Does death make sense in the poem

Selection of poems, texts and materials on transience, dying, death and eternity

Transcript

1 Selection of poems, texts and materials on transience, dying, death and eternity Who says what is small or big, what is important, what is meaningful In space we are no bigger than a grain of sand in the desert. And yet incomparable, wonderful and unique every person. Vreni Merz the difficulty in love for beings is the certainty of having to lose, if not through life, then through death the difficulty in love for God is the uncertainty of being able to find, be it through life, be it through death Karin Petersen, chants of scorpions , Burgdorf 2008, p. 32 Ps 39,5-8 transience. End. End of life. The unimaginable. The absolute. The fear-inducing and therefore repressed from life. That which is always repressed, repressed daily. The overplayed. The whitewashed. The burnt thought. What happens anyway. Well, Lord, whose should I console myself? I hope for you. Gerhart Fuhr, No stone flew, Bern 1993, p. 23

2 million years before I existed Millions of years may be after me. Somewhere in their midst are a couple of summers when there is day for me on this earth. I thank you for this period of time. Jörg Zink prayer Lord: our little life - a meanwhile, through which we hurry out of nowhere into nothing. And our years: traces that blur, And our whole being: only a temporary. What do you know, blind man, of the dumb man's suffering! Doesn't a king often wear beggar's shoes? Who are we to make judgments? We were destined to believe and do. Let us know without asking too much. Teach us to forgive innocently in humility. Give us the strength to endure it all, And let's be lonely, not forsaken. Mascha Kaléko Time stands still. Time stands still. It is we who perish. And yet, when we blow by in the train, House and field and herds that graze Seem to be racing past us like a phantom. Then someone waves to us and disappears like in a dream, With house and field, lamppost and tree. So probably the landscape of our life blows past us to another star And is already far from us when we come close. We try in vain to stop them And we know well that all this is only a deception. The landscape remains, while our train covers the miles allotted to it. Time stands still. It is we who hurry away. Mascha Kaléko: The few shining years, Ed. Gisela Zoch-Westphal, Munich 03, p. 36

3 Admission Let us renounce the hide-and-seek of the intellect, its worm-eaten neuroses of change that make the globe empty and lifeless.Let us call ourselves to the awareness that we are living people to build from eclipses carved through by planes illuminated continuously to be found in the admission of finitude Josef Hasl, in :: GOTT im Gedicht. An anthology on German-language poetry from 1945 to the present day. Ed .: Helmut Zwanger. Verlag Klöpfer und Meyer, Tübingen, 200, page 123 Liberate On that day that is no longer a day, maybe he will say: What do you do with your little baskets full of merits that are as small as hazelnuts and mostly hollow? What do you want with your pockets full of virtues, which you came to for lack of courage, because you lacked the opportunity or through almost perfect training? Have I not freed you from this? I want to know: Have you infected the others with life as I infected you? Joachim Dachsel

4 I am a guest in this life I am a guest in this life, but I see my hosts getting tired and impatient. Trees tremble, clouds pass in silence, mountains move from one place to another, the sky yawns. At night the winds move all kinds of things restlessly: smoke, people, lights. I sign myself in God's guest book: I came, stayed, it was good, I enjoyed, I sinned, I betrayed the reception in this world made a great impression on me. Yehuda Amichai: How beautiful are your tents, Jacob. Poems, Munich / Zurich 1988, 63. Hope No, I am not sure about the end, dying, the grave, passing away and the inexorable death that will consume me and wipe me out forever, there is no doubt about it and yet I am sometimes not sure and doubt the appearance and think about whether something remains of what I was, whether a trace is not forgotten in the gray rubble in the dust in death, whether there isn't someone who calls me by name, perhaps who tells me that I am am that I should be forever and will live with him No I'm not sure of my cause as far as the end is concerned and I hope death against the face of it in Him Lothar Zenetti, On His Track, Texts of Faithful Faith (ToposPlus 327) Ostfildern Aufl .

5 It is impossible to imagine what God will do with the fragments of our lives if we leave them entirely to HIM. Father Delp Some people call their own: - a house with a garden - a holiday home in the mountains - a building site in a prime location - an apartment with a balcony - an allotment garden with a biotope - a boathouse with a boat - a hobby room with a toilet - a caravan with a toilet and Shower - a parking space in the underground car park - a drying room for laundry - a cellar compartment with spiders - a wine cellar - a family grave in the cemetery - a subscription to the theater - a regular seat at the Christmas gala Others think we are only guests on earth. Luzius Müller, ref. University Pastor / Head of Studies Forum for Time Issues When you call me God! On the day that you call me, come! I will come to you, to you - whom I saw flashing a million times in this existence like sunbeams on waves of the sea. I'll come with all the tears that I've cried; I will come back with the memories of the conversations with people; of the confrontation with the questions that did not allow an answer. I'll come and say only one thing YOU Martin Gutl, reflecting with Martin Gutl. Texts, meditations, prayers. Styria, Graz 2004, 5.4

6 At the core ... But at the core, I believe that I have to endure suffering, that dying is part of this life and that it makes sense. You can't get rid of that just by getting some kind of syringe. I want to endure my dying. I'm sure I'm a coward, I'm afraid of the pain and also realize that I still have to have some discussions in my Christian faith. But I don't want to be put to sleep in Switzerland, at any rest stop or in a hotel room that's horrible, it has nothing to do with freedom. If so, I'll do it down there in Africa, and falling asleep is an act of work, pain, productivity, suffering, telling. I think I have to allow myself to do that. At some point I would like to be able to say: I am now taking the step into death, into this other world or into the universe. I'm not doing the number here that everyone revolves around my illness, that I am passed from intensive care physician to intensive care physician until the end, in the sense of general anesthesia or something like that. I will plead with Aino and my friends: If it can be seen in the medical files, after discussions with the doctors, after the third chemo or what do I know what other items appear in the register, I should be given the opportunity to leave . Most people want to go home, I just want to go away. And if possible to a place in Africa. And I hope to be able to somehow bring myself together there as a person in all their absurdity. I imagine a kind of collecting vessel as a picture. An ark, said Alexander Kluge on the phone: Everything that is important is collected and put together in a box. That is actually trivial, it may also seem ridiculous and presumptuous. But I think the thought of somehow gathering together in the end, of gathering together, means something very beautiful. Christoph Schlingensief, Heaven cannot be as beautiful as it is here !, Cologne 2009, p. 62f. Die, Faithful God, - To die is fearful. We are not used to letting go. Love, hold on, persevere - that's what we've learned. Giving up our beloved - nobody taught us that. We are aware of our finiteness. We know our limits. We see dying. Insight is no consolation to us, knowledge does not take away our fear. Lord Jesus Christ, - give us trust, take away our fear, - open the door for us, let us feel your love - within our limits. Be our good Lord - in life and in death. Gerhard Engelsberger, From Mindfulness to Confidence. 200 thematic prayers for worship, Stuttgart 2009, p. 167

7 Death We had to let go. Love is torn from us. One story is over. We only feel emptiness, God. You spoke through your bitterest word, through death. We know: this is not the last word. We hope: this is not the end of the road. We hear: I am the resurrection and the life. In desperation, give us comfort through the mystery of faith. We are one in you. Gerhard Engelsberger, From Mindfulness to Confidence. 200 thematic prayers for worship, Stuttgart 2009, p. 173 Death and Eternity ... in the process of time it is ... the perspective of death that makes every moment, every single moment, unique. Death contributes to the uniqueness of life. Only the abnormal, tragic circumstances and the abuse and perversion of death are evil. The latter above all take place outside the order of life; they can even destroy the order of life. Basically, a distinction must be made between two types of death, which by the way, Laotse, the founder of Taoism, did. This thinker of the way of the progress of the order of life explains in a sibylline sentence: To die without perishing means to live long. In colloquial language, both signs mean si, die, and wang, perish, cease to live. From Lao’s point of view, the sign si assumes the meaning of inserting itself back into the path. What does long life mean? It is undeniable that the human mind dreams of eternity. Of course, he strives for an eternity in beauty and not an eternity in misery. In doing so, however, he knows that every beauty is fragile, i.e. impermanent. Isn't that a contradiction? The answer may depend on how you imagine eternity. Should it just be a bland return of the same thing? In that case, it would not be real beauty or real life. For, let it be repeated, true beauty is the vigor of being towards the beauty and renewal of this vigor; real life is the vigor of being towards life and renewal of this vigor. A good one

8 Eternity can only consist of outstanding moments in which life breaks out towards the full power of its ecstatic development .... What matters to us here is human duration. We purposely use the term duration instead of the word time. While time means a mechanical process, an inexorable sequence of loss and forgetting, duration alludes to a qualitative continuity in which the lived and the dreamed things form an organic presence .... Let us try to summarize the thoughts of the philosopher by we simplify them at the risk of distorting them: If everyone in the outside world is subject to the tyrannical passage of time, then the experiences, the ideas and fantasies, but also the elements that belong to his knowledge, thanks to the Memory has an organic duration in his inner consciousness, which transcends the incisions, breaks, separations in time and space, so to speak .... A present that de facto always opens up to a past and a future. Similar to a melody that does not consist of a simple addition of notes, but in which each note results from the previous one and gives the following its color. The duration within itself also means that each component can be shaped by the other components and, in turn, leaves its mark on the other. Francois Cheng, Five Meditations on Beauty, Munich 2008, p. 44ff. Coping with dying and death Dealing with parting, dying, with death and with the dead allows people to encounter a power that grows over their heads and souls. They seek advice, seek accompaniment, seek rites and gestures. Even the helplessly copied From expressions of condolences at the grave, we ask you to refrain, is a pathetic cry. People today share this experience with people of all time. If we interpret it correctly, what is to be found in ancient grave finds of all cultures, what comes to light in the most remote drawers of human history, it is religion. It is the attempt in each own way to find a key to the secret that the stars and my life, the seasons and my death, the sun, the fish, the blade of grass, the birth of my children, the earthquakes, the ridiculousness of mine Mistakes and the love of two people unite. For as long as there have been people, they have at least been looking for a net that will hold them, even if it is woven out of pure hope. People of all cultures are convinced that priests and members of the spiritual professions could help them significantly in this need. Would have competence for the answer to the essential questions of meaning in life. People perceive: Members of spiritual professions speak at the grave of resurrection and eternity, of home and peace, of God's power and Jesus' resurrection. We raise expectations. Gerhard Engelsberger; Small spiritual for people in spiritual professions, Gütersloh 2004, p. 116

9 The memory is always awakened at the grave, embarrassed a sign of gratitude, the feeling finally dares to emerge Always at the grave the unsaid words come, the tears come, the love comes too late Lothar Zenetti We are destined to die in the middle of life it says it will fall the Lord gives and takes. We belong forever to the Lord who loves us, whatever should happen to us, he takes and he gives. In the middle of dying we are destined to live what falls, should arise, he gives when he takes. Lothar Zenetti These three days These three days From death to the grave How free will I be. To the old places of joy To the old places of joy Also to you Yes to you too Note When the curtains blow without a gust of wind When the traffic noise dies in the middle of the day Listen

10 With a voice that is not mine I will not spell you this familiar A new alphabet In the reflecting windows I will make you appear picture puzzles Old riddles where is the captain? Where are the dead? We hung on to this question for a long time At the funeral of my wishes I would like the Te deum laudamus The joy song Inappropriately- Appropriately Because a death bed Is no more a death bed I want to do a leap of joy At the end I want to go down As light as the spirit of the rose Keep in my ear The surf Some Mediterranean The rocky shores shouting and thundering down. - Up. Marie-Louise Kaschnitz, in: Paul K. Kurz, To whom does this earth belong, Mainz 1984,37f. Lying on my back I become the earth of the June meadow and leave hair, stalks and flowers to the wind in its wild back and forth. A daisy leans pale towards me, and a corner of the sky looks at me with blue eyes.

11 At one with the wind I rise on a cloud, and from up there I look down with satisfaction at the earth on which I have been. Anna Maria Bacher, Pomatter-Tal (Original: Walser-German) You are still there Throw your fear - in the air Soon it will be your time, soon the sky will grow under the grass Your dreams will fall into nowhere The clove still smells, the thrush sings, you are still allowed Give away loving words you are still there Be what you are Give what you have Rose foreigner, my breath is now called, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, Frankfurt am Main 1981 Only witnesses This peeling flower, longing slowly falling into the timeless. The pain with the cut umbilical cord, yesterday still healing, today already far in the never again. There is nothing we can change, just watch, mixing tears at the incomprehensible ability to hurt. Hilde Domin, Who could do it, Fischer, Frankfurt, p. 33

12 Now and then I know that I am growing towards dying. And also: I will never be able to cope with dying. I don't even know how to live. Live like I don't have to die. And that at an age when people die. More and more often, friends leave forever. Realities, and yet unreal - for me. Then probably: life is a dream. And you, God, maybe my beautiful awakening? But I still don't dare to believe it. Also, to be honest, only think about it every now and then. Kurt Marti, Ungrund Liebe, Radius Stuttgart, p. 38 I walk past but I may leave the small tone of my voice, my laughter and tears and also the greeting of the trees in the evening on a piece of paper. And in passing, quite unintentionally, I light one or the other lantern in the hearts of the wayside. Hilde Domin

13 Ephemeral. But immortal. To Joh 10,27-30 The newspaper from yesterday or even from the day before yesterday: worthless because outdated. Obsolete from today. Today interests today and tomorrow with the charm of the unknown. My camera, my pride. It took me a long time to acquire it, one with all the know-how they say. Two years later: I want to add to the equipment.I can be helped in the fourth business. In the stores before: The seller's astonished, pitying look: No, not for this model. No more. Not in a long time. The photo album. I come across it while cleaning up, leaf through it, get stuck on individual pictures. That's unbelieveable! We were so wonderfully young then. Our friends today are graying or no longer with us at all. Painful experiences with passing away, moving on, leaving and stepping down. I can only think of God's nonetheless: God's nonetheless to the impermanence he wanted. God alone remains and I am allowed to stay with him. Gerhart Fuhr, There was no stone flying, Bern 1993, p. 24 As a human being, surrounded by transience, I have got used to God. It goes on, on and on, and I can often look forward to it: When the long-dreamed vacation comes, when the hospital stay is nearing its end, when the plane touches the earth again after a long flight. Then I say, with a sigh of relief, thank you for the past and am happy that life is not standing still.

14 When I stand at the grave and say goodbye, when I read a familiar name in the newspaper, outlined in black, when the helicopter flies the seriously injured person to the clinic, the one who has just been driving his car in good health and carefree, when I give my name I start missing the words and the thoughts can no longer keep up, maybe still: End, end, it's all over. The only thing I still hold on to, hopefully, is the promise of your Son Jesus Christ: You will remain in my hand, no matter what happens! Gerhart Fuhr, Es flog keine Stein, Bern 1993, p. 25 Tunnel To the memory of Virginia Woolf Threesome to four countless, one by one we walk this tunnel along the equinox three or four of us say the words this word: Fear it does not bloom after us. Hilde Domin: Complete Poems; Edited by Nikola Herweg and Melanie Reinhold S. Fischer Verlag GmbH, Frankfurt am Main, 2009

15 Safe passage There will be a bank left behind. Or the end of a dirt road. It will go beyond the last lights. Nobody and nothing should stop us! There will be our mouth full of laughter The soul is ready to travel The universe is just a narrow door, wide open Heinz Piontek, in: Paul K. Kurz, Who does this earth belong to, Mainz 1984, 40 I fear death. I admit it. I feel threatened. You and you too are afraid, like me, of cancer and war. You keep that to yourself and believe in the victory of reason and science. God give us the strength to believe every day. Eva Strittmatter, from: The one rose overwhelms everything. Aufbau-Verlag 1977 Where are we going? Always home. Novalis

16 Nobody is asked when it is right for them to say goodbye to people, habits, to themselves. At some point, suddenly, it is necessary to deal with it, endure it, accept this farewell, this pain of dying, this breakdown in order to set out again . Margot Bickel when I died she wished not to celebrate me and also not to celebrate death THAT who is a god of living when I died she wished not to dress darkly that would not be Christian dress brightly sing cheerful songs of praise when I died I wished her praise life that is hard and beautiful praise THAT who is a god of living Marti, Kurt, Leichenreden, Munich 2004 (dtv), p. 23.

17 Moving landscape You have to be able to walk away and yet be like a tree: As if the roots were staying in the ground, as if the landscape were moving and we were standing. You have to hold your breath until the wind subsides and the strange air begins to circle around us, until the play of light and shadow, green and blue, shows the old patterns and we are at home wherever it is and can sit down and lean against our mother's grave. Hilde Domin, Who could do it, Fischer, Frankfurt, p. 49 Dreamed at night They came at night, the silent helpers of death led me out of my house. I couldn't take anything with me to the grave, not my papers, no books, no money, not my camera, no Tape recorder, no records, not my clothes, neither laundry nor shoes, none of my good works, none of my faults, no memory, nothing you can take with you to the court, you have nothing in your hand, if it applies.The great judge whispers next to me should be a Jew, a younger man around thirty I know I know him all my hope is in him. Lothar Zenetti

18 Night prayer To the friend Kurt Hirschfeld November 1964 Young people sometimes wake up and know that they have to die. Then they shudder for a moment, and see different pictures, and think: Everyone must die, and there is still time. Old people sometimes wake up knowing they are going to die. Then their heart becomes afraid, because they have learned that nobody knows how to die, that nobody came back to tell of it, that they are alone when the last thing comes. And if they are wise, then they pray. And slumber on. Carl Zuckmayer: Gott im Gedicht, Hrsg. H. Zwanger, Tübingen 2007, page 207 Resurrection Dying everywhere we look, but it is resurrection. Farewell is our life, but it will come back. In the end there is loneliness, but it turns into security. Drought spreads far over all land, in soul, body and spirit, but imperceptibly new life builds up. Now is the time of pain and injury, but we do not lick our wounds. Now is the time for impotent anger, but our actions take wing. We don't put our hands on our laps, we don't embitter. We hear far beyond heaven and earth into a new world. We can hold out. We have the greater confidence. Manfred Fischer, in: Biblical texts verfremdet 12, Munich 1990, p. 15

19 Without you Not nothing without you but not the same Not nothing without you but maybe less Not nothing but less and less Maybe not nothing without you but not much anymore Erich Fried, Liebesgedichte, Berlin 1983 With light luggage, don't get used to it. You mustn't get used to it. A rose is a rose. But a home is not a home. Tell the lap dog the object that wags you out of the shop window. He is wrong. You don't smell like staying. One spoon is better than two. Hang it around your neck, you can have one, because the hot is too difficult to scoop up with your hand. Let the sugar run through your fingers, like the consolation, like the wish, on the day it becomes yours. You can have a spoon, a rose, maybe a heart and, maybe a grave. Hilde Domin, Who could do it, Fischer, Frankfurt, p. 42

20 Face death with confidence, knowing the truth that for a good man neither life nor death can be evil. The time has come for us to get away from here; I to die, you to live. But who of us is heading for the better lot, nobody knows that except God. Plato, Apology of Socrates Hope Oh no, oh no, I don't have my life under control, not at all. Rather the other way around: IT has ME. ES: life now, dying once, but in it, I hope, YOU. Kurt Marti, Ungrund, Liebe, Klage - Wünsche - Lieder Stuttgart 2005 Welkes Blatt Every blossom wants to become a fruit Every morning evening. Eternal is not on earth As change, as flight. Even the most beautiful summer wants to feel autumn and wilt for once. Hold still, leaf, patiently. When the wind wants to take you away. Play your game and don't defend yourself, let it happen silently. Let the wind that breaks you blow you home. Hermann Hesse

21 Drinking song to the Messiah The bottle is well corked in the middle of the table. You didn't want to drink it alone, I won't open it without you. Una minus the monk's Latin rule: one drinks no, two drinks one, three drinks two. Alone you are nobody, in twos you are already half, you will not be a whole. At the end of time in the infinite chorus, when the dead gather for a big feast - a drop will be missing to quench the thirst. Until someone comes who counts twice, an I and a you, he doesn't need a name - he descends on the golden stairs, a bottle in each hand. (That will be the salvation, we want to drink to it.) Neumann, Peter Horst, Auf der Wasserscheide. Poems, Aachen 2003 (Rimbaud), p

22 Autumn The leaves fall, as if from afar, as if distant gardens withered in the heavens; they fall with a negative gesture. And at night the heavy earth falls from all the stars into solitude. We all fall. That hand falls. And look at others: it is in everyone. And yet there is one who holds this falling infinitely gently in his hands Rainer Maria Rilke At the end of the search and the question about God there is no answer but a hug. Dorothee Sölle Once, we will certainly be presented with the bill for the sunshine and the rustling of the leaves, the gentle lilies of the valley and the dark fir trees for the snow and the wind, the flight of birds and the grass and the butterflies, for the air that we have breathed, and the view of the stars and for all the days, the evenings and the nights. One day it will be time to go and pay. Please enter the bill. But we did it without the landlord: I invited you, he says and laughs as far as the earth can reach: It was a pleasure! Lothar Zenetti

23 I LIVE IN ME LIKE IN A MOVING TRAIN I didn't get on voluntarily, didn't have a choice and don't know the destination. One day in the distant past I woke up in my compartment and felt the roll. It was exciting, I listened to the knocking of the wheels, kept my head in the wind and enjoyed the speed at which things passed me by. I wish the train would never stop traveling. There was no way I wanted it to last somewhere forever. It was in Coimbra, on a hard bench in the classroom, when I realized: I can't get out. I cannot change the track or the direction. I don't set the pace. I can't see the locomotive and can't tell who is driving it and whether the driver makes a reliable impression. I don't know whether he reads the signals correctly and notices when a switch has been set incorrectly. I cannot change the compartment. I see people walking by in the corridor and think: Maybe it will look completely different in their compartments than in my own. But I can't go and see, a conductor I have never seen and will never see has locked and sealed the compartment door. I open the window, lean out, and see everyone else doing the same. The train runs a gentle loop. The last cars are still in the tunnel and the first ones again. Maybe the train goes in circles, over and over again without anyone noticing, not even the engine driver? I have no idea how long the train is. I see all the others craning their necks to see and understand something. I greet you, but the wind blows my words away. The lighting in the compartment changes without it being me who can control it. Sun and clouds, twilight and then twilight again. Rain, snow, storm. The light on the ceiling is dim, becomes brighter, a glistening glow, it begins to flicker, goes out, comes back, it's a sparkle, a chandelier, a brightly colored neon light, all in one. The heating is not reliable. It can happen that it heats up when it is hot and fails when it is cold. When I flip the switch it clicks and clacks, but nothing changes. It's strange that my coat doesn't always keep me warm. Outside, things seem to take their normal, sensible course. Maybe in the other's compartment too? In any case, mine is different from what I expected, very different. Was the designer drunk? A madman? A diabolical charlatan? Timetables are available in the compartments. I want to see where we're going to stop. The pages are blank. There are no place-name signs at the train stations where we stop. The people outside cast curious glances at the train. The windows are cloudy from frequent storms. I think: they distort the picture of the inside. Suddenly I feel the need to put things right. The window is stuck. I scream myself hoarse. The others knock indignantly

24 the wall. There is a tunnel behind the station. It takes my breath away. As I exit the tunnel, I wonder if we really stopped. What can you do on the ride? Clean up the compartment. Secure things so they don't rattle. But then I dream that the wind swells up and depresses the pane. Everything that I have laboriously put together flies away. In general, I dream a lot on the endless journey, there are dreams of missed trains and wrong information in the timetable, of stations that dissolve into nothing when you drive in, of train attendants and station masters who suddenly find themselves in the void with the red hat. Sometimes I fall asleep out of sheer weariness. Falling asleep is dangerous, I rarely wake up refreshed and look forward to changes. The rule is that what I find when I wake up disturbs me, inside and outside. Sometimes I startle and think: the train can derail at any time. Yes, most of the time the thought scares me. But in rare, glowing white moments, it flashes through me like a blissful lightning bolt. I wake up and the landscape of the others passes by. Sometimes mad, so that I can hardly keep up with their moods and their sparkling nonsense; then again with excruciating slowness when they keep saying and doing the same thing. I am happy about the disc between you and me. This is how I recognize their wishes and plans without them being able to fire me unhindered. I am happy when the train takes off at full speed and they disappear. The wishes of others: what do we do with them when they meet us? I press my forehead to the compartment window and concentrate with all my might. I would like to get a grasp of what is happening outside, just once, just once. Really grasp it. So that it doesn't slip away from me right away. It fails. Everything goes too fast, even if the train stops on the open track. The next impression wipes away the previous one. The memory is running hot, I am breathlessly busy putting the fleeting images of the event together afterwards to create the illusion of something understandable. I'm always late, no matter how fast the light of attention scurries after things. Everything is always over. I'm always left behind. I'm never there. Not even if the interior of the compartment is reflected in the window pane at night. I love tunnels. They are the symbol of hope: at some point it will be light again. When it is not night. Sometimes I have visitors in the compartment. I don't know how this is possible despite the locked and sealed door, but it happens. Usually the visit comes at an inopportune time. They are people from the present, often also from the past. They come and go as they please, they are inconsiderate and disturb me. I need to talk to you. Everything is provisional, non-binding, predetermined for oblivion; Conversations on the train. Some visitors disappear without a trace. Others leave behind sticky and smelly ones

25 tracks, ventilation is useless. Then I would like to tear out all the furniture in the compartment and exchange it for new ones. The journey is long. There are days when I wish them endlessly. They are rare, precious days. There are others where I am glad to know that there will be one final tunnel where the train will stop forever. Pascal Mercier, night train to Lisbon, btb Munich, S Thoughts on Eternal Sunday If I can somehow, I take part in a joint visit to the grave of my home community on All Souls' Day, where my parents are buried. The names of those who died from the congregation in the past year are also mentioned in the service and a candle is lit for each. To commemorate our dead together has something comforting and unifying for me at the same time. In addition to my private grave visits, I experience how the memory of our deceased comes alive in a special way through doing things together, how it unites us in mourning and can give us comfort and strength. In doing so, I keep learning that the death of our loved ones is not the last thing, but that they live on in the hearts of many. The visit to the grave also shows us our own transience. In inevitable death, we are all interconnected. He makes us all equal regardless of person. Whether poor or rich, known or less known. Death cancels all differences! How we deal with it is different. Every visit to the cemetery allows me to participate more intensely in life. The awareness that every day could be my last can free me from being attached to the past and from expectations of the future. It supports me to live more consciously in the present, in the here and now, and to be more myself, to accept myself as I am. The thoughts of my transience keep the questions awake in me: Am I living as it corresponds to my being today? Am I making the best of my abilities and opportunities as much as I can? And also: With what or with whom do I live unreconciled? Where is reconciliation indicated for me now? The belief that my deceased loved ones live in the fulfillment of their deepest longing gives me comfort and strength.It lets me feel my own deep longing to be unconditionally accepted, held and secure and that this is also why death is not the last thing for me. after: words away daily reflections of the station church in Zurich,