species, role, or difference.

At my table, water flows through paint.
And I sit there.
And watch.

 

 

 

 

 

 Balm

20 February 2026

Ton and I went to Naturalis Biodiversity Center in Leiden with two of our grandchildren. The building itself is already a pleasure to look at. Red-orange rough natural stone blocks, with an edge probably cast in concrete but shaped with molds reminiscent of the designs in the clothing of Iris van Herpen. Undulating, textured, almost fossil-like. Windows in evenly spaced organic forms like a honeycomb or an almond shape from Benoit Mandelbrot. The parking garage with two large half-spheres resembling the compound eye of an insect.

I was already happily surprised before even entering the museum. Inside, these windows form an enormous atrium that lets in abundant light. It was very busy — many parents with children. Clearly school holidays. And yet this museum breathes light and space.

In the first hall, “Life,” you encounter a great diversity of animals. From sea creatures to land animals, birds, insects — biodiversity. In this room I could immediately feel that I am part of this immense diversity. I am part of this organic system. It made me instantly humble.

The next hall, “The Earth,” makes you feel how small we actually are. The Earth is 4.6 billion years old and still in motion. Forces of volcanoes, earthquakes, tectonic plates. Yes, I genuinely felt immersed and carried along by this museum.

There were halls dedicated to the Ice Age, to seduction (how animals flirt and mate), and to early humans. This hall contained only one early human; the rest had once been excavated during the Dutch colonial period in Indonesia and have been returned to their country of origin. It did me good to see this stated so clearly and prominently. Also that, as a result, a dark black room had been created — almost as an equivalent of the dark period the colonized countries endured. I do not know whether everyone would interpret it this way, but that is how I felt it.

Then we entered the “Age of Dinosaurs.” Oh my God, how impressive it was. The famous T-Rex, the astonishingly large Triceratops and many more, 66 to 240 million years old. A turtle from 145 million years ago, still recognizable today. I said to my granddaughter, “As humans, we should have enormous respect for species that have been moving on this earth far longer than we have.” In this hall I felt awe and a kind of vicarious shame for the arrogance of humanity. The sense that we still know so little about the Earth and her universe.

The last hall we visited was “Death.” In the “labyrinth of death,” you discover how death and life ultimately come together. Beautifully expressed and, in my eyes, profoundly true — that death literally gives life. Because in the cycle of nature they both belong. How fitting that there is a hall about death in a museum about all of life.

Ton initially came along mainly to be a loving grandfather, not necessarily because he wanted to visit this museum. He too was pleasantly surprised and impressed by how beautiful, interesting, and thoughtfully composed it is.

It was like balm for my soul.

Amid bones, stones, and millions of years
I found no heaviness
but space.
I am small —
and precisely because of that
I belong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom in Love

February 19, 2026

Tonight a sentence from a Korean series lingered with me:
Pain is the proof of life.
Pain lives inside us.
Having someone next to you to share your pain with reduces your pain.

I immediately thought: life begins with pain. Birth is not a gentle entrance. The first breath is a shock. The first movement is separation. Perhaps pain does not only belong to the end of life, but also to the beginning.

In the series, it was about sharing pain. About having someone beside you. About recognizing each other’s pain. I noticed that this is not familiar territory for me. I do not easily accept being comforted. I find comforting someone else complicated. When it becomes too much — too intense, too close — it feels suffocating. Then resistance arises. Then I want space. I prefer to determine my own possibilities.

During dinner I told Ton that I sometimes miss my friend who passed away almost two years ago. I had two “besties”; now I have one. I also told him about my mother-in-law, who lost her three closest friends and then literally said she no longer wanted to live. A few months later, she was gone. Perhaps I am always preparing myself for being alone. That sounds harsh. But it does not feel that way. It feels more like autonomy. A way to remain standing, whatever happens.

In that same conversation it became clear to me what truly suffocates me: not love, but panic. When something happens to me and the other person becomes unsettled, I feel tension. I want to stand beside someone who remains standing. Not someone who collapses when I am vulnerable.

And then something remarkable happened. When the words Freedom in Love were spoken, a painting suddenly returned to me. Forty years old. I do not know where it is — perhaps in the storage downstairs. But the image was clear. A soft light-blue background, almost lilac. Like gentle rippling waves. Two thirds of the canvas showed a chalice, transparent like glass or crystal. From the chalice came golden rays like feathers, and also rays in all the colors of the rainbow. Inside the chalice three tears fell back — two small ones and one large tear. It was a soft painting. I remember that. No explosion. No drama. No wall. A chalice.

Perhaps I already knew then what I am rediscovering now: pain belongs to life. But pain does not have to lead to disintegration. The tears did not fall away. They did not disappear into the ground. They were received. Back into the chalice. Perhaps that is love for me. Not fusion. Not dependency. But freedom within connection. Being able to be soft without losing yourself. Being vulnerable without the other collapsing. Perhaps my knowing has always been clear. But knowing needs depth. And gentleness. And perhaps becoming softer is not a loss of freedom, but its deepest form.

Perhaps life begins with pain.
Perhaps it ends with it as well.
But in between
a chalice may exist
that receives everything —
without breaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perception

 

February 17, 2026

The older I get, the more often I find myself wondering how real my memories actually are.

A conversation with my son about how he experienced my way of functioning in the past set something in motion. Not dramatic. But honest.

My sister and I have been close throughout our entire adult lives. Yet our memories sometimes turn out to be completely different. She remembers things that have disappeared from my mind. And the reverse is just as true.

My youngest daughter does not wish to have contact for now, because she does not feel seen in her pain.
Ton — whom I have known for almost fifty years — sees and experiences certain things differently than I do.

And yet I know one thing for certain: we are all people with the best intentions.

How, then, can memories diverge so widely?

I believe perception arises from an interplay of conscious and unconscious processes. The situations we find ourselves in. Conditioning — even within the same family, completely different. Experiences, opinions, media, the spirit of the times. No one lives through exactly the same reality.

Our unique perception determines how we see the world — and how we behave. Sometimes something cannot land because you are not ready for it. Sometimes it lands deeply in the other person and leaves a mark. That does not mean one is lying and the other is telling the truth. They are different truths, shaped from different inner worlds.

My underlying life philosophy has always remained the same. It has matured, but at its core it is constant.
My behavior has not always been. From physical and mental pain I could be sharp. Harsh in words. And in that sharpness I have hurt people — sometimes too deeply. I see that more clearly now. It was never my intention to cause pain. But intention and impact are not the same.

We are human. Conditioned, activated, reacting.

For me, the process unfolded in stages.
– First, understanding.
– Then, living through the pain — that took the longest.
– And now, integrating.

No longer as an image that defines me, but as knowledge that I carry. That is the phase I am living in now. And beneath everything, I still feel the same current: unconditional love for the people around me.

Not perfect.
Not without mistakes.
But real.

Perhaps truth is not a fixed image,
but a collection of inner worlds touching each other.
What we call memory is often a lens.
And love begins where we no longer try to break each other’s lens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Movement

February 16, 2026

In a world fighting obesity, you see gyms popping up like mushrooms everywhere. Movement is healthy — not only physically, but mentally as well.

For me, movement has always been heavy. At the very least, laborious. My body is conditioned to conserve energy, so that at crucial moments — doing groceries, making an appointment — I can walk at all. As long as no additional condition interferes — flu, bruises, a torn meniscus, tachycardia, or a stroke — my health remains stable. But there was never energy left to truly move. The result: twenty extra kilos.

At the end of December 2025, for the first time, all additional complaints disappeared. There was space. Since then, I go to the E-gym every morning — except Sundays. I feel better, physically and mentally. The scale rises at first, because muscle develops before fat burns. My body tightens, my shape visibly changes. My overall well-being shifts from a 7 to a 9. The world feels calmer.

I work on my body without pushing myself over the edge. I recognize the process from forty years ago, when I began practicing kundalini yoga daily. Nerves tingling and vibrating throughout my body. For healthy people, that’s an alarm signal. For me, it’s a sign that something is trying to come alive. Not fear. Move through it.

Then comes the “elastic feeling.” As if you are a soft doll that could collapse like pudding. It doesn’t happen, but that’s how it feels. Unfamiliar. Unsafe. Muscles announcing themselves. Healthy people feel that quickly. For me, it takes months of daily training before I truly notice something has changed. Then the slack elastic disappears. Then the real work begins — training as if you have a healthy body. That is where I am now. So happy.

Ton is ill. Normally he does the groceries. Now there were a few things on the list, and I went to get them without any resistance. Outside, a sudden downpour breaks loose, hailstones crashing down. Within seconds I am soaked.

And I… I am completely happy.

The freedom in my body. The calm in my mind. It feels like heaven on earth. That the elements add an extra dimension only shows how deeply rooted this feeling has become.

At home, Ton, the dogs, and the cat are asleep. I sit in the silence. And I feel how all the cells in my body, and all the atoms around me, gently move along.

In life, silence exists.
But not stillness.

Movement is not speed.
It is permission to live.
Even in hail, even in effort.
And precisely there, I feel freedom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom

 

14 February 2026

Because of the assumptions I often hear about my condition, my thoughts naturally drift toward philosophical reflections. What does something actually mean? For me — and for someone else?

The word. How is a word used? What weight do you attach to it? Does that change its meaning — or does it make it heavier?

Today it is about one word: freedom.

When I think of it, my first association is: being able to move freely. Healthy people rarely think about that. For them, movement is self-evident. For me, it is not. So here already, meaning begins to differ.

For someone in prison, freedom means being outside. Going wherever you want. For a Westerner, freedom often means being able to say whatever you think. In other countries, that is impossible. Not having to go to school. Not having to work. No obligation. No compulsion. That can feel like freedom. Having money to buy what you want. Being able to act. To choose.

But then the reversal.

If you are disabled — can you not experience freedom? If you are imprisoned — does freedom not exist? If you are poor, limited, dependent — is freedom impossible? Or does it lie somewhere else?

I once heard an Arab man say:
“Freedom is forgiveness.”

That landed deeply.

In some languages and religious traditions, freedom is connected to letting go. To not holding on. To no longer carrying guilt, resentment, blame. Within my own life philosophy, that makes sense.

For me, freedom is not an external condition. It is an inner state. In the silence I always seek — and find — I encounter strength. Insight. Autonomy. That silence is not emptiness. It is the eye of the storm. Outside, it rages. Inside, something builds.

Especially in difficult moments, I return to that place. There, I feel freedom. Not because there are no limitations, but because I no longer resist what is.

After the silence, the storm may continue. I know I can face it.

This source — this silence — is my core. There I find freedom, regardless of circumstances. And perhaps — just perhaps — this is something every human being carries within. Especially when life on the outside is not cooperating.

Freedom is not the disappearance of limits.
It is the release of what binds me from within.
In silence, compulsion dissolves.
And what remains — moves freely.

 

 

 

 

 

The Nanosecond

13 February 2026

The heart clinic’s blood service called today to schedule an appointment for Monday. Unfortunately, they couldn’t set a specific time.
“Do you have anything planned that day?” she asked kindly.
“I train in the morning.”
“Oh, surely you can skip it just once.”
My response came in a nanosecond: “NO.”
A brief silence. “Oh… then I’ll make a note of that… but I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m not home between 10:15 and 11:15. I’ll be training. The rest of the day I’m available.”
“Thank you, I’ll note it. You’ll receive a text when they’re nearby.”
“Alright — have a nice weekend.”

I worked in healthcare myself for years. I remember how things could be arranged with pen and paper. Ten slots — but there was always room to squeeze one more in. A footnote, a human margin. Since automation, scheduling has become systematic and fixed. No space in between. Assistants can hide behind the system — full is full, not connected, not possible. Don’t get me wrong: I earned my automation diploma in the 1980s. I find progress interesting and like to move with technology. But sometimes you notice how systems make people impersonal — or relieve them of responsibility.

There was no space to explain that training is not a hobby for me. Not a luxury. It is recovery, stability, autonomy. It belongs in the same category as eating, sleeping, washing — self-preservation. That doesn’t fit neatly into a computer schedule. For me, the conversation was done. I let it go. Monday would unfold as it would.

That afternoon Ton and I drove to pick up a grandchild, an hour and a half away. Friday traffic — a day-long trip. Then my phone rang. A friendly woman. She had heard from her colleague that I train Monday morning and cannot skip it. Would it be alright if she scheduled me first, so I could train afterward and wouldn’t have to wait all day?
I laughed. “That’s perfect — thank you so much.”

Did my nanosecond shift something? I don’t know. But it’s reassuring to discover it’s still possible. Not a computer with a woman — but a woman with a computer. That call made my day.

Boundaries don’t have to be harsh to be clear.

Sometimes one honest moment opens space.

Humanity doesn’t disappear inside systems —

it simply waits to be seen. And today,

I saw it looking back at me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cheese Twists

 

11 February 2026

Oh my God — I can’t stop laughing.

My husband is a man of habits. Fixed lines, familiar frameworks. He played squash for years — with complete devotion — until his knees gave out, literally worn down by the sport. But letting go of squash never really happened. He stayed involved. Manager of a premier league team his sons played in. Referee. Always part of the structure. Alongside his demanding job, this was his world. There wasn’t much room left for other interests — and that simply is what it is, without judgment.

Then things began to close.
Three years ago he chose not to renew his registration as a general practitioner. That chapter ended.
Last year the premier league team dissolved. Another layer gone.
And last Sunday he said goodbye to refereeing.

Last night I woke up because he shouted, “Help! Help!”
I was upright in bed instantly — fully awake. Luckily nothing was wrong. He had been dreaming.

He was playing squash. Outside. In a heath-like landscape of sand and shrubs — colourless, without walls, without glass, without boundaries. When two opponents suddenly appeared, panic struck and he started shouting. In the dream — and in reality.

I told him it wasn’t strange at all. When frameworks disappear, it can feel disorienting. Overwhelming. Maybe even threatening. What now, when the familiar falls away and nothing new has yet taken its place?
With a smile I teased him:
“No problem — it will be fine once you start following your wife. The horizon is already there.”

He owns several reading glasses — funny ones — which he has repaired a few times a year because a temple broke off or he sat on them. He’s been going to the same optician for forty years.
Next door is a pastry shop. That’s where he buys his beloved cheese twists — in his eyes the best in the Netherlands.

Recently they had changed. Different shape. Different taste. A small tragedy.
So he asked the woman behind the counter. She explained they were now produced in The Hague and that most customers actually liked them better. Ton tried to clarify what he meant. She insisted he must have bought them elsewhere.

And then came the moment — that look on his face.
He said — visibly regulating his breath:
“I immediately think of you… don’t get angry… breathe in and out… try kindly once more… Ma’am, I’ve been coming here for forty years and I buy them only here.”

He came home with cheese twists that neither had the shape nor the divine taste he loved.

Ah well, I thought. Another shift.
He even called it a momentum of loss.

But what I saw was something else.
That childlike expression when he came home. The seriousness with which he told the story.
I laughed until tears came — not at him, but at the beauty of life in motion. Where something closes and something new quietly opens.

For now, I’m simply glad he can see the humour in it.

Where frameworks dissolve,
the soul searches for new lines.
Sometimes it begins with panic,
sometimes with cheese twists that taste different.
And somewhere between loss and laughter
a new space quietly appears.

 

 

 

 

 

Home as an Inner Space

 

February 10, 2026

Visiting museums, cycling, being in nature, going on holiday — I can deeply enjoy all of that. But the moment I get back into my car and its nose turns toward home, there is nothing I want more than to be there as quickly as possible. The very idea lightens me. Every cell in my body rejoices. They seem to dance. Wonderful — going home again.

My home is not a place where I merely stay or sleep.
For me, it is an inner space.
Cycling nourishes movement. Going to a museum nourishes inspiration. Nature recharges me. Travelling opens perspective. But returning home restores my system.

In my childhood home, this existed in the intimate domain of my little room. Later that feeling remained — in every house I lived in. I always created a place that breathed my world, that carried my vibrations.

I don’t like staying over at other people’s homes — not even with my closest friends or family. If I am within a radius of five or six hours from home, I would rather drive back — even in the middle of the night. Visiting feels similar. There always comes a moment when my system immediately wants to go home. If I ignore that, I become heavy, nauseous, unwell.
In a theatre or cinema I prefer sitting on the aisle. Not because of the people — but because of my sensitivity.

It has taken nearly sixty years before I stopped adapting myself to the expectations of others in this. For the first time in my life, I can meet this sensitivity with self-respect. Perhaps those expectations lived more inside me than they truly existed outside. I am not certain. But it might very well be so.

What does my world look like?

As soon as you step out of the lift onto my floor, my paintings are already there. The coming home begins there. Enter my home, and the first thing you notice is colour. Those deep green-turquoise walls — vivid yet calming. My paintings present in the space, not as decoration but as conversation partners. I “dwell” with my work.
Light from outside enters through the windows and is filtered through coloured glass objects — light gaining meaning through form and colour.
On the table: my laptop, coffee mug, coasters, patterned textiles — practical, domestic, inviting. A place where life unfolds while writing happens. Even the small details — plants, animal figurines — carry the layered symbolism that speaks through my work.

I do not sit behind a desk.
I sit in the middle of my story.
Among my paintings, my colours, my light.

My home is my world — with its own vibrations, my moving stillness.
There is no other place that can do this for me.

Home is not a place I go to,
but a space in which I come together again.
What moves outside may land here,
and what arises here may return to the world.
Thus my stillness remains in motion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

KLARO

 

February 9 , 2026

There are moments when thinking stops. Not because there is nothing left to think about, but because the answer is already present within me. For me, that is called KLARO. It cannot be translated. It is not a word that explains something. It is a state. Strength, calm, boundaries, and transparency converge, making discussion unnecessary. My body says no — and that is the end of it. Not closed off, not defensive, but clear. On every level I stop, and yet I remain open.

Today I realized again how strongly that same mechanism shapes my creative process. I do not make work from a plan I execute. I gather, feel, test, put things aside, return. Buying foam, laying down wool, placing colors next to one another, letting half-finished paintings wait. Sometimes for years. These are not preparations; they are seeds. They speak when they choose to. My task is to make space, not to direct.

I often feel materials absent-mindedly. Running a hand across wool. Touching wallpaper in a hotel. The bark of a tree. Fabrics before I buy them. That sensing speaks through me without words. Only when it becomes embodied — in an image, a movement, an action — does it become audible. Then a flow takes over. Not mystical — simply a state in which doing and knowing converge. Driven and carried at the same time.

I believe anyone can experience this when stillness arises within movement. Not standing still, but allowing quiet movement. In that space work emerges that I always find beautiful. Not because it is perfect, but because it is truthful. It is a moment of myself that took form. Why would I reject that?

My works continue to live for me. Years later I discover new layers, new meanings. They move along with who I become. Perhaps they are not objects, but dimensions in which different versions of me continue to exist side by side.

For me, KLARO ultimately means the same as creating: listening, recognizing, acting — and trusting that time chooses its own moment. Trusting that I may listen to my boundaries. Trusting that those boundaries can dissolve as well. It is a trust that does not need to be fought for — not with myself, nor with another.

Where does listening begin, and where does acting end?
Which boundary protects — and which one opens space?
What may remain waiting until its time speaks?
And when stillness moves through my hands — who, then, is creating?

 

 

 

 

 

The Moving Island

 

February 8, 2026

When you write every day the way I do here, words begin to live.
What does this word really mean? Does it match what I feel or what I am trying to express? One such word is: MISSING.

What does that mean to me?
I never miss anyone.

When I say this, I know there are people around me who might feel hurt. That is of course not my intention — but it is my honest answer.

So how does it work for me?
To miss someone implies dependency. Life and people are unique within movement and therefore changeable. That is something I accept. It does not take away my love for anything or anyone. I love licorice, but if I cannot get it abroad, I accept that. I might think once: “I feel like having a piece of licorice.”

If someone is no longer in my surroundings — literally through death, or because life has taken them onto a path outside my environment — nothing changes about that love. My life continues to move.

Would I not wound myself if I tried to hold on to what once was?
How can I move if I insist on holding?

Missing suggests I want to go back or keep something fixed. I don’t think that is the intention. I feel this deep in my fibers — not to hurt anyone, but because it is true for me. From there my thoughts made another leap toward a metaphor.

The metaphor that appears is clear: I am an island. Not a closed place. People may dock, stay, share in what grows and lives there. But at the end of the day I place everyone back onto a little boat or ship and let them go. Not out of distance, but because each follows their own current. Some return later — because they have moved within the same wave. Others do not. And that is fine. I also need moments of silence to absorb and release what may be released. Silence restores the island — gives it energy and growth. The island keeps moving on the water. It keeps feeding itself with what it encounters along the way. It changes shape, color, vegetation — without losing itself.

When this image appeared, I thought of Howl’s Moving Castle. Not because I see myself as magical or spectacular, but because that moving house shows so precisely how existence can feel: not fixed to one place, not bound to one form, but moving with what arises. Living matter. Traveling without a route map. Responding, transforming, rearranging itself while continuing onward.

That is how I experience it. Matter and I move together.
Not controlling. Not directing. Meeting. Following synchronicity. Using my tools — my color — where needed, and allowing them to change when growth asks for it.

I notice something essential has shifted within this. I no longer need to be understood in order to exist. I see myself more clearly now, and that is enough. Softer, even. My perception has not become less sharp — perhaps sharper — but where judgment once followed quickly, compassion now arises. Observation without hardening.

My body moves along with it. Fever that comes and goes. Muscles forming. Energy changing. Growth that cannot be followed linearly. Development is never a straight line. A branch grown outward looks different from the root — yet belongs to the same whole.

Today it feels simple.
I am here. Breathing. Moving.
Not arrived. Not completed.
Only present within another layer of experience.

What if belonging is not a place, but a movement?
What if letting go does not mean someone disappears, but that each follows their own current?
And what if, like that moving island — or that walking castle — I do not need to hold on to anything in order to remain fully connected?

 

 

 

 

 

Are These Daydreams?

 

7 February 2026

Sometimes something small happens that I don’t put into words, yet I notice it. Today, while I was simply moving about the house — tidying, walking, thoughtless — a sentence suddenly passed through me. Not as a thought I formed myself. Just present. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

I know that kind of thing. For years, in exactly these kinds of moments, the same phrase would always appear: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I often laughed about it. It had no function, no assignment, no meaning I needed to find. It was just there. And now, another one. That caught my attention. Nothing more.

It took me back to earlier times. Saturday afternoons. Alone in the front room. Films on BRT 1. My brothers away, my father busy, my mother somewhere else in the house. I watched. With wide eyes. Feeling along. Sometimes crying, feeling tension, laughing — Danny Kaye, for instance. That was not passing time. That was my world.

I didn’t play. I didn’t know what to do with toys. Drawing and crafting — yes — alone in my room after school. Occasionally I invited girls over. They played with the dolls I never touched. They immersed themselves completely. I sat nearby and watched. Not sad. Not excluded. Curious. Why choose those clothes? Why that colour? Why argue over roles? I listened to their language and noticed my words were different from theirs. They didn’t even notice I wasn’t playing. I was simply there.

That is how I remember it. Factually. Not as a strategy. Not as protection. This is how I was. From very early on. And I never suffered from it.

For a long time, my youth simply felt good. Later, through the eyes of Michel and now Ton, I came to see other layers as well. Much happened — in my youth and afterwards. I don’t deny that. Yet it is good. Genuinely good. It has shaped me. Memories may still surface — sometimes as a brief sting — and then they dissolve again.

Closure is not something I believe truly exists. It continues to live through me and takes on new colour at each level I reach. What I can bring to completion is the way I relate to it. And in that, I feel peace.

And still, I lingered a moment with those phrases that simply arrive.
Walter Mitty — the inner journey, imagination, parallel worlds. That often felt like my life.
Virginia Woolf — observing people, behaviour, tensions between them. That has always fascinated me.
There was a time when I experimented with that, when I moved within those fields.
Around my twentieth year I decided not to do that anymore — and that decision still stands.
Observing remained. Quietly watching, seeing what unfolds — perhaps my second nature, perhaps my first.
Could it be that such phrases need not mean anything — and yet touch something that has long been there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standing in the Space

6 February 2026

Sometimes a day begins in the body. Fever that comes and goes. Sweating. Soles of the feet glowing. A head that feels dull yet clear. Not ill — but in motion. As if my system is restructuring itself, layer by layer, without me needing to understand what is happening. The body speaks first. Then comes movement. Only after that does language appear. Today it happened the other way around. Language brought movement, and movement touched the body.

In a long conversation — mirroring, questioning, searching — I arrived again at something I had always known, yet had never seen this clearly. That my life has never truly been carried by systems, educations, or methods. Not by medical worlds, not by alternative worlds, not by theory. My only constant has always been my own perception. My own sensing. My own movement. I tried to adapt. To fit in. To understand how things were supposed to be. What was expected. Sometimes I became a shadow of myself. Other times a rebel. Yet I always returned — like a boomerang — to what was truly mine. Not constructed. Not learned. Simply present.

Somewhere along the way something shifted. I see it more clearly now: pride once served as protection. A response to a world that dismissed, misunderstood, or simply failed to see. But beneath pride was struggle. And beneath that struggle was the longing to be seen. Today I felt something of that dissolve. Not disappear — but transform. What remains is not pride. It is contentment with who I am. Without the need to prove. Without defense. Self-respect. That word touched me deeply and unexpectedly. Tears without a story. Only recognition.

I notice that I look more gently now. Literally. As if there is less tension behind my eyes. Where my gaze was once experienced as piercing, it now feels quieter. Clear perception remains — perhaps even sharper — but without the old judgment that used to follow. Where my body once received signals and my mind confirmed them, compassion now arises. Observation instead of hardening. Perhaps that is what truly changed: not what I see, but how it lands.

In the world around me I move more freely. In the gym, among people, among conversations, among glances. I do not share my space — yet I do not close it either. I move like a free atom. Not distant, not cold, but autonomous. Friendship, for me, does not arise from proximity or repetition. Only from recognition — a bodily recognition I cannot ignore. It has always been that way. The difference is that I no longer try to correct it.

And in the midst of all this, something small — and immense — happened. I began to see that my longing to be understood may have come from looking from within my own perspective. Why don’t others see what I see? Why don’t they feel what I feel? Today something shifted. It felt as though I — existentially — stepped slightly aside. Not away from myself, but further into space. I sense that I already belong. That I am part of the whole without life needing to mirror my view. This insight does not feel like a conclusion, but like a discovery. Still tender. Still without form. Yet alive.

Life continues to deepen. No arrival. No completion. No enlightenment. Only moving from depth to depth. With curiosity. With patience. With humility toward all that has not yet been seen. And perhaps that is enough for today. That I sit here. Warm. Calm. Breathing. In the space — and part of it.

What if growth does not mean becoming someone else —
but simply allowing more light to fall on what has always been there?