Loving Lupins

The first things that caught my eye at the accommodation in Kinloss were the lupins. Majestical and noble, they were standing guard at the entrance of the path up to the house. Although their spines looked very straight, they were far from stiff, with their delicate, pea-like flowers growing in dense whorls around a tall spike in a soft apricot abundance. ‘Welcome!’ they waved to me as I entered further, and was pleasantly distracted by a group of bright red Papaver orientalis surrounded by at least five different colours of aquilegias. “This looks good!” I exclaimed. “I like this little garden.” 

The owner of this temporary home, at the moment in Canada until mid July, immediately recognised the herbaceous perennial plant on the photo I sent. Last year his woman friend had taken some of its seeds — which come in a pod as fruit— to sow in her own Canadian garden. Two gardens, two people on different sides of the earth, connected by lupins and love. Most likely they grow very well there.

There are many species of the Lupinus albus and perennis, and they grow everywhere in Europe. For thousands of years they have been found around the Mediterranean, as well as in North and South America, where, it has been discovered, especially in the Andes, the legume seeds or beans have been grown for food for 6000 years. From my agricultural years in the Netherlands, I remember that farmers grow them as green manure, to nourish the soil. A meadow full of these yellowish flowers looks astonishing. Nowadays the lupin bean is increasingly popular as food again, as a healthier alternative to soya beans. Full of protein. An antioxidant and a prebiotic. And gluten free!

I would start to grow them in my veggie patch right away. Lupins. And more lupins. Partly to nourish and heal the body, partly as an ornamental flower to heal my heart and to brighten my days.

Now bring me that garden! As that is still missing. With a house, my long-term home to be. Yes, please!

© Blog 46, photo and text  9th June 2016, Kinloss.  © Adriana Bijman    

This is a shortened version, the whole version will be in the upcoming book!

Shifting boundaries

One night, I, once again, dream of death; a repeating theme lately. I am waiting for several people to die, and they seem to take ages to do so.  Slowly, they slowly turn into brownish-grey mud beings. I stand aside, witnessing it, left desolate.

It reminds me of a sentence I once read, “Now, in the middle of the journey of my illness, I am left alone and defenceless.”(1)

A realisation pops up that the dying people are part of me; the old me, from whom I want to detach, release or transform. As I am not totally ready to do so, in the dream I feel an uncomfortable sense of guilt towards them, as if I am betraying them. Letting them die seems as if they were not good enough, as if the old me maybe was not good enough? I have to tell them that they were, at the time, but that now I no longer need what they stand for: qualities of my pre-illness past, like impatience, direct sharp communication, and the multi-tasking workaholism. Let those qualities serve other people now.

Time for some homework it seems, as I then dream I am being forced into a gloomy cellar to clean the incredible filthy steps descending before me; a horrible task I have been given to undertake. Finally, after finishing it, I discover an old squeaking door in the cellar, which brings in fresh air and light. What a relief!

My old organisational skills are well placed to open new doors, I think. I would like to invite and integrate a new me, new personalities, as a gift on this journey of illness. Dissimilar to the old me in many ways. Not only physically older, but also wiser, with more experience on the inner. This physical condition teaches me new boundaries to what I can do, and can no longer. At other times, it forces me even to give up all limits and borders, depending on the shifting sands of my energy. It teaches me compassion, patience and slowing down, in fact a lot of slowing down. Taking this in, I realise I now want to live with an evolved set of boundaries, whether I am ill or healthy.

(1) from  The Alchemy of Illness,1993, by Kat Duff

Blog 43,  © text and photo: Adriana Sjan Bijman, March 2016

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The divine and devil in ‘El Pico del Teide’

For the third time I visited ‘el Teide’, the most important volcano on the ocean island Tenerife. This May I came from the south of the island, which is said to have  been a desert for millennia.  Again El Pico del Teide —the Teide Peak— impressed me with its bare moon-like landscape. The soil seems fresh erupted ‘black lava’ of hard rock fragments; on other places it is covered with gentle hills of cream coloured sand dust, which actually is volcanic ash.  Like what came down from Iceland some years ago, remember? Nothing grows on it. Its earth seems as dead as the native aboriginal people the Guanches, who lived on the islands until the Spanish conquerors arrived at the end of the 15^th century. The Guanches believed in the mythology of the Teide and many legends survived, telling us of its divine legacy. It was thought the Teide held the most devilish forces in its crater. Personally I can understand some of that, as a decade ago our suspicious German workshop leader felt drawn to jump into the crater, believing we all would be saved by extraterrestrials. Tenerife is known for its UFO connection. So glad the jump was prevented by the local police!

Nowadays the island lives off the more attractive energies of tourism and the banana export. You see their polytunnels everywhere. Like the native Canary Pine tree the residents have adapted to live off what the land can offer — or they moved away. The abundantly growing pine tree is fire resistant, from blackened trunks they simply rise again into the green. They possess an amazing water-collecting system in their leaves to survive the long periods of drought. It only rains 14 days a year. What a difference with Scotland! We enjoyed the sunshine and warm breezes that cooled down the island. Thank you,  beautiful island of Tenerife!

© text and photo: Adriana Sjan Bijman 

‘Teatro de los Sentidos’ (Theatre of the senses)

What communicates the impact of light better than this colourful play? It reminds me of the Catalan theatre company Els Comediants, who identifies with the festive spirit of human existence. The goal is not only to open our eyes but also to be a theatre for the senses. It seems to me that the light in the impressive cathedral in the old city of Palma wants to do just that.  There is no separation between the light from the heavens and the space it illuminates. The floor space is like a stage. The stage is the place for the collective experience of the audience, while we entered as spectator in the house of the Gods. The benches are waiting for the Heathen and Pagan worshippers of an ancient Sun God. I sit down. As the sun caresses my skin, the fragrance of warm oak wood enters my nostrils.

Like many Christian churches, ‘La Seu’, the Roman catholic cathedral in Catalan-gothic style was built on the site of a pre-existing mosque. Lying above the old Roman citadel, it overlooks the emerald and turquoise Mediterranean and from the southern coasts you sometimes still hear the late afternoon Asr prayers calling to the island, while a breeze wafts along the mouth-watering smell of spiced couscous with roasted almonds. 

Visiting this ‘Tierra sagrada’* l am moored to the full spectrum of bright colours falling down from the rosette shaped windows. In this house I am moored to the beauty of Nature. Is this world not meant to be one wonderful big House, in which we can make love, create compassion and culture? As well as separation, skirmish and suffering, if we choose so…. I ponder over it while the light enters me. It makes me think in the colours of my heart.

© Adriana Sjan Bijman Photo: Palma de Mallorca, Easter 2011, text: Findhorn, February 2014.  

findhorn images

*holy ground. 

The Shutters

Doors and windows. There is a folder full of them in my photo-archive. They can be so symbolic, can’t they? Openings into another realm or a different reality…. We speak of ‘windows of opportunity’ and here at Findhorn we work a lot with the ‘Opening Doors Within’ guidance of Eileen Caddy. On the material level the door is the entrance and exit, the passage into a building. Sometimes the windows look like the eyes of the house.

Several summers ago during a journey through the south of France, I worked with the theme of windows and doors, their colours, potential and deeper meaning. They became the focus of that photo-travel. Les portes et les venêtres. Les yeux ouvertes ou fermés, qui me regardent, qui me parlent — et moi, j’ecoute. Et on se regarde, nous deux. *

In one quick movement, this window with its turquoise closed shutters in the bright afternoon sunshine called my attention. Was the Madame of the house having a well-deserved siesta? I imagine a late fulfilling lunch with friends, with Poisson aux Legumes, freshly baked baguette and a bottle of Sauvignon de l’Arjolle, a crisp white wine from their Languedoc region?

Was hers such a happy story? Or do we make our stories reflecting our own mood? Are they filled with our dreams and longings like shutters opening and closing to expose the film of our life?

The windows have their eyes closed for the world; looking inwards and I cannot read life in between the hinged wooden panels. But in the shade of the lush green tree my eyes keep moving upwards wanting the story to continue.

January 2014, © story and photo Adriana Bijman

*Doors and windows, eyes open or closed, which look at me, which speak to me — 

and I, I listen. And we look at each other.

Holding on to the Light

Decoloured wallpaper

In hand-painted floral patterns on

layers of wealth, unwelcome, and dust of decades

covering the secrets and scars of the past,

suddenly illuminated

and my eyes desperately try to hold on to the light. Slowly then

our chances fade again

We were blind anyway

not opening our windows.

© Adriana  Bijman, 2013