Blog 2026 - English translation

Dreams are part of this journey and appear here regularly.

When Pain Speaks

May 16, 2026

When is pain a signal to stop, and when is it actually a sign of life?

During my workout, two women started talking to me. They had noticed the difference between how I looked physically six months ago and how I look now. They also thought I was quite driven. After the trainer mentioned that I could skip a machine if I experienced pain, the women joined in with good intentions.
“Yes, learning to listen to your body is important too,” they said.

At first I smiled politely, but they kept — equally politely — explaining what listening to your body meant according to them.

So I told them that I have a form of MS — most people at least recognize that term — and that a year and a half ago I suffered a stroke, which was diagnosed rather late. I explained that I had first gone through a year of rehabilitation, but that in my experience it hardly seemed to help. Since I started fitness training, however, I have felt different from the very first day. The only thing is that I need to do it almost daily, because if I stop for too long, even because of something simple like the flu, I quickly decline again. And perhaps even more importantly: listening to my body has long been second nature to me. Just not always according to the textbook.

They understood that.

The woman sitting closest to me then told me that her mother had also suffered a stroke three years ago. At first she had been partially paralyzed on the right side of her body. She strongly resisted rehabilitation. Still, things initially seemed to improve. She regained some strength. Until she became ill again, something flu-like. From that moment on, she rapidly deteriorated. Now she is visibly disabled and can no longer even hold her newborn grandchild.

A sad story, of course.

I asked how old her mother was, expecting someone around eighty or older. It turned out she was exactly my age.

Wow.

Both of us were visibly shocked by that realization.

She said:
“It’s a shame she didn’t approach it the way you did.”

Immediately afterward she almost apologized, explaining that practicing and exercising had also caused her mother pain.

“Well,” I thought.

I had to pause for a moment to make sure I would not say something hurtful or offensive. Then I heard myself say:
“Pain can also be a sign of life. Feeling nothing at all in paralysis would frighten me much more.”

During rehabilitation I also met people for whom it sometimes seemed more like a social gathering where everyone talked about their physical problems. So what is the difference between me and those people? Perhaps the difference is that when you have always been healthy before a stroke, it feels as though your entire familiar world suddenly collapses.

Maybe, because of my disability, a lifetime of pain and constantly searching for ways to keep going has also given me something. Not because pain or hardship are beautiful, or make people better than others, but because I have never known anything other than searching for ways to live with limitations. Perhaps, without realizing it, you develop certain survival mechanisms or a form of resilience.

Later I told Ton about the conversation at the gym.

“What is it,” I asked, “that makes a relatively young woman slowly slide into living entirely as a disabled person?”

Ton answered immediately:
“Depression.”

Is that true?

Of course someone can become acutely depressed or emotionally overwhelmed after something as life-changing as a stroke. But permanently depressed? Were there perhaps already signs beforehand — dissatisfaction, sadness, emotional exhaustion?

Do physiotherapists automatically assume that pain means someone should stop? Is there also room for the thought that nerves recovering can create painful sensations — and that maybe careful movement should continue?

I still remember how uncontrollable my emotions were after my stroke. Why are people not followed more closely afterward? Not just through a phone call, but by someone physically checking in every few weeks. Someone who understands both the physical and psychological consequences of a stroke. Not to force people, but to slowly help them become resilient again after their entire life has suddenly changed.

It saddens me that this mother apparently no longer sees any possibility of living independently.

Perhaps it is a strange comparison, but it made me think of my father-in-law. He survived six concentration camps, including Auschwitz-Birkenau. He had grown up in a strict household with a father who easily resorted to violence. He once told me he had seen people literally turn white overnight from fear.

As strange as it may sound, the fact that he had already learned to survive as a child ultimately helped him in those extreme circumstances. That does not mean pain, abuse, or trauma are good things. But people sometimes develop a certain mental resilience under difficult circumstances. According to him, many people who had lived safe and protected lives mentally collapsed even before they were deported.

Later in life, my father-in-law even spoke with a certain gratitude about his childhood. And strangely enough, I understand that somewhere.

How can someone feel gratitude for pain and hardship?

These are the questions and thoughts that rise inside me after such an apparently simple, well-intended conversation.

Perhaps pain is not always only a warning, but sometimes also a sign that something is still alive, moving, or trying to return.

Perhaps it is not only what a person experiences that shapes how they continue living, but also the inner attitude that already existed before life changed.

And perhaps true resilience does not lie in glorifying pain, but in continuing to search for movement, even when life suddenly changes shape.

Shadows

May 15, 2026

In the bookstore I came across the book The Girl in the White Kimono by Ana Johns. It immediately fascinated me, both the image and the story on the cover. Once home, I decided to buy it as an e-book so I could read it on my laptop. Reading digitally also makes it easy to highlight passages that stand out to me.

The story takes place partly in postwar Japan and follows a young Japanese woman who falls in love with an American soldier, something that is culturally and socially almost unacceptable. The book is inspired by real events surrounding children born from Japanese-American relationships after the war, children who were often rejected or hidden away.

Even though it is a story about Japan, it touches so many themes that have also played a role in my own life. Hidden family histories, loss and loyalty, silence between people. Social masks and expectations. Love that does not fit within systems, the consequences of choices that echo through generations, and above all: the underlying layer of what was not allowed to be spoken.

I could empathize with the characters, but with a certain distance. Apparently the sting is no longer rooted in my upbringing and family history. I noticed a shift within myself there. At this moment, that sting lies much more in the medical world and my relationship with it.

There was one passage that immediately brought me back to a story Michel once told me about his childhood in Amsterdam. At the time, I thought perhaps he had described it a little too dramatically. Later, through my own experiences and observations, I realized it really must have been exactly as he told it. And now I almost literally encounter the same story again.

“With a sigh, I lean back and look at the mother and daughter across from me. Everyone is packed tightly together in the crowded train car, yet they have an entire bench to themselves. The other passengers pretend indifference, but their disgust is revealed by the distance they keep.”

Pffft… humanity has so often been cruel. Through tradition, honor, war, hatred. But above all through deeply rooted fear. I already knew about the Stolen Generation in Australia, child soldiers in Africa, the one-child policy in China and the suffering surrounding it. And now I read about mixed-race babies in Japan being killed at birth out of shame, honor, or fear of losing face. Historical stories and inherited patterns that, in truth, still exist today.

Fear, shame, group pressure, survival, honor, ideology, religion, obedience. “This is how it should be.” These are all things that can imprison a human being, emotions that rob people of freedom. That makes it even more confronting. Ordinary people, within such systems, can do things that individually might seem unthinkable.

While reading, I feel it. The loneliness of being human.

I walk into the room and Ton tells me he has been asked to keep quiet about a problem. To him it feels like betrayal, like lying. It eats away at him. How do you deal with that? On one hand, you do not want to betray someone’s trust, and on the other hand, a secret can make you feel almost complicit. I simply listen, because he handles these things differently than I do. But in the end, I think most people are not bad. Fear, status, shame and loyalty create behavior that ranges from light gray to black, so to speak.

I think it is almost inhuman to always be completely pure in what you do, say, or intend.

It was a beautiful and painful story. Recognizable, and easy to read. And in the end, only one thought really remained:

Maybe the world never changes all at once.
Maybe change only happens through small movements.
In the moment a person dares to look honestly at themselves.
And perhaps every form of peace begins there.

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

May 10, 2026

Today is the third day that I’ve spent more or less in bed. I sleep a lot, yet strangely enough I still remain tired. Tomorrow I’ll visit my doctor for a moment. Maybe I’m actually coming down with something, or maybe I’m simply becoming tired from being too lazy right now. Tomorrow I’ll find out. There is probably something to be done about either option.

In between naps, I’ve had time to feel into what being relaxed actually means to me. Relaxation, for me, lies in not having to do anything, everything allowed. No pressure, obligation, direction, or anything at all.

Reading The Relaxed Woman. Why did that begin to rub me the wrong way ?

Modern ideas quickly seem to become new rules again. Even freedom can quietly become a new norm.

Today I wanted to look even deeper, more existentially. Because don’t we keep getting stuck if we continue to look at everything mainly from a societal perspective ? What happens if we let that go and look at the human being itself ?

Why keep focusing mainly on the forms in which ideas appear ? Self-care, relaxation, authenticity, femininity, performance culture. Beneath all of that, I sense a much larger existential question: why does humanity constantly keep building new systems ? Even around freedom ?

Maybe because human beings struggle to tolerate the absence of a fixed manual.

So we continuously create new frameworks. First religion, then discipline, now authenticity, self-care and conscious living. To me, they all seem like attempts to gain control over something that may not be controllable at all.

I don’t think it is really about who is right, but rather why human beings continuously need a movement, direction or new belief system.

Then the focus shifts from woman/man or relaxation/performance toward something far more fundamental: can a human being actually live without constantly defining themselves ? Without an ideal image ? Without new rules ? Without identity as a form of support ?

These are the kinds of questions that arise in me.

That is probably why the words “authentic living” begin to rub against something inside me. Authenticity can still become a performance. An identity. A moral ideal. While real existence may actually be far more fluid, contradictory and ungraspable.

The moment an ideology, however plausible it may sound, becomes too closed or complete, I feel space disappearing somewhere inside.

I think authenticity requires space as a condition. From quantum physics we know that everything moves. Even the densest and seemingly most solid matter is moving. A human being who is allowed to move in all directions lives in freedom.

So for me, authenticity is connected to freedom.

BEING FREE.

Maybe human beings are not meant to define themselves once and for all.

Maybe we live precisely in the movement in between.

Between knowing and not knowing.

Between form and freedom.

Between searching for certainty and daring to let it go again.

Maybe freedom only truly begins when nothing has to fully make sense anymore

— not even ourselves.

Having to Relax

May 9, 2026

Yesterday I started, inspired by psychologist Nicola Jane Hobbs, to look at how relaxed a woman I actually am in her eyes. I thought she had come up with twelve little cards meant to remind you to relax once in a while. Turns out there are only nine, so I’ll make up the last three myself. What actually relaxes me ?

The last suggestions from Hobbs.

Have you stared out of the window lately ?
I don’t really stare, I think. I can look outside and, in my case, watch the green tops of the trees, the birds flying in and out of the branches. But to me, staring feels more like looking without really noticing what you see. That rarely, if ever, happens to me. I’m almost always aware of what I’m looking at. Whether staring is actually relaxing, I honestly don’t know. Intuitively, I think probably not.

You are already good enough as you are.
That brings up a very ambivalent feeling in me. On one hand I feel insecure, unseen. On the other hand I feel very certain. I know what I can do, what I want and do not want. I absolutely do not let myself be guided by how people think life should be lived. I walk my own path, follow my own vision, even if the entire world disagrees. So there are two extremes living inside me.

One thing at a time.
Usually I do two, preferably three things at once. Hahaha. If I only do one thing, I often fall asleep. Which is probably the ultimate relaxation, of course. But is that the kind of relaxation they mean ? What exactly is relaxation ? Physical ? Mental ? Both ?

Those were Hobbs’ suggestions, but what do I do myself to relax ?

Have a pajama day.
Especially in winter I love pajama days, for myself and, in the past, with the children too. We would turn the living room into one big bed and camp out on the floor day and night. Watching television, playing games. Just being in my own space without having to do anything at all, if possible. Everything allowed.

Cycling through nature without a destination.
For me, pure relaxation. No sounds of traffic, but birds and rustling leaves. Buzzing insects, colours, weather and wind.

Being alone.
I love being alone. Nobody saying anything or asking anything. Phone off, communication reduced to almost nothing. Silence inside and around me. For me, perhaps the most relaxing moment of all.

It may all sound very logical, but I still wonder whether these are relaxing things for everyone.

Modern and trendy, a new book written by a beautiful woman. Modern ideas quickly seem to become new rules again. Relaxation versus performance. Softness versus strength. Woman versus man. How hip or new is that really ? I don’t know.

During my studies in clinical psychology, I already noticed that these ideas were beautiful to read, but eventually everything became a little too plausible. It sounds convincing, logical even, yet internally I still got tangled up somehow. Why ? I want to write about that tomorrow. It has to do with what Hobbs calls “authentic living.” Deep inside, something in me starts to rub the wrong way.

Maybe a person only truly relaxes when nothing is required anymore.

Not even relaxation itself.

Maybe authenticity does not begin with a new ideal image,

but with the moment something inside you quietly starts resisting.

Not out of rebellion,

but because something in you whispers:

wait a second… does this actually feel true for me ?

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:

Participation
Perception
Observation
Compassion
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.

Holding Ground

18 February 2026

There are no major events today. No dramas. Just ordinary life unfolding. And yet, there is a lot in it.

At the E-gym, a sixteen-year-old boy is doing his internship. Training to become a Sports and Exercise Coordinator. He is especially good at talking — loudly talking. Some people are annoyed by him. I mostly see a young person who still has to learn how to attune himself to a space that is not his alone.

Today he proclaims his political views in a firm voice. Climate goals are nonsense. China and America are the biggest polluters. Why should he change if others don’t? He calls the Party for the Animals “ridiculous.”

I calmly ask whether responsibility might begin with yourself. Not with what others fail to do. He immediately fires off new arguments. Working until you’re seventy — when are you supposed to enjoy your life?

“Maybe you shouldn’t wait for that,” I say, “but start enjoying it now.”

He looks at me. “You’re probably thinking: he’s still young.”
I laugh. “I do think that.”

He keeps following me around. Warns me not to overdo it. Says it’s bad for me. His voice grows louder. “I can assure you that what you’re doing is not good for you.”

At that moment a physiotherapist comes hurrying over. She looks at me anxiously, gauging my reaction. “I’m not going to explain this now,” I say kindly. She nods in relief.

What stays with me is how little it touches me. Not because I don’t hear it, but because I don’t have to carry it.

Later my son calls. Confusion about an insurance issue. France, the Netherlands, working online, demands from his girlfriend’s French employer. Irritation slips in between them. I ask questions. Try to clarify the core of it. It remains unclear. I give him the number of my own insurer. He calls back later — they don’t understand it either. We laugh. I cut the knot and tell him which insurance he needs to take out. Relief.

And Ton… for months now he has been in contact with the Tax Office on behalf of his son. Letters to different cities, phone calls with ever-changing outcomes. I hear his voice growing tighter while the woman on the other end of the line simply repeats what her screen tells her. Unwilling to look beyond the protocol.

After he hangs up, he looks at me, agitated. “Did you hear how that went?”

Yes. I heard it.

And what I especially hear is how differently I respond these days. The boy with his firm statements. My son in confusion. Ton in frustration. It comes in, but it no longer sticks.

Maybe that is what growing older does. Or what living through things does. I don’t have to correct. Not to convince. Not to win. I may simply be present.

What a blessed human being I am then. Not because life is easy — but because I no longer have to tilt with every movement around me.

Holding ground is not a wall.
It is space in which everything may move.
Without losing myself.
And that is enough.

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.

A Day That Took Care of Itself

February 15, 2026

It felt like a day of days — though I only realized that afterward. I woke in silence. Comfortable. I looked at my watch: 10:00 a.m. Exactly ten on a Sunday morning. That alone felt like a small blessing. I got up immediately to write down my dream — because it had layers, many layers, I thought.

In the living room, Ton was taking his temperature. A slight fever. Shivery. His lip a bit swollen. We recognized it. Over the past week I’d also had mild fevers without really being ill. The news calls it flu. My husband doesn’t call this flu. That’s fine.

I sit down at my laptop to write my dream. Gone. Completely gone. Such a shame.

We cancel a visit with friends. My warm bed is still calling me, so I lie down again. Maybe the dream will return. It doesn’t. After an hour I get up anyway. I’ll just write what little I remember. I open my laptop. Black. Restart. Black. Check the charger. Unplug everything. Try again. Black. Oh my God. Crashed?

Ton sits across from me. He isn’t feeling well, but he’s watching my reaction closely. Understandable. After a year of intense emotions, he isn’t yet used to my calm. I call my daughter. She walks me through steps. I’ve already tried them. “Maybe it’s completely drained, Mom. Charge it and check again in an hour.” That sounds reasonable.

Back to bed. Dogs beside me. A series playing. No restlessness. No panic. No sense of being cut off. It’s striking how it simply drops out of my system. Ton crawls into bed too and falls asleep immediately. Hours later my daughter texts to ask if it’s working. I had forgotten about it. I check again. Still black.

“Then just use Ton’s laptop,” she says. In the past I would have done everything possible to get back online immediately. Now I think: it’s Sunday. Tomorrow I’ll train first. Outside, the world is turning whiter and whiter. It keeps snowing. Time chooses its own timing.

In the evening I try once more. And there it is. As if it needed a day away from me. Twelve hours of silence. And now it’s back.

Was this a day of days? Yes. Not because things went wrong, but because nothing had to be forced. Because nothing needed fixing. Because even malfunction was allowed to rest.

What falls away may simply fall away.
What returns does so in its own time.
I don’t have to cling to stay connected.
Even silence works for me — not against me.

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?

Attuning

5 February 2026

This morning I woke up at half past six with a pounding headache — the kind that fills everything. I took paracetamol and went back under the covers. That worked. When I woke again the pressure had eased, but I had a slight fever of 37.9°C. For Ton that means a worried look. For me it means getting up and sensing first. Giving my body time to speak before deciding anything.

I went to train. Normally I do three or four rounds — today only two. It was also strength-measurement day, but I kept it gentle. No forcing. In the car I felt good — even content — that I had moved. What was different this time was not the rush of exertion, but the quiet joy of being home again. As if the movement had done its part and my body had taken over.

The fever disappeared. I had sweated heavily in the gym — my system regulating something. My ears felt muffled, so I put on my pajamas and allowed myself a day in bed. Laptop, a little sleep, some soup. No fighting. No analysing. Just giving space to whatever was happening.

And honestly — there was something beautiful in it. My dream had been about cleaning, maintaining, being rich from within… and afterwards my body seemed to move through its own cleansing process. Layers running in synchrony. It still amazes me how dreams and physical processes can touch each other. Not to explain it. Not to assign meaning. Just to recognise that they coexist.

I understand more and more why there are cultures where dreams are taken seriously as part of life. Not as prediction, but as another sensory layer. Another language.

What struck me most today was this: I didn’t push through stubbornly like I would have in the past. I wanted movement — yes — but without overruling myself. Less strength, more sweating — and that was enough signal to stop at two rounds. Back home I didn’t feel drained. On the contrary. My daily training nourishes me — as long as I keep listening.

I know fear plays a role too. Fear of sliding backward physically if I stop. But today I felt the difference between avoidance and attunement. Not crossing limits. Resting when asked. Letting go when appropriate.

Tomorrow I will see how I feel. Closing my eyes to listen.
What does my body ask?

I am not a loser if I don’t train.
I am not tough if I do.
It isn’t about behaviour. Not about how others see me.
My body is my measure — and my ally.

And the longer I live, the clearer it becomes:
when I give it trust,
it works with me.

Listening is sometimes movement,
and sometimes becoming still.
Not because I must choose,
but because the body already knows.
Today I followed — and that was enough.

Clear and Diffuse

4 January 2026

This morning The Logical Song by Supertramp was humming through my head.
It came from my dream. First I wrote it down. Posted it on my website. Then I looked it up on YouTube and listened again.

While I’m singing along, I notice the sun is shining. Thick beams of light fall into my living room. The light is different than usual. Clear and diffuse at the same time. Not like a sunrise, but as if the sun is already setting. It creates a strange, gentle atmosphere.

I ask Ton if he sees it too. He sees the sun, but not what I mean. When I try to explain what I’m perceiving, he tries to see it as well — but he can’t.

We go training together. The gym is almost empty. Quiet. It fits my sense of contentment, and it fits the light of this morning.

Back home, Ton reads my dream. He notices how calm it is. How the memories in it feel soft now. Yes, that’s true. All the memories are still there, but they’ve become light. Or at least: no longer heavy.

I tell him about the shift I feel.

In my younger years — until about thirty — I experienced my childhood as pleasant. Looking back, I see that this was mainly a way of making everything beautiful. A coping mechanism.
With Michel, my way of seeing changed. Then everything turned black. By the end of his life, the memories had become grey.
With Ton, I fell into a pitch-black hole again. His anger, his way of coloring things — that became mine too.

After the stroke, my emotions became completely deregulated. I entered a black tunnel, with only a pinprick of light at the end. I walked through that tunnel for a year. At the same time, that tiny point of light slowly grew larger. Less black. More light. And at the end of December, I suddenly emerged. Eureka.
The memories are still there, but they no longer stick. They pass through me, transparent.

Later that day I have lunch with a friend. We see each other a few times a year. He’s a coach, guiding people in self-knowledge and meaning, and teams in their internal dynamics. He asks how the children are doing. Also about my daughter, with whom I have no contact.

I tell him that I still send her money. That her photo is on my TV. That I send her love in my thoughts whenever I see her. And that I made mistakes. That I pointed out my own dissociation from the past instead of fully acknowledging her feelings. That I should have said: this was never my intention, and given her experience its rightful place. Now that’s no longer possible. What I can do is trust her — and trust the love I feel for her.

He tells me about a client with a similar story. He used the metaphor of an apple. Inside the apple there’s a bruised spot. That’s the pain. His client is still sitting entirely in that rotten, bruised place, cut off from the rest of the fresh, juicy apple. Only she can choose to cut that spot away, so the rest becomes visible again.

“You’ve done that with your past,” he says.
“Maybe you’re now, invisibly, giving her the space to heal.”

I’m grateful for a friend like that.

The light doesn’t have to explain anything.
It may be clear and gentle at the same time.
What can move through me doesn’t get stuck.
And sometimes that’s enough —
for today.

Momentum

2 February 2026

After training, Ton and I each do our own things for a bit. I ask him, “What shall we do later? Run an errand in Utrecht or walk the dogs in the Lingebos?”

Ton needs time to think about what he’s going to do. He almost never responds immediately. That sometimes rubs between us. With Ton it’s a slow response. With Michel, in the past, it was slowness. I react quickly, almost automatically. In a relationship, that requires attunement.

By nature I have a lot of patience. Life has also given me ample opportunity to practice it. As I’ve said before: every trait has two sides. If something is +10, the other side is −10. If it’s +1000, it’s also −1000.

After my stroke, my emotions were completely out of balance. There was no brake. It was a year of extreme impatience, of being overwhelmed. There were moments when I thought I wouldn’t make it in this relationship. Ton had a lot to endure. I can see that now. At the time, my focus was much more on what was happening inside me.

Now I notice that something new has emerged. Something I had always felt, but can now name more clearly.
I need momentum.

For me, almost everything feels like a project. Even small actions—brushing my teeth, getting dressed, stepping outside—are small projects that make up my day. This feeling slowly crept into my life because of my congenital illness, CMT. Because the progression is slow, it’s hardly noticeable unless you look far back. I prefer not to do that. Living with what is here now feels lighter. Freer.

When I ask a question, my mind goes into action. Movement starts. Start-up energy. If too much time passes, that energy drops away. The train comes to a stop. Restarting costs a lot of energy. But once I’m moving, the process flows more easily. That’s when flow arises. Small steps keep that movement going.

Ton doesn’t respond right away to my question. He makes a call, takes care of this, takes care of that. Time passes quickly. Suddenly it’s half past two. Then he asks, “Shall we still go for a walk with the dogs? We’d be back around five.”

Very calmly, I feel that my momentum has gone. And I say that this plan no longer works for me. Not angrily. Not sharply. Just clearly. I can see that this is difficult for Ton to accept at first. It takes some processing. Understanding doesn’t come immediately. But I stay with myself.

I don’t harden. I don’t close myself off. But I also no longer adapt in ways that cost me energy I don’t have. This isn’t unwillingness. It isn’t stubbornness. It’s listening—to my body, to the moment, to what is possible.

Now the movement is to see how we can attune to this together. Not by asking me to switch gears as if my energy were unlimited, but by making space for how my system works. That doesn’t feel hard. It feels honest.

Momentum doesn’t ask for speed,
but for timing.
Not pushing through,
but moving with what is.
I stay open,
and I stay with myself.
That isn’t a boundary,
it’s direction.

Integration of Noise

1 February 2026

Cohesion or adhesion?
Is it the same thing that connects, or are they different ways of connecting?

I actually know how I arrived at this. Last night I was lying on my bed, writing my blog piece for January 31, when I heard sirens. Not once, but several times within an hour. Something serious was happening, I thought.

Since I’ve lived here, I’ve had to get used to that sound. In the forest, I hardly ever heard it. Where many people are, many unfortunate things happen. In the beginning, it made me restless, easily overstimulated. Fortunately, a system adapts to that. Mine did too. Integration of noise. But last night it was more intense than usual. The restlessness briefly returned.

Two years ago, a company here burned down completely. Ton and I often cycled past it. It made an impression on me. I felt the impact — for the company, the owners, the employees, the surroundings. Some time later, the entire building was gone. A vast empty space. Then a large billboard appeared, showing what was to come. A new building. Prestigious. Shiny.

My mind immediately started moving. How can something like that happen? How do you survive that as a business? And later: they did survive. How do you pay for such a luxurious building? Is there really that much money?

Recently, the new building was completed. Exactly as glamorous as on the billboard. I saw flowers in the offices, people who seemed to be celebrating. Probably the reopening. Good for everyone, I thought — and let it go again.

Maybe it’s strange, but there is always a lot happening in my head just by looking around me. It’s busy, but not clinging. It also lets go again. Free. If something needs to be remembered, it resurfaces on its own. I trust that. And if it doesn’t come back, I think: apparently, I don’t need to remember this. That may sound superficial, but it gives my busy mind the rest it needs.

Ton reads the newspaper every morning. I never do — enough already comes in. This morning he read aloud: the same company burned down again last night.

Goosebumps.

Everything went through me at once. Was it arson? Was it bad luck? That last question suddenly brought to mind the book In the Name of All Mine, which was also made into a film. The true story of a man who loses his family twice: first in the Holocaust, later in a forest fire. Why did I think of that? I don’t know. It simply presented itself.

Today is Sunday. I’m not training. I keep my pajamas on. I stay home. Watching a series. With the animals. Cuddling. Listening to music. And yet, you could write a book about everything that moves through me on such an apparently quiet day.

Magical, really.

What comes in may leave again.
What remains finds its place naturally.
My mind doesn’t have to hold on to it,
my system knows what it’s doing.
This is how noise finds its place,
and silence gains meaning.

Staying in Motion

31 January 2026

Going to the E-gym every morning does more than make my body stronger. It also brings back something I had lost for a long time: a natural daily rhythm.
I go to bed on time — still late, but earlier than before. Instead of four or five hours of sleep, I now sleep seven to eight hours. Sometimes more. And then I get up. Around nine. Even on Sundays. Today I was out of bed at half past eight.

The first thing I do is write down my dream. That, too, is new. Becoming aware every morning of what I have dreamed. Sometimes it’s a detailed story, sometimes only a voice, a word, a feeling. There is always something that lingers — something that would otherwise sink back into the unconscious.

What is remarkable is how these dreams run in sync with my waking life. As if they walk alongside it. As if they comment without explanation.

It feels the same as painting or writing. I can only do that from what I call flow. It happens to me. I don’t know beforehand what I’m going to make. There is an urge. A movement that wants to come into being. While creating, it’s as if I’m walking behind Annette.
Oh… is this what it’s going to be?
Or maybe that?
And when it’s finished and I still don’t understand why I made it, I keep looking. Sometimes for days. Sometimes for weeks. I call that mopping — lingering until it speaks.

Over the past year, I discovered something new: works I made ten or twenty years ago are speaking to me again. With an added layer. As if they were waiting until I could hear them.

I already knew that life is full of mysteries. Maybe that’s why I find it so beautiful. It keeps me curious. Not about what I can learn from books or courses — but about myself.
What is happening now?
How do I respond to this?
Why does this feel familiar, yet different?
I find that exciting. In a good way.

Today I told Ton that over the years there are quite a few things I can no longer do. It’s been a slow process. Quiet. My range has gradually become smaller. But I never think: I can’t do that anymore.
I think: I did that.
And I enjoyed it.
And I’m grateful for the memory.

Something came in return. Time. Space. Painting. Writing.

As a child, I lived from the outside inward. Preferably alone.
As a teenager and young adult, I lived from the inside outward. Going out, dancing, traveling, exploring the world in motion. Yoga.
Over the past ten years, I returned to living from the outside inward. A period of intense painting.

And now — after the stroke — both movements are present at the same time. With added depth.

The dreams feel like the flow. They tell me something. They give color and meaning. From the outside inward.
The E-gym feels like a lifestyle I intend to keep. Not searching for friendships, but for pleasant daily connections. From the inside outward.

So I see that the small life I live — in which, at first glance, little seems to happen — is experienced by me as rich and vibrant.

For me, it’s a solid ten.

Perhaps richness is not what expands,
but what settles more deeply.
Perhaps movement is not always visible,
but felt.
And perhaps a life is truly large
when it aligns from within.

When experiences change place

30 January 2026

It is strange to write this, and at the same time it feels completely clear.
Twenty-five years ago, after a lifetime of denial, my mother came forward with her confession. What that meant, how it unfolded, what it did to me — that story does not need to be told again here. The trauma has been lived through. Literally and figuratively. That lies behind me.

What occupies me now is something else.
A sensation I had back then — and that is now presenting itself again.

At the time it happened at night. I felt my brain become scorching hot and start to rotate, as if there was literal movement inside my head. Not pain, but activity. As if something was seeking another place through burning heat. Cold showers didn’t help. I had no headache. Only this intense, physical experience.

My general practitioner — then my doctor, now my husband — didn’t know what to make of it and referred me on.
“Find someone good who suits you,” he said.

The psychologist put words to it that stayed with me. He used the metaphor of a library. Every experience has its place there. For years, through denial, this truth had ended up on the upper left shelf — where it did not belong. Now it had to move to the lower right. That reordering takes energy. Processing. And for me, it did not happen only mentally, but physically.

Not everyone experiences it this way, he said.
But my body has always been my first messenger.

Why am I writing this now? Because I feel it again. The heat. The turning. Not as intense as then. Slower. Gentle waves instead of fire. No panic. No fear. Only recognition.

Something has shifted again. Not only physically — perhaps even more so mentally. The past is still there. It was there. But it no longer touches me. Not as pain. Not as charge. It is integrated, without struggle.

This time I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to understand it. My system knows the way. Back then it was overwhelming. Now it is familiar. And that difference says everything.

There are shifts that make no sound, that ask for no drama.
They announce themselves in silence, in warmth,
in movement beneath the skin.
Not because something must open again,
but because it finally finds rest.
My system is working. I allow it.

What Remains

29 January 2026

Color has always been important to me.
When I was younger, I followed fashion — or rather, I stayed just ahead of it. In clothing, in interiors, in my hair. It could be different, bold, visible. My hair went through all the colors of the rainbow. Creative hairdressers were free to do as they pleased: long, short, spikes, asymmetrical cuts, a mohawk — everything was possible.

My home moved along with me. First bamboo, then sleek gray with black, later rough wood and natural materials. Each phase had its own image, its own voice.

Through yoga, something began to shift.
Not abruptly, but slowly.
The question was no longer: how do I want to be seen?
But: what truly feels like mine?

Gradually, the pronounced hairstyles and bright colors disappeared. Large earrings, loud accessories — they fell away. My appearance grew quieter, sometimes almost unremarkable. My home changed along with it. Not according to trends, but according to what gave me a sense of calm. The colors remained, yet returned again and again in new shades. Always the same family, endlessly rearranged.

A few things never disappeared.
I wear only distinctive coats.
The colors in my home remain related.
And… I love glass.

Only now do I see that clearly. Glass has always been there. Glass spheres, vases, lamps, tables, carafes. Art made with glass. In Italy I never tire of Murano — the modern, the classical, the extravagant chandeliers. Last year I discovered the glass industry in the Czech Republic. That, too, made me curious and happy.

Why glass?
Perhaps because it is transparent.
Because it lets light pass through and yet holds it.
Because color in glass does not shout, but glows.

Glass is born of heat, of transformation. Natural glass can arise from lightning strikes, from volcanic force, from meteorites hitting the earth. From violence — and yet it remains clear. We humans have been making it for centuries: sand, soda, lime, fire. Something ordinary that becomes timeless.

What moves me is this:
glass is fragile, yet hardly susceptible to erosion.
It can last for thousands of years.
It withstands wind and weather.
It does not need to harden in order to endure.

Glass feels like how I would like to be. Transparent. Open.
Light moving from inside to outside, and from outside to inside. Always in connection.

Today Ton gave me four colored glass jars. They stand beside a glass artwork in the window frame. It is just matter. And yet it makes me happy. It makes something inside me sing.
Not because it is new.
But because it fits.

Perhaps it shows
how strength can shine,
how fragility remains,
and how light is ever changing.

Reliving

January 28, 2026

There was a time when I decided to grow old. Not as a wish, but as a choice. I was in my early twenties, confined to a wheelchair, using a mobility scooter, and the outlook was far from hopeful. Too much movement would lead to deterioration, they said. I did it anyway. Daily yoga, against medical advice. Not to prove anything, but because my body knew something else. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I worked myself out of the wheelchair.

That choice — to grow old — I have never let go of.

In recent years, my body took blow after blow. A serious fall, inflammations, heart rhythm disturbances, a torn meniscus, and eventually a stroke. At times it felt as though life was growing louder, not to break me, but to draw my attention. As if my body wanted to remind me that holding on is not the same as carrying, and that continuing sometimes asks for something other than endurance.

In a dream, I heard the word reliving. Not becoming ill again, but examining it properly, this time without mistakes being made. The word stayed with me. Only later did I understand that it wasn’t about the hospital at all, but about my body. About inhabiting again what I had once overcome — now in a different way, with more gentleness and less struggle.

Back then, I went against the current, but also with myself. I only realized that in hindsight. I did not follow medical advice, but I did follow my body. That turned out not to be recklessness, but loyalty to something I already sensed at the time, even though I could not yet put it into words.

Now I am doing essentially the same thing again. The form is different, perhaps less dramatic, but the movement is unmistakably familiar. I go against expectations, against numbers and urgency, while at the same time moving with myself. During a conversation, my cardiologist said, “If I were in your shoes, I would definitely do it.” She meant medication. Ozempic. Intervention. I understood her — and at the same time, I knew immediately: these are not my shoes.

Gradually, I discovered that it was no longer about becoming stronger, but about daring to be softer. About no longer fixing emotional pain in place, but allowing it to pass through me. What I kept holding onto from the past was also holding onto me. My body had carried that for years, until it forced me to stop and listen.

Recovery turned out not to be a battle, but a process of letting go. Not speeding up, but slowing down. Not forcing, but trusting. I now train every morning — not to lose weight or to perform, but to be present in my body. Movement as a conversation, rhythm as a foundation, and the awareness that time, here, is not an enemy.

Growing old does not mean enduring at all costs. It means allowing what wants to unfold. And perhaps that is the deepest meaning of reliving.

I went against the current,
but always with myself.
I am doing that again now —
with more gentleness,
and the same trust.

A Day in Layers

27 January 2026

This morning we arrive at the gym. Before I even step out of the car, I see him: a black Labrador looking in through the window. Not on a leash. His owner is apparently training inside. We park the car, and as soon as I step out, he comes trotting toward me, tail wagging happily. I am just as happy as he is. While petting him, I guide him back to the window. He sits down neatly when I tell him to. At that moment I think: my day can’t really go wrong anymore.

There is a large, sturdy woman who often trains there. Her posture evokes something in me. Almost arrogant — an image my mother used to call a flagship. In my mind I see an old ship with a richly decorated bow, a mirror: impressive, polished, creating distance. No vanity, no judgment — more a form of presentation. A front that says: here I stand, this is my bow, this is how I wish to be seen.

On New Year’s Day she wore a silver-colored fake crown with Happy New Year on it. What struck me then was how that playful, cheerful gesture did not match her overall presence. Today she takes the machine ahead of me. She doesn’t look around; her posture is closed. In the past, I would have felt intimidated by this, or I would have searched for the cause within myself. Now I said to Ton in the car:
“I think someone who presents herself like this is probably very insecure.”
Next time, I will look at her with that thought in mind. I wonder whether that might change something — perhaps mainly in me.

It was also the day I had another appointment at the heart clinic. Since July 3rd of last year, we have been busy investigating my heart and its rhythm. The number of ECGs made is countless by now. This time the waiting ran forty minutes late. We were taken to a small room with the instruction that I could undress so an ECG could quickly be done before I went to see the cardiologist.
Ton and I said in unison: “I don’t think so.”
“But that’s protocol,” the assistant said.
“Unfortunately,” I replied, “I’m done with protocols.”

We then had a conversation with yet another new cardiologist. She offered gentler options for us to consider. We will return in six weeks, so we can think it all through calmly. That felt right.

For me, it was also a day of synchronicity. Not as an explanation, not as coincidence, but as a way of remembering. First, Ton had made an appointment for the dogs on March 3rd — the birthday of a good friend. Later, he made an appointment for himself with the practice nurse on July 21st — the birthday of my aunt, my mother’s only sister. And at the heart clinic, my follow-up appointment was scheduled for March 10th. The birthday of my late husband Michel.
I use dates like these as memory aids. Today, they were noticeably present.

On the way home, I felt sad. Without a clear reason. Perhaps Weltschmerz is the right word. Now, as I write this at the end of the day, that feeling has passed. It was allowed to be there for a moment. That was enough.

Perhaps some days are not a story,
but a collection of layers.
A dog that trusts.
A façade I learn to see differently.
A boundary I draw calmly.
A date that lingers.
And a feeling that comes and goes.

Today, nothing needed to be solved.
I was simply there.

My Sun Rises, I Saw His Freedom

26 January 2026

Yesterday was my father-in-law’s birthday. I was reminded of it by a post a nephew shared on Facebook.
Whenever I think of him, almost the same thing always happens: my sun rises from within. Not as a memory that hurts, but as something that is simply present. He was a remarkable man to me. I loved him. His presence touched me in a way very few people ever have. I am grateful that I came to know him through my husband Michel.

It is difficult to explain exactly what I feel. It is not missing. Not grief. It is a form of connection that I have never experienced with anyone else, to this day. There are no right words for it — and perhaps there do not need to be.

When I first met him, I was immediately struck by how much Michel resembled his father. In his voice, his face, his hands, his gestures. And yet there was a difference. In Max’s eyes there was depth, mischief, joie de vivre. In Michel’s eyes there was more closedness, more melancholy. As if each of them had found a different way of dealing with the same life.

What I could not yet put into words back then, but can now see clearly, is this:
Max did not live freedom as a luxury, but as a necessity. Not as something you allow yourself when life cooperates, but as something you choose because otherwise no real life remains. I recognized that immediately. Without words. Without hesitation. Perhaps that is why I saw him so clearly from the start.

Max was admired and judged by people alike. The admiration often came from the creative circles he moved in — artists, writers, dancers, singers — people he met in cafés such as Reijnders and Eijlders on Leidseplein. The judgment more often came from those close to him. After the war, Max decided that life was his. That no one would ever impose limitations on him again. Freedom was his guiding principle, in every sense. Not always easy for those around him, but for him unavoidable.

The first time we met, we went out to dinner together. When Michel briefly went to the restroom, Max took my hand and looked at me intently. In his deep, refined voice he asked whether I would consider including him as well. Immediately afterwards he added:
“I don’t think you’re shocked by this question.”
He was right. I wasn’t. I told him I preferred to keep it just between Michel and me — and that was that. That freedom of speaking, without drama or judgment, was characteristic of him.

Max survived the war — by his own account through sheer luck. He carried that history with him without using it as a weapon or a shield. He understood how vulnerable a human being is, and how necessary it sometimes is to wear armor. Armor protects. But when it comes off, what remains is the human being — vulnerable, open, alive.
Through him, I came to see that freedom is not given, but chosen. And that this choice sometimes comes at a cost: rejection, misunderstanding, loneliness. But also that remaining faithful to that choice yields something no one can ever take away from you.

This morning I watched again the episode of Achter het Nieuws entirely devoted to Max, presented by a young Paul Witteman. I see him then. I hear him. And immediately it happens again: my sun rises.
I feel no sadness that he is no longer here.
I feel gratitude that he was part of my life — and still is.

I do not miss him.
I carry him.
Not as a memory that hurts,
but as a presence that remains warm.
Perhaps that too is a form of freedom:
that what was truly connected
does not disappear,
but simply changes its place.

Loyal to You

25 January 2026

Sometimes something you’ve lived your entire life suddenly aligns with words from the outside.
Not as proof, but as recognition.

There are few photos of me as a child. And when there are, I’m almost always with my nose pressed against a dog. As if that simply belonged there. In my younger years, I left many tears in the fur of my dog Rakker. Silent tears. Seen by no one — except him. That was enough.

Do you recognise that feeling — that something you see or hear can give you a small sense of support?
Sometimes a single glimpse is enough to know you’re not the only one.

My dogs are my most loyal companions. They always seem to sense how I’m doing, as if they read me without asking questions. In return, they feel safe with me. It’s a natural understanding between us, not an agreement.

Once, I had a little dog named Donald. Not pretty, but incredibly loving and stubborn. She wasn’t allowed upstairs. She slept downstairs, in her basket. Yet sometimes she would lie upstairs, on the landing outside my bedroom. We could never get her to leave. She opened doors herself, even when we had turned the locks.

Later, I discovered the pattern: whenever she insisted on staying upstairs like that, I would fall ill. She sensed it before I did. At that time, I was young and consistently pushed beyond my limits, trying to function as normally as possible — as a woman, a partner, a mother. I managed for a while. Until I collapsed. My dog knew sooner.

When I saw her lying there, I would think: oh dear, I need to slow down. It was always too late. She stayed by my bed until I recovered.

The look in her eyes when we had her put to sleep, the trust she had — those are precious moments. A bond I have never known with any human being. That may be something about me, but that is how I experience it.

Much later, I had Pan. As a puppy, he became seriously ill. For weeks, I cared for him day and night. I set my alarm at night to give him his medication. He survived. He grew big, heavy, gentle, and loyal. Impressive to others — to me, whenever he got the chance, a lap dog.

When Michel became ill, Pan never left his side. On the couch, in bed, everywhere. After Michel passed away, Pan immediately shifted his focus to me. At that time, I was weak, mentally and physically. Pan sensed that he needed to protect me. That turned into dominance and dangerous behaviour toward anyone outside our immediate circle.

With me, he lay on the bed together with Kiba. Gentle, protective, attuned. But toward the outside world, he was no longer safe. I even brought in a dog trainer, but I literally couldn’t handle him. He was too strong. His pack consisted of me, Kiba, the cats, the children, and our grandchild.

For the first time in my life, I had to give up an animal. That was ten years ago. Even now, when I see a Bernese Mountain Dog, I feel a sharp pang in my heart.

At that time, Kiba had been a cheerful, athletic little dog. After the loss of Michel and Pan, she changed. She lay curled up in a corner for days, walked with her tail between her legs. The vet told me that animals grieve too. She had two losses to process. Only after half a year did life slowly return to her.

Once, a house near mine caught fire. The fire brigade used my home as a command post. A small dog was rescued from the house, and the trembling animal was placed on my lap. Her name was Fluffy. From that moment on, she never left my side. Sometimes I still hear her little steps in my mind, just behind my leg. She lived to be fifteen and was allowed to fall asleep in my arms at the vet’s.

During the pandemic, many people got a pet. Puck was bought as a puppy by young people. When life returned to normal, their attention faded. The mother of the couple felt sorry for the dog and looked for a new home. The owner of the grooming salon where my dogs go sent me a photo and asked if I had room for her.

I was sold.

Puck, like Fluffy, follows me around all day. She sleeps with me on the bed, wants to sit beside me or on my lap. She keeps an eye on me. I cuddle my dogs a lot.

Lately, I see more and more appearing about dogs and humans. Articles, conversations, reflections.

Your dog as a therapist.
What pets do for your mental health.
A monk wondering whether it’s unhygienic for a dog to sleep on the bed — and concluding that there are even benefits.

I don’t secretly take such a magazine from the waiting room. I write down the issue number and order it later. Not because I’m searching for something, but because I recognise what I’ve been living for a long time. It does me good to see that, from many different angles now, animals are being looked at differently. What they do for us — and what we do for them.

Loyal presence needs no explanation.
She is there.
She feels what I cannot yet carry myself.
She stays, without conditions.

That, for me, is loyalty.

Puck and Kiba

Missing as a Circular Form

24 January 2026

Loss is a large part of my life.
Of everyone’s life.

At a young age, I discovered that writing about it could be a gain for me.
In this place, I mainly write about how I experience loss and how I look at it. That does not make it the truth. It is true for me, perhaps not for someone else. What I now experience as true can shift through new insights.

New insights always announce themselves to me physically. As a kind of confirmation.
A little “light-bulb moment” switches on in my head. Or I get goosebumps. Sometimes even stronger, like a brief electric shock. I don’t consciously go looking for these moments. I believe time chooses its own time. That asks for calm and patience. Growing as a human being requires waiting. Strangely enough, insights I try to force are often not pure for me. They pull me away from what actually wants to be seen.

Life feels to me like a winding, wide path with side roads. In the end, I always return to that broad path. I have learned not to regret the side roads I took. Sometimes out of impatience. Sometimes guided by emotion. The falling and getting back up, the pain, the experiences — later they turn out to be gains.

For me, being born is the beginning of loss.
Having a body means limitation. It must be fed, maintained, protected.

Every change during growing up is the loss of what was and the gain of what newly emerges. This is true physically and mentally. Every day, something dies. And every day, something is added. Quite literally: yesterday is gone, tomorrow is not here yet.

So what is there?
NOW. This moment.

Ton and I visited an exhibition titled Missing as a Circular Form. Artists who have given shape to missing, to dealing with loss and grief. I was curious to see how they had done this.

— Every person will, sooner or later, be confronted with loss. Whether it is the loss of a loved one, a pet, or a homeland. How do you deal with missing, and how do you keep your loved ones close to you? —

These were the opening lines of the announcement. In the exhibition rooms, I mainly saw the grief of losing loved ones. The pain of missing was portrayed in many ways. Beautiful art, yet it also made me feel somewhat somber.

In a large room with a wide variety of works, there was a text on the wall that resonated with me:

— In this room, grief is not shown as a moment, but as a movement. As a slow wave that continues to come and go, even after death. How does the absence of the other take shape in everyday life? —

Something became clear to me there. For me, loss and continuing to live are not only about missing a loved one or a homeland. They are also present in the smallest, everyday things. Close by. For me, that is the essence of what we call life. It begins in the smallest atoms, in and around us. Dying off and renewal.

When you can see this as an uninterrupted cycle, it is always NOW.

For me, the only true experience of the present is letting go of expectations, fear, worries, unrest, and pain. By emptying my mind of the past and releasing control over the future, I can be in that true now.

The Annette who looks back at me from the mirror is who I am at the moment I am standing there.
Not a second earlier.
Not a second later.

What did I take with me from this exhibition?

The realisation that every person has a different frame of reference to give shape to something like — missing.

And that all of it is true.

Missing is not an emptiness that wants to be filled,
but a movement that keeps circling.
What disappears changes form.
What remains moves along with me.

And again and again
there is only this moment
in which everything comes together.

When Laughter Shifts

23 January 2026

OMG!!!
This time I really had to call myself to order.

At the beginning of the week, my two friends came to visit. Hilde and I share a mutual friend who has a certain serious naïveté that always makes us laugh. With her, you end up in Fawlty Towers–like situations. Because she herself is so serious, it sometimes feels to Hilde and me as if we’ve landed in a fairy-tale comedy. We allowed ourselves to talk about this together — perhaps gossip is the right word. In any case, these situations come up now and then, and we laugh until tears roll down our cheeks.

We told this to Carry. I could see from her face that she didn’t like the idea. Gossip — the word alone. And honestly, I agree with her completely. I have bad memories of gossip. It can be very unpleasant. Hilde and I don’t mean any harm. But where exactly is the line between gossiping and telling an anecdote about someone?

Carry’s disapproving look did reach me. I felt guilty. It wasn’t a mean story; it was mostly very funny. But maybe it’s not about what you tell, but why. Are we laughing at a situation — or are we laughing at someone?

Today I was in a museum with Ton. Ton reads all the texts next to the paintings and sculptures, moving slowly and attentively through the galleries. In the meantime, I went to sit in the museum café. The long tables there are joined together, so strangers often sit next to you. At first, I was sitting there alone, quietly reading.

Then a group of women sat down next to me — about six or seven of them. They were talking about a woman who wasn’t there. It was clearly gossip.

“Oh well, she always has something.”
“Well, if you knew what I’ve been through.”
“Why did she text you and not put it in the group chat?”
“Yes, she obviously doesn’t like me.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll just make sure I never sit next to her.”
“I got a message — shall I read it out?”

In a joking tone, one of them started reading the message. And at that moment, all my energy drained away. I just wanted to go outside. I’d rather wait in the cold.

Ooooh… how awful that is.

The conclusion made itself known almost physically: speaking badly about someone does something. To yourself. To the space. To the other — even when they’re not there.

Outside, standing in the winter cold, I took deep breaths and thought:
Annette, let this be a lesson.
Perhaps not never to talk about someone again — nicely or not —
but only to do so when you are willing to share your thoughts openly and honestly with that person as well.

Or perhaps that’s not a rule,
but an exercise.

One that became visible again today.

Maybe honesty doesn’t begin with what I say,
but with what I feel as I say it.
And maybe freedom sometimes asks for nothing grand,
only the courage to become quiet
at the moment something no longer feels right.

Today, I listened.

FREEDOM

22 January 2026

On 22 January 2025, I was admitted to the stroke unit of the hospital. Of course that was unpleasant. At the same time, it was a moment when my thoughts immediately moved forward: how to go on with these paralyses?

No fear. No — rather an acceptance of what was. Even in the worst scenarios, I could already see possibilities. Knowing that I will always find a way to feel happy, whatever my situation may be. That knowledge gives me a sense of freedom.

Today things are so much better, both mentally and physically. Much better than I could have imagined. A turning point in my life. You may not see it on the outside, but on the inside I feel calm. I feel free from the dark spirits of the past. They are part of who I am, without touching me anymore. They exist as experience — and that is what freedom feels like to me.

After training today, the sun seemed to shine inside my body. My face reflected it. That is freedom.

Since Ton and I started training on the EGYM, I have an app that records everything: what I’ve done, how heavy it was, how much, progress and/or setbacks. It’s pleasant and appealing not only to feel and experience this, but also to see it visually mapped out. Unfortunately, this app doesn’t work for Ton. So we made an appointment with the administration to go there in person. Said and done.

Ton also asked about my medical indication and how reimbursement works. First, you have to visit a physiotherapist, who enters it into the system, and then it runs through the health insurance. But… then you’re only allowed to come between 12:00 and 4:00 p.m. Only if you pay yourself can you choose when you want to train — from 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.

What works so well for me right now is this: getting up, washing, having breakfast (half of it), training, and then coming back to finish breakfast. The whole day still lies ahead of me. That would no longer be possible.

The moment this friendly woman tells us this, I feel fire shoot from my eyes and I say:
“So if you’re disabled, not only is your physical freedom limited, but this freedom too?”

The shock in her eyes immediately dissolves my rising anger. I feel understanding: she didn’t make these rules. I apologise right away for my quick, indignant reaction.

There are two options.
Pay for a subscription myself, without an indication.

Or call the health insurance company, hoping it can be arranged differently.

The health insurer sticks strictly to the rules. If I go at the designated times, they pay €50 per day. If I don’t, they pay nothing, and the subscription costs me €50 per month. The choice was simple. I prefer to decide for myself.

What’s funny is that as a teenager I devoured the books of Jean-Paul Sartre for a while. Existential humanism holds that human beings are radically free and must create their own lives and meaning in a world without inherent purpose. This entails total responsibility: human beings are “condemned to be free.” Freedom is not a gift, but a task. Every choice shapes not only yourself, but humanity as a whole.

Into that framework I fitted my own morality, as I had learned and interpreted it from the Bible. I thought more in terms of a SOURCE than of a God.

Years later, during my studies, I encountered Carl Rogers. Remarkably, this existential-humanist thinking received little attention at university. For me, Rogers aligned even more closely with how I experience life. His humanism emphasises freedom through self-actualisation: the innate drive of human beings to realise their full potential. This can only flourish in an environment of unconditional positive regard, empathy, and authenticity. From there, autonomy emerges — living from an internal frame of reference, free from external, often conditional demands.

Already during my studies, I felt an inner resistance to fixed definitions in this area. Much later, I began to embrace the eclectic and allowed myself to see it as an organically growing concept. Nothing fixed. Mobile. Changeable, even. Freedom is hardly definable. In fact, you already lose part of it the moment you are born. You suddenly have a body.
How free is that?

Freedom is not the absence of limits, but the way I relate to limits — ethically, embodied, and with regard for the other.

Because this theme of freedom was so strongly present, I also thought of my painting Colorful Equality.
“For 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.”
I made this painting years ago, inspired by that quote from Nelson Mandela.

Colorful Equality is an ode to equality, freedom, and respect. The many heads, each with their own colours and textures, symbolise the diversity of humanity. They are unique, yet connected — shaped by different stories, backgrounds, and perspectives. Freedom is not only the right to be yourself, but also the responsibility to create space for the other.

What I never understood was why I painted the background so fiercely. Today, for the first time, I understand why those faces stand in a sea of fire.

— Freedom that comes under threat feels like something you would instinctively want to defend with fire and sword. —

Here too, after many years, a meaning surfaces that I myself had not seen before.

Freedom is not a state I reach.
It is a movement I make again and again.
Not by ignoring boundaries,
but by consciously inhabiting them.

Today I do not choose less,
but truer.
And that turns out to be enough space.

Colorful Equality - Acryl - 3D - 100 cm x 100 cm

FLEETING LIFE

On time

This was it.
One full year.

A long year.
A slow year.
A short year.
A lightning-fast year.

Fleeting life.

We say: time flies.
And suddenly I see it clearly:
as human beings, we always live in two time zones at once.

There is time measured as time.
It is fleeting.
Almost nothing.

One year.
Ten years.
A hundred.
A thousand.

A human life
is a drop
in the ocean of time.

And at the same time,
time stands still.

You live.
So much happens.
So much still lies ahead.

In fifteen years then…
Back then…

That feels like an eternity.

And yet
time flies by.

Looking back at this diary,
I experience both.

Time is fleeting.
Time stands still.
And time passes me by.

Time does not end.
Time does not begin.
Time is.

The Voice Returned

21 January 2026

On 21 January 2025 I woke up and could no longer speak.
On 21 January 2026 I have my voice back — literally and figuratively.

What lies between those two sentences was not a straight line. Nor was it a recovery story made up of steps or goals. It began with disorientation.

My body asked for attention, but that was not where the greatest struggle lay. I took the physical setback seriously right away. Rehabilitation was simply part of it, almost self-evident. There was no drama there, no resistance. I had known my body for a long time as an idiosyncratic yet honest instrument. That part moved forward.

What did not move forward were my emotions.

They surfaced unfiltered. Raw, old, uncontrollable. Pain, memories, reactions I recognised but could no longer manage. As if doors that had been closed for years suddenly flew open — not one by one, but all at once. That surprised me, and it confronted me.

That is why I decided to write. Not to get rid of it, but to investigate it.

Why do I do what I do?
Why do I react the way I react?
Can I change that?
Do I want to change that?
Do I have choices?
And if I choose — are those choices allowed to change as well?

It did not become an analysis, but a process. With ups and downs. With moments of clarity and moments of confusion. No spectacular growth, but — as I realised later — an invisible upward line.

A confrontation with my son became a turning point. Not because of the scale of the conflict, but because of what it revealed. That this was not just my inner world. That what happened inside me had consequences. And that I did not have to go through this alone — and perhaps could not go through it alone.

I sought help. And there something became visible that I had long avoided facing: my heart was wearing armour. Not a small shield, but a hard layer, formed over many years. Protective, functional — and ultimately suffocating. The image that came with it was clear.

A bullet destroys. It strikes with force, tears through, leaves no doubt about what has been hit. That was how damage had always looked in my mind. But this was not a bullet. In my life it was a needle. A thin, almost invisible movement, slowly gliding through the pericardium. Not to destroy, but to make space. No impact, no drama — yet an unmistakable process. You hardly see it happening, but you feel it. Breath finds room again. The heart no longer has to brace itself.

Around 23 December I felt something I can only describe as relief. No euphoria. No great insight. But a bodily knowing: something has shifted here. This was, for me, the most tangible turning point of the year.

And then something else unexpected happened. The EGYM. No long build-up, no trajectory. One day. As if my body suddenly understood that it was allowed to participate again. Not fighting, not compensating, but joining in. It was not a performance. It was integration.

Now, a year later, I look back without heroics. This was not a victory march. It was an honest year. A year in which emotions could no longer be suppressed. In which old material surfaced and was allowed to be examined. In which I discovered that choices exist — and that they are allowed to change. In which my heart softened, my body was included again, and my voice slowly returned.

Not loud.
But mine.

Today I am not closing a chapter to seal it shut.
I am closing it to make space.

I am here.
I speak again.

There are breaks that bring you down,
and there are openings you do not see coming into being.
They make no sound,
they ask for no attention,
and suddenly something flows again that had long been still.

This is not an ending.
This is the moment life dares to move through me again.

Small Shifts

20 January 2026

On days when seemingly nothing happens, there are always small, quiet moments that make life glow just a little. I’ve given myself the task of seeing them—and capturing them. Not every day is spectacular. There are calm, almost boring stretches, and there are days that fizz with energy. Right now, I’m sailing through calm waters.

I woke up because Ton woke me. My dream had been intense. There was danger, but no fear. On the contrary: in every situation I dealt naturally and competently with whatever presented itself. To avoid losing my dreams, I always go straight to my laptop to write them down. This morning I did so with a striking sense of optimism.

The gym was quiet. I did a few extra exercises and sang softly along with the radio playing through the room. At home I saw via the app that my best friend Hilde had read yesterday’s blog and responded warmly. That did me good.

A little later Ton called to ask if I could pick him up at the garage. In my wardrobe hangs a colourful winter coat I had never worn. When I bought it, it was too tight around my arms and back. Because of a long period of limited mobility—already before my stroke—I had gained quite a bit of weight. Still, I kept that coat. For better times. Perhaps for slimmer ones.

Today I put it on again. It fit perfectly. Not tight—just right. In the lift I looked at myself in the mirror and thought: what a lovely woman is standing there. I felt genuinely content. The fact that I look in the mirror at all is new. That I see myself there with gentleness may be even more remarkable.

At the end of last year I completely cleared out my studio. For a long time it had been a thorn in my side, simply because I didn’t have the energy to begin. Eventually it worked. And then—almost carelessly—things were put back again. Boxes. Storage. Christmas items. Once more, no space.

I mentioned it, more than once. But Ton doesn’t feel that pressure the way I do. And this time I noticed I didn’t have to fight. I let it be. Today we cleared it out together. Calmly. Without tension. In a harmonious atmosphere.

There were no big events today. No milestones. But for me, they were little pearls.

Maybe this is what life sometimes does:
it doesn’t shift anything grand,
but sets everything just a fraction better.
And suddenly, it fits again.

Who Is Reading Whom?

January 19, 2026

Two friends came over today.
Carry — my friend since secondary school. Fifty years now. That remains a strange, almost unreal number.
And Hilde, my best friend. They know each other, but they are not friends themselves. That’s fine. It was a relaxed afternoon. We laughed — really laughed — like we used to.

Lately, I’ve been deeply engaged in writing my book. Over the past year, I’ve written an enormous amount of text, which I now use as source material. In my head, the structure is clear. I see how everything connects. But as soon as I try to fit it into the format of ChatGPT, interference appears. The material is large, layered, complex — and somewhere along the way the system keeps losing the thread.

At one point I said to Ton:
if this were a colleague instead of an AI assistant, we would have had a serious argument by now. I would have pinned him to the wall.
It drove me mad. I started sweating. I got too worked up.

Ton suggested measuring my blood pressure.
It turned out to be that of a young, healthy woman.
So it really wasn’t that bad.

Quite impressive, actually — getting into a fight with a computer.

The arrival of my friends was a welcome distraction.

Hilde asked several times how I was doing.
And the honest answer is: unusually well.
Since joining the new gym, a lot has changed. I have energy. I feel stable. There is an inner calm I don’t recognize from myself.

But she asked so insistently.
She told me that after reading my pieces, she had the impression that I was depressed.

That touched me. And it surprised me.

I experience clarity instead. Of course, many things are happening — but they don’t stick. They don’t sink in and drag me down. I feel that everything is allowed to be there, without it knocking me over. Not like before, when I dealt with things by wearing an impenetrable armor.
Now it’s different: seeing, feeling, and letting go again.
For me, a completely new way of being in life.

What does this say about the way I write?
What does it say about how my friend receives my texts?
What does it say about me?
About her?

I find that an interesting question.

Last year, I was clearly writing in a self-therapeutic way. Now I write more from existential curiosity. Less to save myself, more to look. Perhaps that touches something more universal — causing the themes to color themselves through the reader.

At least, that’s what I think.
But those are assumptions.

And who am I?
Who is she?
Who are you?

Perhaps writing is not a mirror of what is,
but a space in which everyone sees what they are able to carry.
Not because it stands there,
but because it begins to move —
between me, you,
and what does not yet have a name.

BETWEEN LOVE AND EMPTINESS

18 January 2026

I dreamed about Ton and me. I don’t remember what the dream itself was about, but when I woke up, something lingered: a conclusion, and a few questions that would not let themselves be pushed away.

Do I see and experience the same things as I did back then?
How do I deal with that now?
And how do I do this — without losing myself again?

I met my first husband, the father of my eldest daughter, on holiday. We fell deeply in love. We married young. We were blessed with a sweet little girl, Renée. Then came a major operation and two years of rehabilitation. At the end of that period, Renée was born. My physical condition deteriorated so much that I was declared fully disabled.

At the time, it didn’t seem to matter. I was happily married and had a child. Life was difficult, which meant my parents took over part of the care for my daughter. I was often left alone in my small apartment. My car was adapted, I was given a wheelchair and a mobility scooter, and my world became a little larger again.

It was during that time that yoga crossed my path. I immersed myself in it completely. My energy returned. I was able to walk much better again — literally and figuratively. Much more happened in those years that shaped my life, but that is not the point today.

Through the deepening I was going through, through the way I had always related to life but now more intensely, I gradually drifted away from my husband. Until there came a moment when, to me, there was nothing left. No communication. No shared purpose. No love. Emptiness.

I met Ton eight years ago, after Michel had died two and a half years earlier. We, too, fell deeply in love. We quickly became inseparable. Ton is someone who takes care — or rather, he provides care. He cooks, does the shopping, takes over the household. For me, it felt like heaven on earth. It gave me space. Space to paint again. To be creative.

Until he entered my life, living and surviving had been more than enough. That was all my body could manage. Nothing wrong with that. I had nothing to complain about. But that space also reawakened something that had been dormant for a long time. The energy I received from painting was immense.

We moved in together into a ground-floor apartment, with a small studio. Perfect. We bought bicycles so we could go out into nature and I could keep moving. And then came the stroke. The rehabilitation. The awareness. And the reborn feeling of now.

Ton is so good to me. And yet we do not speak the same language. He cannot follow my way of thinking. He wants to rationalize everything. He enters into discussions about things that, for me, are not discussions at all — they simply are. I want the space to name them out loud, and again and again we end up in distance. In emptiness.

And then the questions arise.

What happens to me if things continue to go as well as they are now?
If my energy fully returns?
Do I let that emptiness emerge again?
Do I become loveless once more — not out of unwillingness, but out of survival?

I want to do it differently. Without repeating the past.

Having no expectations of sharing the same way of thinking.
Seeing what he does do for me.
Not overlooking the small gestures of love.
Not letting my love depend on being recognized, but on being acknowledged.
Giving love. Sharing love. So there is room for Ton to breathe as well.

That is where I stand now.
Not with answers.
But with a choice to remain present — even when it rubs.

Perhaps love does not always ask for merging,
but for standing beside one another
without leaving oneself behind.
Not for speaking the same language,
but for allowing each other the space
to keep breathing within those differences.

EMBRACE HOPE

17 January 2026

In the mailbox lay a parcel addressed to me, bearing a familiar handwriting: long strokes and slightly elegant curls. It was a package from my sister, sent for my birthday. The mail had been delayed after the snowfall at the beginning of the year. At our cousin’s funeral, my sister had cautiously asked whether I hadn’t received anything yet. No, but don’t worry, it will arrive, I said.

Beautifully wrapped in a yellow silk cloth with cow parsley, a finely bound book emerged.

Remember this always…
The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, the Horse and the Storm, illustrated and written by Charlie Mackesy.

Without having read it, the book already feels good in my hands. It reminds me of my childhood, when books were still traditionally bound, with covers that were slightly soft and thick, with relief. The drawing and the title suggest that — like Olivier B. Bommel and Winnie-the-Pooh — this will be a book with beautiful illustrations and carried texts with deeper layers.

Curious as I am, I first go online to look up who Charlie Mackesy is.

The idea for the book arose after Mackesy, an author and illustrator, began filling his Instagram account with drawings that radiated peace, empathy, and self-reflection. That much was immediately clear to me.

After experiencing the death of a close friend, Mackesy began drawing a boy who talks with a horse — as an expression of grief and as a conversation about the nature of courage. In a time of confusion, resentment, and tragedy, the story of the boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse offers a simple way of looking again at the world around us. Some of the feelings conveyed may seem simple, but they are precisely the essential things we can forget or suppress in times of unrest.

It is a book about hope. As I have written in earlier blog days myself: seeing and experiencing the light in small, simple things.

My sister and I have always had an ambivalent relationship. Love and envy. We both know where the roots of that lie. We have both tried to let seeds of love land, hoping they would sprout, grow, and bloom.

Today, after reading the note she had enclosed with the book in a beautiful open envelope, I can say that those seeds have grown into enormous trees — with deep roots and full of blossoms. For me, this was a valuable gift today. An example of how magical and wondrous lives can unfold.

I place the book on my bedside table, to read a little each night before going to sleep.

Perhaps hope is not something grand to hold on to,
but something small that you gently allow.
A gesture.
A book.
A sentence that may lie beside you
as the day comes to rest.

17 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

MAGICAL LIFE

16 January 2026

Life is something wondrous. I mean: what makes something alive? That alone is a miracle. We know, to a large extent, how our instrument — our body — works. When the heart stops, when the breath stops, life stops. Especially in recent years, I have been confronted with death so often that this essential question lives within me like the vibration of sound waves, like resonance — as we see it reflected in the universe. Rhythmic, synchronous movements and vibrations on a cosmic scale: planets in harmonious orbits, the natural vibrations of stars.

After the death of my grandfather, grandmother, and my father, this question surfaced briefly, only to disappear again deep within my system.
After Michel’s death, however, this question truly began to live — almost as something organic. He was the starting signal in my life in which people began to disappear like stars burning out. Some like a supernova, with a spectacular explosion. Others vanished into a black hole. That too remains mysterious.

In any case, the beginning and the end — and the meaning of all this — remain present in my awareness. Not heavy or gloomy — no, rather organic, like a piece that has become a fixed part of my existence. Or perhaps it was always there. In any case, it is a part that teaches me to look even more deeply at life and its meaning.

So I have made choices. Whatever presents itself, I want to look at it with wonder and curiosity. Why do I call that a choice? Sometimes I feel negative emotions — feeling hurt, misunderstood, in pain, or something else unpleasant. My choice then is not to deny it, but to feel it and to deal with it as best I can. Naturally, curiosity arises about why I react the way I do, or what makes something hurt so deeply. The wonder of how this works follows on its own. In fact, through this choice, wonder and trust grow. They become larger.

Every day — however ordinary it may seem — is full of magical moments. Sometimes so small that they are barely noticeable.

By now I know it for sure… it is truly there.
Haha — I can assure everyone of that.

The day is slow and dull. I look at the cherry blossom branches I bought at the supermarket, and truly, flowers are emerging from them. A tiny magical moment. My dog looking up at me with his faithful eyes — a magical moment. My husband lovingly preparing food for me every day. Perhaps routine, perhaps ordinary, but in essence they are magical moments.

Every day I want to look at them, to feel them — and above all, to truly see and perceive them.

What the meaning of life is, I cannot define.
But this is how I want to give it shape.
And this is how I want to live it.

Every day — however ordinary — carries something magical, once I am willing to see and feel it.

Perhaps magic is nothing extraordinary.
Perhaps it is what becomes visible
when I stop rushing
and stay with what is already there.
Not grand, not spectacular —
but living,
breathing,
and exactly enough.

16 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

THE SHEPHERD WITHIN ME

15 January 2026

Today I attended the funeral of a cousin. She lived in the village where my father grew up. A large family with eight children, who always remained connected with one another. At the very least, they visited each other from time to time. All of their children — myself included — grew up playing together.

After the older generation had all passed away, we began organizing a cousins’ day once a year, to continue experiencing connection as a family. Now that the older generation has transformed, the thinning within this group of cousins has begun. It feels strange to see that we have all become parents, all grandparents, and some of us even great-grandparents.

Nearly everyone was present. These people are very different from one another, yet they share a loving family bond and are always genuinely happy to see each other. Supporting one another during moments of grief like this feels natural and right.

My cousin was religious and part of a church community. The service was therefore led by a minister — a normal man, who thankfully kept things close to himself. No rousing or overly solemn sermons, as I have sometimes experienced. The service began with “The Lord is my Shepherd.” A familiar text, one that brings many people a sense of peace. I remember that this was also true for my parents.

For me, however, the interpretation is more difficult. I believe in a primal force. I am willing to call it “God.” But for me it is a force within me, a force within everyone, within nature, within the air I breathe. It is everywhere. It is a force I can call upon within myself, and then trust.

That does not mean that “Life” is kept outside of me. No — moving through pain and difficulty is part of it. Everything that comes my way — good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant, beautiful or ugly — belongs. The force within me, the primal force, the “God” within me gives direction to how I deal with what comes. That is why I would never ask, “Why is this happening to me?”

I believe that “Life” offers me the path I can and may walk. I find biblical texts beautiful when I can interpret them more metaphorically. For if the Lord is my Shepherd and He shows me the way, then He leads. Do I allow myself to be led? Or do I seek the shepherd within myself and let that lead?

Perhaps we mean the same thing, feel the same thing — and it is simply a linguistic misunderstanding.

Perhaps we are not searching for another truth,
but for other words.
Perhaps what carries us is not outside of us,
nor only of us,
but something that can be felt from within
when we become quiet enough to listen.
And perhaps following is nothing more
than learning to trust
what already knows from within.

The pumping station in Ouderkerk aan the IJssel — a place of water, silence and remembrance, where each of us belongs in our own way.

15 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

Kindled

14 January 2026

My dream this morning kindled a question.
What is, actually, the difference between looking and perceiving?

To me, looking is what you see: a subject, an object, a person — without truly perceiving. It is a passive way of seeing. You see someone, but not necessarily their clothing, or whether they are smiling or not.

Perceiving goes deeper. Perception asks for attention; looking does not. It’s curious, really: in both cases we use the verb to see, yet it means something different. In perceiving, you use your senses — seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling — to give meaning to what you see. It is therefore a sensory process, and thus subjective. You inevitably bring your own experiences into it.

Looking is literally seeing with the eyes. It is objective.

Alright. Let me then assume these are the definitions of looking and perceiving. Inevitably, the next question arises: which is more important — looking or perceiving? Objective or subjective? In this way I bring myself back into a dualistic question — and that is precisely what I would rather be spared.

When you ask a further-reaching question, and are honest about it, you almost always end up with dualistic positions. Perhaps that is what life is. Ultimately, it does not ask us to exclude one in favor of the other, but to let them exist together. Only together do they form a whole. Perhaps we see best by both looking and perceiving.

And then I’m still not finished.

What if you are blind? How does that work? Can you then only perceive? Do you experience the world entirely subjectively? I know that in blind people other senses are often more strongly engaged — and perhaps a sixth, invisible sense is given more space. What does that mean?

Could we then say that there are people who visibly have a defect, but who may actually be blessed by that very defect? Might they develop more quickly, or differently? And could it be that what we consider a defect is, in the larger whole, not a defect at all?

I know that I may be making myself — and perhaps the reader — a little dizzy with these hoops of thought. But I don’t necessarily need an answer to existence or to how it all works. Asking questions and speaking them out loud is something I value being able to do in this place.

Perhaps life does not need to be solved.
Not lifted into a single truth.
As long as I am here — with a body, with senses, with questions —
I move between distinction and connection.
And perhaps that is not a lack of non-duality,
but precisely the way the whole
allows itself to be experienced in matter.

14 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

Sunday Feeling

13 January 2026

The Sunday feeling. It’s Tuesday, but it feels like a Sunday. In the past that meant: a little more freedom and then back to work. A kind of loss of autonomy. But I haven’t known that for nearly forty years now. So what does this feeling mean today?

For me it is calm. Coziness. Nothing required, everything allowed. A world that doesn’t rattle at me, but is fairly quiet. That’s it above all: when my surroundings contribute little, make little noise, this Sunday feeling arises.

I get up, go training, have breakfast at home. During breakfast the TV goes on. Politics — question time in the House of Representatives. Then Maestro. The classical film music makes tears roll down my cheeks. That too, I realize, belongs to this feeling.

I always like to go home. My husband finds it almost endearing — how happy I am when I’m home. For me, the place where I live is a house in which I can truly feel at home. A place where I feel safe, where my own energy hangs, where I don’t have to explain anything.

I could say that “home” is not a physical place, that I can feel at home anywhere when I am at home within myself. And that is also true. In nature I feel at home. Cycling along trees and water. In rain, birds, plants, stars. In music that opens me. In painting and writing, when I enter the flow and time dissolves. Then I feel connected. Not separated. As if everything is part of the same movement.

But that does not mean the earthly disappears. At the end of the day I want to go back to my house. To my chair. My table. My walls. My quiet. Precisely there, all of that can land. Precisely there, I can relax without disappearing.

Home is not a contradiction for me. It is not a choice between inside or outside, body or spirit, earth or cosmos. It is both feeling the world — and being able to arrive somewhere. And sometimes a Tuesday simply feels like a Sunday.

Perhaps being at home is nothing more than being allowed to rest in what is

— in nature, in music, in stillness,

and ultimately also just between your own walls,

where everything remains, for a moment, exactly as it is.

13 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

The First Day

12 January 2026

The first day of the rest of my life.
That sentence resonates through me. It’s actually quite powerful. Why does it surface now?

I’ve always had the strange idea that I will live to be ninety-six. In difficult moments in my life, it gave me the courage to keep going — and to want to keep going. I often doubt those odd, unfounded assumptions of mine. And yet… what does it matter whether it will turn out to be true or not? From now on, people may enjoy my physical presence for another thirty-three years. Two thirds done, one third to go. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

The spiritual meaning of 33 revolves around the master number 33, the Teacher of Teachers. It stands for unconditional love, creativity, spiritual leadership, and helping others grow. It is associated with transforming old structures and opening new paths — with revelation and deep inner wisdom. It is often seen as a sign of calling and service.

Wow. If this is the first day of my life, then a beautiful path still lies ahead. Of course, that may sound a bit lofty and dreamy — but a girl is allowed to dream and fantasize once in a while.

Let me simply philosophize today.

I think I’ve reached an age where I can calmly say that I have gained an overview of the landscape of life. As if the contours have become visible. Because of that, I can now walk through life more freely, more naturally, more effortlessly. Because I have grown to love myself more and have developed greater self-mastery, I can hopefully collaborate more easily with others. At ease, I recognize possibilities as they present themselves — sometimes even before others see them. Because I am in harmony with myself, I understand that life gives me exactly what I need.

I am increasingly seeing how beautiful, magical, and wondrous life is. Slowly, I notice that I am beginning to experience heaven on earth. Happy with the small things, the small joys, the small moments of rapture — small in their stillness, yet vast in their boundless potential.

Perhaps I can also hear the sentence that keeps resonating today in another way.
The first day of the rest of your life can be an invitation: to let go, to learn, to make conscious choices, and to meet life as it presents itself now — without waiting for perfect circumstances.

And to keep the calm when the moment is not yet the moment.
To trust that you may let go.
I believe I will arrive, in my own time, at the place where I am meant to be — whatever the circumstances.

Perhaps this is what beginning truly means:
not turning everything upside down,
but looking differently.
Not rushing,
but trusting that life carries me —
starting right here.

12 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

After Midnight

11 January 2026

My day began without a dream. That is rare for me.
It is my birthday.

For the first time in my life I have no feelings about it. Normally I feel wobbly and nauseous weeks in advance, and on the day itself overstimulated. Today everything is quiet — within me and around me.

At exactly midnight, something did happen. In one clear moment I realized that I am now officially a year older than Michel ever became. That was the first thing that passed through me. No sadness, no drama — just that knowing. Like Cinderella leaving the ball when the clock strikes. Not because the magic disappears, but because time moves on relentlessly.

I asked Ton not to tell anyone that it’s my birthday. Certainly not to invite anyone. Haha — not an easy assignment for him, actually. But he kept to it. It became a homely day. Long showers. Wonderfully lazy. No role, no expectations.

The quiet was briefly interrupted when Miranda and her husband stood at the door to return my painting. The painting with the ibis. I saw from the insignia that I had painted it thirty-three years ago. That it returned precisely today, I let rest. It was allowed to simply be so.

All day I watched the Chinese series The Untamed. This series shows another modality of love:
love as presence,
love without demand,
love that does not need to be consummated.

No call to transcend physical love. No suggestion that this is “better.” The story simply dares to let one specific form of love fully exist. And that is rare.

In the material world, love is always bounded. Bodies remain separate, desires collide, pain and beauty exist side by side. That is not a judgment — it is an observation within the story.

Between the main characters I see something else. Two people who do not unite through physical union, but through loyalty, attunement, choice, and presence — so completely that it feels like one movement. One intention. One being. Not as an idea or an ideal, but as a narrative reality.

For me, that is the highest form of love in matter. Not because it stands above other forms, but because within this story it cannot be lifted any further without leaving the material behind. Precisely that is what makes it so impressive.

Perhaps that is why this birthday was allowed to be so quiet.
Why there was no dream.
Why I did not need to celebrate anything.

At the end of the day I watched the final episodes. It was my birthday gift from myself to myself.

And that was enough.

Perhaps some transitions are not meant to be celebrated,
but to pass by unnoticed.
The way time does —
without noise, without proof.
And perhaps something then remains
that does not grow older,
but becomes more simply present
than ever.

MORE WHOLE

10 January 2026

All week I’ve been going to bed early — early for me, that is. As a result, I’m waking up early again. I can train early every morning. On weekends I give myself time off. Then I can — and may — sleep in, simply be lazy.

Tomorrow it’s my birthday. My youngest grandchild’s as well. Today her birthday is being celebrated.

Outside, it has snowed heavily all week. It thaws and freezes alternately. I don’t dare to walk outside on my own right now. On slippery ground I have absolutely no balance. Any unexpected movement causes my body to lock up again, and I end up needing a doctor to put everything back in place. A lot of pain, a lot of effort — that’s not something I choose if I can avoid it myself.

My other granddaughter calls to ask whether I’m coming today, given the icy conditions. The main roads are fine, apart from the smaller streets.
“If I can get to my car without difficulty and it’s not slippery in front of your house either, then I’ll be there,” I say.

At the first exit near Eindhoven, I suddenly think of a friend of my late husband. For two years I drove her to Eindhoven every week for a medical treatment she was undergoing there. Her behaviour towards me was friendly, but towards my husband it was also possessive.

I tell this to Ton, my current husband. As I’m speaking, I hear myself saying things I’ve never connected before. This friend crossed a boundary, and eventually I had to put that relationship on ice. Michel was nobody’s possession — but he was my husband, let that be clear.

His ex-wife had also seen him as a possession. Even after he had died, a woman unknown to me called. She ordered me to make sure that Michel absolutely wanted her to be present at the funeral. While I shrugged inwardly, I said:
“Fine, you can come — as long as you’re okay with me being there too.”

The friend who was sitting next to me and heard this was utterly astonished by my response. I myself found the situation almost laughable.

Michel’s sister, too, wanted to decide what should happen when he became ill. When I said that I would determine what would be done and how, she said:
“Yes, but I am his sister.”
The fact that I had been his wife for twenty-five years was brushed aside. In those twenty-five years I had seen her perhaps ten times. We were not close. During Michel’s illness I even had to send her out of the house in order to protect my space — and ours.

All of this surfaced on the way to Veldhoven.
Michel had attracted people who saw him as a possession. The one who let him be completely free was me.

After that, I left it in the ether. It passed through me, and I could speak it out loud to Ton. That was enough.

At my grandchild’s birthday, I stood next to my ex-husband and his wife. Until I left, I chatted and laughed with them. Over the years we run into each other at birthdays, but I usually avoid lingering. A brief conversation, but certainly not for long.

This time it was different. Spontaneous. Only when I was back in the car did I realize it.

They are not earth-shattering events. And yet I am changing. Becoming more whole.

There are no grand movements.
No decisions, no explanations.
Just moments that no longer cling.
Memories that are allowed to pass
without my body having to hold them.

Perhaps this is what becoming whole does:
not understanding everything,
but noticing that I can remain standing
where I once had to give way.

10 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

Watching Without Hurry

9 january 2026

I do not watch The Untamed to follow the plot, but to notice where it touches me.
With my laptop on my lap, sometimes silent, sometimes responding out loud, as if I am not watching alone. As if someone is sitting beside me who understands what I see before I can explain it.

What slowly unfolds is not a battle between good and evil, but a landscape of consciousness. Clans as inner states. The Lan clan as something angelic: clear, restrained, almost otherworldly. The Jiang clan as gentle and warm, human and supportive. The Wen clan as damaged — evil not as an origin, but as a consequence. And the Nie clan… not impure, but human: assumptions, conclusions, misunderstandings that make things seem to go wrong.

I notice how my attention keeps returning to silence. To what is not spoken. To details that are barely visible, yet carry everything. A faint smile on Lan Wangji’s face — only truly perceptible in episode ten, though it had been there all along. As if the story trusts me. As if it knows I am watching.

This series explains nothing. It shows.
It shows how inner noise creates fog, and how clarity does not arise from force, but from stillness. How “evil” has an origin. How power responds to emptiness. How people first lose their autonomy, before violence begins.

I watch without moving ahead. I watch the way I live, write, and paint: present, open, sometimes quietly amazed. Not to understand, but to notice what appears. And perhaps that is enough — a story that does not tell you who you are, but leaves space in which you can recognize yourself.

Perhaps watching is sometimes enough.
Not to know why something touches you,
but to allow that it does.
Without hurry. Without explanation.
Simply — being seen,
in silence.

9 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

The Spiral Touches

8 January 2026

A friend I have known for some thirty-five years sends me a message on WhatsApp. She has not lived in the Netherlands for a long time. We have little contact, but when we do see each other there is always an immediate connection. In those moments we often discover that we are dealing with the same themes in our lives. The contact is intense, close, almost self-evident. And afterwards, each of us goes our own way again.

This has been the pattern for years. Sometimes we do not see each other for a long time. And when we meet again, the intensity is instantly there. As if nothing has passed in between.

Independently of one another, a third person also walks through our lives. Since my school days he has crossed my path — and, separately from me, also hers. Little contact, but when he is present, it is intense. Until it crystallizes again. Then he disappears from view once more.

Around the turn of the year I send New Year’s wishes, as I always do. This mutual friend replies with a video of a dancing Korean actor and singer. I recognize him immediately and let him know. We begin talking about our fascination with Asian films and culture. He tells me that our mutual friend is also a fan.

And then the little circle starts turning again.

She gets in touch with me. Without any preamble we are instantly back in an intense resonance. What touches me is not that this happens — but how natural it feels. As if the spiral brings us back to the same point for a moment, exactly where it fits.

For me, this is vertical time, made very tangible in relationships. You don’t have to hold on to each other. You don’t have to keep track. The connection is there, or it isn’t. You move along together, touch each other, and move on again. The spiral follows its own course, deepens, and meets itself again later on.

The intensity remains.
The love remains.
The memory remains.

So it is not strange that this fascination resonates again as well. What strikes me is that over all these years we have never spoken about this before. Apparently this, too, chooses its own moment. Time chooses its time.

My philosophy of life unfolds not in theory, but in daily life. In encounters that come and go, without loss. In connection without possession.

And every time the spiral touches again, I know:
this is enough.

Perhaps this is what time truly does:
not holding on, not losing, but moving.
Meeting without possession.
Letting go without farewell.
And again and again recognizing
that what is true does not disappear —
it waits until the spiral touches once more.

8 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

PLAUSIBLE

7 January 2026

Early this morning my ears pick up an interview on the radio. Strangely enough, it lingers. Why? I truly wouldn’t know.

The voice on the radio announces a fellow journalist. She turns out to be married to a Canadian. Laughing — almost mockingly — she says that her husband “laughs his balls off” at how the Dutch deal with a bit of snow. The interviewer finds it hugely amusing as well and laughs along. He then plays the morning news, including the warnings. Together they recognize their colleague who, in a serious voice, announces “code orange” — and they laugh again, because this colleague has to sling this “ridiculous news” into the world.

This way of journalism, packaged as a quasi in-depth interview that might be taken seriously, disturbs me. I turn off the radio. Ton, my husband, reacts immediately. He finds it short-sighted and inappropriate as well.
Luckily, I think.

I hear these kinds of sounds constantly, on all sorts of subjects. Very resolute, viewed from an extremely narrow perspective. Then I think of my painting Vistas / Vergezichten. In this diptych you see the universe, the Big Bang, the human being, duality, the woman, the followers, the individuals, and the connectors.

In my view, humanity currently consists mainly of followers of individuals — and there are too few connectors. That is not an opinion, but an observation. The time of the connectors will return by itself. But clearly not now.

The presentation is often funny, almost cozy. I always call that plausible. It seems so — but is it really? Unconsciously, these kinds of “cozy” chats and interviews reach us via radio, TV, and social media. For many people it is difficult to remain detached from them. Technological progress has advantages, but certainly disadvantages as well.

Personally, I choose not to watch or listen to this. After all, there is an off switch.

And yet…
what is it in me that makes this linger all day?

… hahaha, he laughs his balls off…

Maybe it lingers because I hear where laughter is aimed at what wants to be carried.
Because seriousness here is not heavy, but it is real.
And because, even with an off switch, I cannot pretend not to hear what is missing.
Not everything that sounds plausible is true.
And not everything that disturbs wants to go away.

7 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

WHEN WORDS LEARN TO CARRY

6 January 2026

There was a time when I believed that speaking honestly would naturally create connection. That if I chose my words carefully, stayed with my own experience and pointed no fingers, the other would be able to follow me. I took my time, weighed my sentences, removed anything that might sound like an attack. What remained felt pure, I thought. And it was precisely that purity that turned out to be unsettling.
There was no conversation, no response, not even rejection. There was silence. Disappearance.

I didn’t understand it. I had demanded nothing, accused nothing, imposed nothing. And yet that openness seemed to touch something for which there was no ground to stand on. For a long time I thought I had done something wrong. That I had been too direct, too clear perhaps. That honesty sometimes needs to be wrapped more softly in order to be allowed to exist.

Only much later did I begin to see something else. Words that offer no escape — no culprit, no struggle, no opposing voice — can confront someone with themselves. And not everyone can, or wants to, carry that. I learned that speaking from yourself does not automatically mean the other can receive it.

That was not an easy discovery, because I was used to standing firmly in how I saw and felt things. I did not yield. I did not build bridges either. I thought that doing so would mean betraying myself.

By now, I respond differently. Not because I am less truthful, but because I have learned to leave room for the other without leaving myself behind. When someone uses words like longing, disappointment, resignation and acceptance, I no longer wipe them away with my truth. I add something to them, subtly, by saying: not really. Not to deny the other’s feeling, but to keep it intact.

I have discovered that building bridges does not mean giving up your position. It means laying down a plank between two shores, so that no one has to fall. Where my words once stood like walls, I now try to let them function as supporting beams. Both sides are allowed to remain standing in their own right. So am I.

That is the growth I see now. Not becoming softer at the cost of myself, but more flexible without breaking. I still speak from my core, but I listen better to the one facing me. Not to adapt, but to attune.

Perhaps this is what I am only now learning: that truth can only land when there is also a bridge for it to cross.

Perhaps this is what ripening is:
not speaking less truth,
but learning how words can carry
without pushing.
I remain where I stand —
and in the meantime, I lay down a plank.

6 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

SPACE WITHIN AND AROUND ME

5 January 2026

It has been a while since we’ve had real blankets of snow here in the Netherlands. This morning the car had to be dug out. While we were at the gym, it kept snowing, and an hour later we had to literally uncover the car again from a thick white layer.

It brings up nostalgic feelings. At the same time, I feel joy — a light sense of happiness when I look outside. Out there, I don’t even feel the cold. Maybe it isn’t cold at all. I couldn’t say, because I’m too absorbed in experiencing this serene, white stillness.

Taking that first step into the untouched snow, leaving deep footprints behind. It makes me wonder: in what other ways do I leave my marks? Do I want to? And if so — how?

White stands for purity. For peace. For the white canvas of my paintings. White stands for a new beginning. And now, quite literally, at the start of this new year. It feels fitting on many levels: my birthday coming up this weekend, a renewed awareness. A new physical beginning. Fresh courage. New ideas. Yes — everything seems to align right now.

I see far fewer cars. Hardly any bicycles. The world slows down because of the snow. Everything is allowed to become quieter for a moment. We are given space to recharge, to turn inward, before new challenges appear on our path again.

I receive beautiful photos and videos. On Instagram and Facebook, I see many people enjoying themselves, feeling uplifted. Of course, there are troubling things happening in the world — and unrest in our own country as well. We see that on television and on social media.

Some may call it egocentric. Some may think I’m burying my head in the sand. But today, I consciously choose to enjoy this white beauty and the joy I sense around me. I try not to seek out the news deliberately. Enough reaches me already. I don’t need to go looking for more.

A smile. A kind word. Beautiful thoughts. Enjoying nature. Expressing myself creatively. That is what I can do. That is what makes life feel lighter to me.

I see how this white landscape creates space in many people. That touches me. I want to keep noticing moments like this — because ultimately, beautiful autumn, spring, summer or winter days like these are small gifts within a challenging existence.

At the same time, I’m aware that beautiful external circumstances make it easier to feel this way. But I don’t want this feeling only here — I want to carry it under all circumstances. Because I believe that life is not about waiting for the storm to pass,
but about learning to dance in the rain.

Perhaps space is not created by silence,
but by attention.
And sometimes, snow reminds us of that.

5 January 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

TRUSTING MY INNER COMPASS

4 January 2026

At half past four I woke up. My lower body was itching intensely. You might think: ugh, I didn’t need to know that. Understandable. But for me it matters to name it.
On 1 January 2019 I fell hard, twisting my sacrum severely. I will never forget that pain. Since then, my hips have caused me constant trouble.

Despite my condition, CMT, I have always been very strong. I could lift and move heavy objects; physical work suited me. To lift anything properly, you need stable hips. From that moment on, I noticed that the strength I had always relied on was literally gone. It is strange to discover that the strength you assume comes from your arms or back actually originates in your hips.
Since then, whenever I stumble or make an unexpected turn, I have to see a movement specialist to have my bones realigned. My hips largely determine my mobility, my strength, my independence. The entire area around my hips, sacrum, and pubic bone is therefore sensitive and unstable.

Now I train at the E-Gym. All the machines are carefully adjusted and cause me absolutely no pain—except for the leg press. The moment I sat down on it, a sharp pain shot through my hip, followed by a severe cramp down my leg. The pain radiated all the way to my right cheek; my skin showed and felt covered in goosebumps. This sensation lasted for hours after I got home.

Still, from that very moment on, I continued to practice with full focus. Day after day. After a few days, I was able to do the exercise without pain.
You could say: when there is pain, you should stop. Probably yes. But I remembered a moment from forty years ago.

When I began yoga, I felt deep inside: this is it. My whole being knew it. I soon practiced every day and walked bent over with pain for at least half a year afterward. But the conviction was stronger than the pain. And the result was profound. Yoga gave me years in which I could do what healthy people can do. That makes me grateful—not sad that it is different now.

I feel that same conviction now with E-Gym. No panic about the pain in my hips or lower body. Just trust.
Last night I couldn’t sleep because of the itching. I knew: these are nerves that are apparently being reactivated. I sat in the living room for an hour, until I felt sleep finally overtaking me—despite the intense sensations. And thankfully, I fell asleep right away afterward.

Because my body had been trained for so many years through yoga, I needed only a few days to reach a turning point. In other words: I could lean on an old system that still supports me through persistence. A system that, just as it did back then with yoga, knows when something is right. One that now allows me—against all medical logic—to trust E-Gym, without injuring myself, or worse.

As then, I recognize it again:
this is not recklessness, but knowing.
And knowing asks for trust.

January 4, 2026

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

BLUE BIRD

January 3, 2026

While Ton and I are having breakfast, we wonder whether it might still be a good idea to go and train. Normally we don’t go during the weekend. It’s already three minutes to eleven, and the last reservation can be made for half past eleven. Five spots still available — so, off we go.

Outside it’s snowing. The streets and pavements are white and haven’t been salted yet. My walking stick is useless in these conditions, so I hold on to Ton. We hear the crunching and bubbling sound under the car tyres — a new sound, a new sensation. My system is still more sensitive than before, so it needs a moment to adjust. Once I’m on the machines at the gym, I calm down. The physical effort gives me a deep sense of satisfaction.

On our way home, the radio reports on… the situation in America. What new situation is this now?
Trump claims to have captured Maduro, the president of Venezuela, and confirms attacks. I don’t want to engage in politics or opinions here, but I do feel an analogy with the individual.

I believe that if we, as individuals, dare to resolve the chaos within ourselves — if we examine our own actions — then something essential shifts. If, within our small circles, we give and receive support unconditionally (truly without expecting anything in return), that is the first step toward peace.

I understand the protests, the opinions that reach us through the media, but I don’t think the solution lies there. It begins — quite literally — with ourselves.
Maybe I’m wrong. I’m not all-knowing. This is simply how it feels to me.

During my courses, I sometimes told a story from the Mahabharata. It tells of a small bird — the Blue Bird — who lays her eggs on the beach. A tidal wave comes and carries the eggs away into the ocean. The little bird begins to drink the ocean, drop by drop, determined to find her eggs again.

Arjuna, the god of rebirth, sees the bird and asks what she is doing.
“Isn’t this an impossible task?” he asks.
“No,” says the bird. “If I keep drinking long enough, I will find my eggs.”

In the story, the bird and Arjuna have many conversations. The bird has an immense trust that through perseverance and love, she will succeed. After many tests — through simplicity, selflessness, endurance, faith in herself, and above all patience infused with love — Arjuna finally decides to drink the ocean dry in one single act. The bird experiences a miracle and finds her eggs.

If we behaved a little more like this bird, perhaps we humans could perform miracles as well — without taking up weapons, without forcing one another into different viewpoints.

There are people in this world who believe they hold power, who visibly sow confusion and provoke wars. From our rocking chairs, it seems there is nothing we can do about that. It appears as though a handful of people determine the direction of everything.

My belief is this: if we, as individuals, gain mastery over our own emotions, over our own fears, then something shifts energetically on a cosmic level. And ultimately, no single ruler can compete with that.

What I am really saying is that the chaos and confusion we see in the world are a mirror of what lives within the majority of individuals. This is not a judgment. I see us as particles of one single movement. If enough of us begin to move in another direction… then what happened to the little bird may happen to us as well.

There is one important thing I want to add. There are exceptions — people living in war zones or under extreme conditions. Of course they cannot engage in this kind of awareness; their systems are focused purely on survival. Not everyone can travel to such places to offer support. From our relatively comfortable lives, the one thing we can do is work on ourselves — so that, eventually, a global shift may become possible.

Drop by drop.
Without haste.
That, sometimes, is miracle enough.

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

WONDERED INTERWEAVING

January 2, 2026

Today I went training and spent time at home with my dream. I quickly found the painting that was mentioned in it.

Throughout the day I alternated between different things. I watered the plants. Not just splashing water into the soil, but carrying them one by one to the kitchen and caring for them attentively. Gently giving them lukewarm water. As I placed them back, I noticed it was snowing outside. I took the time to enjoy the white view and took a few photos.

I got in touch with a friend in Togo, where of course it’s pleasantly warm. I sent her a photo so she could briefly enjoy the winter white with me. Almost immediately she sent one back: sitting outside at a table with friends. One moment in time, more than 5,000 kilometers apart… so beautiful.

I checked in on a friend who had been ill over New Year’s, asking if she needed anything — groceries, for example. She wasn’t fully fit yet, but had already gone back to work. I’m in contact with my best friend every day. We send each other a heart daily. We take photos whenever we come across a heart somewhere. Sometimes that’s all it is, sometimes it turns into an exchange of thoughts. I contacted two friends I’ve known all my life and set a date to meet. I also spoke with my sister; we talked about change and being “different.”

I follow a Chinese series and a Korean series, alternating between the two. I use these moments as pauses for rest.

Today was my tenth time at the E-Gym. Five times a week for two weeks. The first week I immediately felt fresh and energized, but my performance seemed stable. At first I thought, well, maybe that isn’t being measured. But the trainer said, “Oh yes — the equipment automatically becomes more challenging when it measures that you’ve grown stronger. It adjusts by itself.”

“Well then,” I thought, “if I feel this good even without visible gains in strength, that’s perfectly fine. I’m getting energy from it either way.”

When I started two weeks ago, my BioAge was 73. And now, after two weeks of daily training… 56 years. Next week I’m going to stop rehabilitation therapy and focus on recovery in this way. It feels right.

I reflected on how often I know that something needs to be done, but that what is truly right only becomes clear after some friction. Is that a problem? Does it always have to be right immediately? No, I don’t believe that. I believe in time — with its layers. During rehabilitation I learned once again how to be among unfamiliar people, with falling and getting back up. Now I can handle the world a bit better again.

To most people, this day probably looks like an ordinary, gently flowing day. You might even think: “Annette, not very exciting.” I completely understand that. But for me, after many years, it is a new phenomenon to take pleasure in household tasks. To make frequent contact and even plan appointments. To step into a gym with a clear, settled feeling.

So many “ordinary” actions that now feel new and refreshing. The feeling of being connected to the world around me, to the people around me. Connected to matter. Not out of habit, but from an open connection.

I feel wonder that it is this way.
I am amazed that I can’t even remember the last time I felt so whole on such an ordinary day.

Perhaps this is what recovery sometimes truly is:
not spectacular, not loud,
but quietly interwoven with the everyday.
A hand that waters,
a body that grows stronger without struggle,
a world that comes back in
without me having to grasp it.
Today life flowed gently —
and I flowed along with it.

🌙 Dream from last night — now on the page ‘Dreams’.

January 2, 2026

On January 2, 2026, I had a dream that brought me back to a painting I started three years ago.
A voice said: “Dare to be the dragon.”
What followed wasn’t just a dream — it was an inner turning point.
You can read the full account on my Dreams page: …

BEST WISHES

January 1, 2026

All evening before midnight, a lot of fireworks were already being set off.
We put the cat in the bathroom. Kiba, the oldest dog, is sleeping peacefully, but Puck — the youngest — jumps up at every bang. She’s literally glued to me now, trying to crawl into me. She digs her paws into my neck, pushes her head as close as she can. I hear her panting, her body trembling.

I’m not a fan of all those explosions either. I never go outside — afraid of those uncontrollable flashes and bangs everywhere.
This afternoon, grown young men were lighting fireworks and, after igniting them, throwing them in my direction. I mean… not children — young adults.
A moment later, an alert popped up on my phone: emergency line 112 was overloaded.
I completely understand my little dog. It is frightening.

I once experienced this in Asia. It was a celebration — loud, yes, but controlled. And of course, traditionally, the noise is meant to chase away evil spirits. I didn’t feel scared or threatened for a moment there. It may have been even louder, more chaotic — but it was respectful.

Here, it feels like it’s about setting off fireworks just to set them off — and sometimes even to bother your neighbors, drunk on too much alcohol.
The deeper meaning gets lost.

All the children called or Facetimed, except for one.
To my delight, right after midnight, messages started coming in — around twenty in total. Friends, family.
I’m grateful that so many thought of Ton and me so quickly in the new year.
I’m starting to realize that, despite my absence, there is a group of people who still cares deeply for me.

So that is my wish: to connect more.
I had already started — slowly — and tonight I could feel that it’s doing something.

Hoping for a beautiful 2026 for everyone.
Hoping that we can offer each other support when needed —
and that we are willing to receive it as well.

We always talk about love,
but especially around these days that word becomes a bit abstract.
So let us start with SUPPORT — being allowed to give it, and to receive it.
A step toward humanity.
Humaneness.

Maybe love does not begin with grand declarations,
but with a hand that does not pull away,
and a heart that dares to stay open, just a little longer.

🌙 I dreamed last night — you can find it on the ‘Dreams’ page.

Blog 2026 - English translation

Dreams are part of this journey and appear here regularly.

When Pain Speaks

May 16, 2026

When is pain a signal to stop, and when is it actually a sign of life?

At first I smiled politely, but they kept — equally politely — explaining what listening to your body meant according to them.

They understood that.

A sad story, of course.

I asked how old her mother was, expecting someone around eighty or older. It turned out she was exactly my age.

Wow.

Both of us were visibly shocked by that realization.

She said:“It’s a shame she didn’t approach it the way you did.”

Immediately afterward she almost apologized, explaining that practicing and exercising had also caused her mother pain.

“Well,” I thought.

I had to pause for a moment to make sure I would not say something hurtful or offensive. Then I heard myself say:“Pain can also be a sign of life. Feeling nothing at all in paralysis would frighten me much more.”

Later I told Ton about the conversation at the gym.

“What is it,” I asked, “that makes a relatively young woman slowly slide into living entirely as a disabled person?”

Ton answered immediately:“Depression.”

Is that true?

Of course someone can become acutely depressed or emotionally overwhelmed after something as life-changing as a stroke. But permanently depressed? Were there perhaps already signs beforehand — dissatisfaction, sadness, emotional exhaustion?

Do physiotherapists automatically assume that pain means someone should stop? Is there also room for the thought that nerves recovering can create painful sensations — and that maybe careful movement should continue?

It saddens me that this mother apparently no longer sees any possibility of living independently.

Later in life, my father-in-law even spoke with a certain gratitude about his childhood. And strangely enough, I understand that somewhere.

How can someone feel gratitude for pain and hardship?

These are the questions and thoughts that rise inside me after such an apparently simple, well-intended conversation.

Perhaps pain is not always only a warning, but sometimes also a sign that something is still alive, moving, or trying to return.

Perhaps it is not only what a person experiences that shapes how they continue living, but also the inner attitude that already existed before life changed.

And perhaps true resilience does not lie in glorifying pain, but in continuing to search for movement, even when life suddenly changes shape.

Shadows

May 15, 2026

I could empathize with the characters, but with a certain distance. Apparently the sting is no longer rooted in my upbringing and family history. I noticed a shift within myself there. At this moment, that sting lies much more in the medical world and my relationship with it.

“With a sigh, I lean back and look at the mother and daughter across from me. Everyone is packed tightly together in the crowded train car, yet they have an entire bench to themselves. The other passengers pretend indifference, but their disgust is revealed by the distance they keep.”

While reading, I feel it. The loneliness of being human.

I think it is almost inhuman to always be completely pure in what you do, say, or intend.

It was a beautiful and painful story. Recognizable, and easy to read. And in the end, only one thought really remained:

Maybe the world never changes all at once.Maybe change only happens through small movements.In the moment a person dares to look honestly at themselves.And perhaps every form of peace begins there.

Witnesses

May 14, 2026

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

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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 otherwhen we use the same words,but only in those rare momentswhen two inner realities briefly touch.

Dancing to My Own Rhythm

May 12, 2026

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

She said:
“It’s a shame she didn’t approach it the way you did.”

I had to pause for a moment to make sure I would not say something hurtful or offensive. Then I heard myself say:
“Pain can also be a sign of life. Feeling nothing at all in paralysis would frighten me much more.”

Ton answered immediately:
“Depression.”

Maybe the world never changes all at once.
Maybe change only happens through small movements.
In the moment a person dares to look honestly at themselves.
And perhaps every form of peace begins there.

“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.”

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

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.

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

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.

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

In this case:
Ton.