The Sense of Nonsense versus the Nonsense of Sense

 

Probably unreadable, but undeniably necessary to state—plainly and unapologetically—after receiving an unlimited amount of improper, unasked and unwelcome advice about my untouched garden.

Unconditionally and selflessly I let nature take its own course; yes, relentlessly… it remains untouched.

Because of that, I seem unadapted, even irresponsible, shamelessly lazy for enjoying this incomparable abundance. It appears indecent and unrefined.

Unbelievable, how dissatisfied, intolerant and unpleasant people react to it. Uncivilised and inappropriate next to all those carefully maintained gardens. One might almost call it inhuman.

An unkempt, unclear form of garden architecture. Incomprehensible! A reason to be judged unreliable. Unskilled and unstable as a human being. Worse still… a disgrace.

In an inexplicable way, people sense danger, discomfort, and become upset by me and my garden. It seems human to prune, cut, clear, destroy and control what nature offers us. Artificially stylised gardens stripped of natural growth. Wild is unwelcome. Unhidden, fearless, unforeseen, the unnecessary weed keeps returning. Undefined, unplanned, undaunted, it will find its way.

Un—is it not?

Weed—is it not a plant? A flower? A species?

Is weed nothing?

Is nature inhuman?

Are humans unnatural?

What is nature?

What is human?

What is sense?

What is meaning?

What is nonsense?

 

 

Short English introduction (for your painting page):
This text was written after countless unsolicited remarks about my wild garden.
It is a playful protest — a reflection on our urge to control what was never ours to begin with.
Nature doesn’t ask for our approval. It lives, shapes, breathes and returns — untouched by opinion.

 

 

 My Son Is Going to Dance!

 

“Mum, I want to do Bulgarian dancing!”

“Of course — that sounds just like you,” I reply,
while thinking, Where does he get these ideas?

Max doesn’t like sports.
He keeps telling me:

“Everyone wants to win.
Nobody does it for fun.
The boys act tough — they kick, hit, and tease girls,
or kids who look different.
I just don’t want to do sports.”

After the failed football episode, I decide to wait.
Maybe Max will choose something active by himself.
But we have been waiting for a very long time.

For weeks now, I hear him talk about Bulgarian dancing.
I listen — and at the same time, I don’t.

On YouTube, I see him watching Bulgarian folk dancers.
“Come look, Mum! This is what I want to do.”

I smile and say, “Nice video,” but nothing more.
I can see the frustration in his face —
and I don’t realise he is actually desperate.
His mother hears him, but doesn’t listen.

Max hands me a form to fill in.
I put it aside and forget about it.
My husband — who loves clearing stray papers —
throws it away.

When Max asks about the form, there is no answer.
Annoyed, we mutter something about “tidying up the mess.”
Max walks away, upset.
Later I realise: he must have felt completely alone.

How could a child possibly make his parents understand
what he truly wanted?

Then, one Monday afternoon, Max appears with a new form.

“Mum, fill this in now.
I’m auditioning tomorrow — and you’re coming with me!”

That’s the moment when the light finally switches on —
a huge Willy Wonka–style bulb in my head.

How could I have been so blind?
How could I not really see him?

Folk dancing simply didn’t exist in my world.
I feel ashamed.

I, who always consider myself open-minded, could cry.

This boy — so unique, bullied at school,
yet always himself —
we admire him for never playing the victim,
for walking his own path.

And still, even I, his mother,
failed to truly listen to him.

He’s nervous for the audition,
but he does it.
I go with him.

Together with the other parents,
we listen to what the audition involves,
and what the plans are.

And I think: Dear God, what is Max getting me into?
This world feels so far from mine.

After the presentation about Zarowe,
we are invited into the hall to watch the children dance.

And there he is —
my son — shining,
full of joy.

The teacher explains that they will learn to work together,
that boys and girls will dance side by side,
learn respect,
learn to resolve conflicts.

I feel a lump in my throat.
Yes — Max has come home.
This is what he has been searching for.

I teach in the hall next to Zarowe.
Before class, I usually check the dressing rooms.
The entire Zarowe team is inside,
discussing the auditions.

Esther recognises me:
“Who are you?”

I tell her I am Max Groen’s mother,
and that I teach next door.

“Max?” she asks.
“What do we think of Max?”

In chorus they answer:
“He’s absolutely in! Go tell him!”

I thank them,
feel the lump again,
and quickly close the door.

I cry —
so happy for Max.

Max has found what he was looking for —
a place where movement and humanity meet.

We watch him grow,
we watch him bloom.
Already.

Thank you.

 

 

 

Loneliness in Abundance

 

She had once been beautiful — a woman drawn to control, power and drama.
As her outer beauty faded, so did her persuasive strength.
Manipulation, seduction and deceit had slowly led her into isolation.

Once a fierce, destructive, narcissistic Helena now sits on the sofa —
her movements slow, her body weary, her spirit dulled by loneliness and depression.

For years, the couch has been her closest companion.
No one knows her better than this orange corduroy sofa.
From here she sees her whole world:
three cats — Figaro, Persua and Brahms — visibly enjoying her presence,
always close, always loyal.

Her small wooden house stands deep in the forest,
surrounded mostly by rough pine woods.
Around 1850 much of it was cut down to create a military training ground,
leaving behind sand drifts, stretches of heathland and pockets of birch and oak.
In the nearby clay pits rare plants grow —
yellow-green sedge, winged pea and others.
Deer, boar and rabbits wander freely, often visiting Helena’s untamed garden.

Birds claim branches to nest in; Helena watches, fascinated,
a pair of binoculars always beside her,
a thick bird guide within reach, its pages worn from use.

In summer, butterflies dance around her,
and insects hum their nocturnal symphony.
Once a year the wall of her conservatory turns black —
millions, perhaps billions, of ants rise from the earth,
scaling the wall before taking flight.
It is a thrilling sight; Helena watches every year with childlike wonder.
Nature has touched her heart — slowly, silently, and without asking permission.

In summer, the beloved sofa gives way to an orange, red and yellow hammock,
strung between a spruce and a fast-growing American oak —
both planted long ago by her father.

As a child she moved to a grand estate with a vast garden
at the edge of the city, overlooking meadows, ditches, orchards
and the forests far beyond.

Her father bought a spruce, exactly as tall as Helena herself.
Together they planted it in the front garden.
The tree, like Helena, was declared sacred by her father.

At sixteen Helena spread her wings and left for distant places.
By then the spruce had outgrown the house,
its shadow swallowing the light.
No one mourned the flowers and plants that died silently beneath it.
The garden with the tree had become the tree with its garden.

Her self-centred pride and arrogance had destroyed much —
and shut her off from the world.

Now, at last, she feels nature:
majestic, humble, enduring, and forgiving.

Slowly Helena becomes aware of the allegory,
sighs softly —
and breathes out one final time.

 

 

 

 

Mother.

 

86 years old. Barely able to walk. Arms that hardly move. Unable to chew. Diabetic for 45 years.

She asks me if I’ve heard the terrible news.

“Well… no. Maybe? What happened? Did someone die?”

God, that tone in her voice — dramatic as always.

She has gained four kilos.

I need a moment to process this. My emotional compass is no longer where it once was.

Seriously? That is the terrible news?

What flashes through my head?

WTF.

How dare you.

There are people with real problems.
Young people.

How does your mind even work?

A low growl escapes me.
She continues talking — entirely unfazed — about how awful it is, how she used to be so “slim.”

I say nothing, but my thoughts are running wild…

Slim?
What are you talking about?

You’re eighty-six.

Not fat — never have been.

Just… eighty-six.

She talks as if she were a thirty-year-old beauty queen.

Will I go this insane too?

I’m annoyed.

Calmly I say (yes, really calm):
“Mom, you’re eighty-six. Be happy you’re not underweight.”

The next day, I’m in my car — music blasting, singing along, dancing a little.
Commercial break — I turn it down for a moment.

And there she is again, that strange mother of mine.

What about me? I’m getting older too.
Middle-aged, they call it — brrrr.

Sure, my body isn’t what it used to be.
But how do I feel? Honestly — still like a girl.
So much life experience, yet still that mischievous, funny, sometimes serious girl.

Will that ever change? I don’t think so.
If she was ever going to disappear, she would have long ago.

So why would it be any different for my mother?