Samstag, 14. Januar 2017

Manchaster by the Sea





Wieder einmal eine Filmempfehlung!!!!
"Manchaster by the Sea"

  Casey Affleck) betreut als Hausmeister vier Apartmentblocks in Boston, als er erfährt, dass sein Bruder Joe (Kyle Chandler) in ihrem Heimatort Manchester-by-the-Sea an einem Herzinfarkt verstorben ist. Lee hat dem Küstenstädtchen schon vor Jahren nach einem schrecklichen Vorfall den Rücken gekehrt, aber nun muss er wohl oder übel zumindest für einige Zeit zurückkehren, um sich um Joes 16-jährigen Sohn Patrick (Lucas Hedges) zu kümmern. Während sich Lee so gut es eben geht bemüht, alles richtig zu machen, wird er immer wieder an seine eigene Vergangenheit erinnert – gerade die in dem kleinen Ort auf Dauer unvermeidlichen Wiedersehen mit seiner Ex-Frau Randi (ist nur in einer Handvoll Szenen dabei, aber in diesen absolut überragend: Michelle Williams) nehmen ihn jedes Mal ziemlich mit…

Kenneth Lonergan erzählt in „Manchester By The Sea“ eine im Kern sehr simple Geschichte – aber was den Film so besonders macht, sind eben die etlichen feinen Beobachtungen abseits des dramaturgischen Trampelpfades. Für Lonergan ist keine Figur und kein Ereignis einfach nur ein Mittel zum Zweck – stattdessen füllt er alles bis zum Anschlag mit echtem Leben auf: In einem schlechten Film besäße etwa die Figur des jugendlichen Sohnes des Verstorbenen nur eine rein dramaturgische Funktion. In einem guten Film hätte sie zumindest einige Ecken und Kanten. In „Manchester By The Sea“ aber ist Patrick eine absolut faszinierende, häufig widersprüchliche Person aus Fleisch und Blut – und mit zwei Freundinnen, die nichts voneinander wissen dürfen. Selbst bei Nebenfiguren wie Joes Geschäftspartner George (C.J. Wilson) oder der Mutter einer von Patricks Freundinnen fühlt es sich so an, als würden hinter ihren kurzen Auftritten noch ganze erzählenswerte Universen schlummern. Und trotz aller Tragik ist der Film an vielen Stellen auch noch unerwartet lustig (dank eines mitunter ganz schön trockenen Humors).

Wenn ihr ...


Wenn ihr wirklich den Geist des Todes schauen wollt,
öffnet eure Herzen weit dem Körper des Lebens.
Denn Leben und Tod sind eins,
so wie der Fluss und das Meer eins sind.


Khalil Gibran
Bild: Jan Ortner

Donnerstag, 12. Januar 2017

Mittwoch, 11. Januar 2017

Ich sammle glückliche Augenblicke


Ich sammle glückliche Augenblicke
Ordne sie in Worte und Zeilen
Damit sie Bestand haben
Damit sie bei mir sind wenn es
Abend wird im Leben
Ich sammle Erinnerungen
Verberge sie in meinem Herzen
Denn es ist das was bleibt
Über Zeit und Raum
Die Erinnerung an eine Liebe 

Gerhard Rombach
Bild:  Marc Chagall

Sonntag, 8. Januar 2017

Eines Tages



Eines Tages werde ich
aus den Gedankensträngen
meines Lebens,
auch den wirrsten,
und dem vielfarbigen Geflecht
meines Herzens
einen Teppich knüpfen
mit dem roten Faden
meiner Dankbarkeit
für so vieles - 
und nicht zuletzt für dich...

(Isabella Schneider)


Danke, liebe Kathrin!!!!


Freitag, 6. Januar 2017

Mein Leben ist wie leise See







Mein Leben ist wie leise See
Wohnt in Uferhäusern das Weh,
wagt sich nicht aus den Höfen.
Nur manchmal zittert ein Nahn und Fliehn
aufgestörte Wünsche ziehn
darüber wie silberne Möwen.
Und dann ist alles wieder still...
Und weißt du, was mein Leben will,
hast du es schon verstanden?
Wie eine Welle im Morgenmeer
will es, rauschend und muschelschwer,
an deiner Seele landen.
(R.M.Rilke)

Donnerstag, 5. Januar 2017

Loving my Son after his Death



 
                                                        Giselle Potter

I can feel their unasked questions. People wonder how I can still stand, still walk, still laugh. But they don’t ask. You can’t ask that of a mother who has lost her child. My son, Daniel, died three years ago at the age of 22. When people ask me, “How… are you?,” that pause, that inflection, tells me that’s really what they want to know.
I am tempted to tell them that it is I who am lost, not he. I am lost in my search for him, knowing he is nowhere on this earth. And still, it would not surprise me if he were to appear by my side wearing only his jersey boxers eating a snack at the kitchen counter. At times I can almost smell his warm cheesy breath and his still-boyish sweat. But when I look over my shoulder, he is not there.
My mind invents stories. Daniel is not dead; he is lamenting the performance of his fantasy football team with high school buddies while they wait on line for ice cream at Magic Fountain. He is in his dorm room at Stanford, talking deep into the night with his friends. Daniel is lingering with new friends on the rooftop of his investment firm in Boston where he just started working.
“Where are you, Daniel?” I shout the question to the sky when I am strong enough to bear the silence that follows. “Why did you die?” Even that has no real answer. His doctors think Daniel died of new onset refractory status epilepticus, or Norse, a rare seizure disorder in which healthy people with no history of epilepsy suddenly begin to seize uncontrollably. The majority of patients die or survive with significant brain damage. There is no identified cause or established treatment for Norse. This cloud of uncertainty does not obscure what I know: My child is dead.
The instinct to protect one’s offspring runs through mothers of virtually all species. I violated the basic canon of motherhood. I failed to protect my child. That my child is dead while I still live defies the natural order.
I love my husband and our two surviving children, but I couldn’t simply transfer my love for Daniel to them. It was for him alone. And so, for the longest time after his death, my love for Daniel bruised me.
So unbearable was my occluded heart that I called out to him in desperation one day: “What will I do with my love for you, Daniel?”
My eyes were closed in grief when suddenly I seemed to see him before me, his arms bent and lifted upward in supplication. In my mind’s eye, his face was suffused with love and tinged with exasperation, a common look for Daniel.
“Just love me, Mom,” he says.
“But where are you?” I ask.
“I’m here!” he answers with frustration. And then he is gone.
I had not heard his voice since the day before he suddenly fell ill. I spoke to him while he lay unseeing and unmoving in the hospital bed. I told him I loved him. I begged him to speak to me. I begged him to come back to me. He never answered or moved to squeeze my hand. The only flicker from him over his 79 days of hospitalization was a single tear. One day a tear slid from his left eye down his cheek and disappeared beneath his chin.
And now, months after he had died, I felt him before me.
“Just love me, Mom. I’m here!”
His words unleashed a torrent. I fell forward, my tears streaming. I felt breathless with release. I could continue to love him. I would love him in a new way.
It was harder to do than I expected. I would see him everywhere, in every full moon, in each brilliant day. My spirits would soar. But there were days when a weight in my heart made each breath shallow and every step an effort.
On the worst days I sit before my laptop and pour out my feelings to the only person who can take in my sorrow and remain unbowed. The keyboard is damp when the final refrain leaves my fingertips: I love you, Daniel, I love you. I miss you. I miss you. And then I press “send.”
Daniel’s friends continue to visit us. It is a pilgrimage of sorts. My heart tightens when I see them. Their presence illuminates our immeasurable loss.
His friends reveal to me how much Daniel meant to them. Now there will be a missing groomsman at the wedding and empty air in the place of a steadfast friend. At the end of one visit, a young man asks, “Recognize this sweater?” I don’t. “It’s Daniel’s,” he explains. I suddenly recognize Daniel’s old cotton sweater stretched to fit his friend. The young man folds forward to touch the sleeves of the sweater, hugging himself. He is tall and blond and athletic. He and Daniel were opposites in looks and temperament, best friends since nursery school. He had just returned from Moscow where he was working. “I wear this when I travel,” he says, touching the arm of the sweater again. “It’s so soft.”
I encourage Daniel’s friends to tell me about their work and their plans for the future. At first they are self-conscious, and their voices are tender. They don’t want to hurt me with their future plans when there is no future for Daniel. But as they speak of the things they will do and the places they will go, their excitement breaks free. I smile into the glow of their unlined, earnest faces and I feel my son. I think they feel him too. For a moment we are all reunited.
I will carry this child for the rest of my life. He lives within me, forever a young man of 22. Others will carry him as they move forward in their lives. He will be with them when they look out to the world with compassion, when they act with determination and kindness, when they are brave enough to contemplate all the things in life that remain unknown.
I still search for him, but without desperation. I look for him in others. My search is lifted by his words: “Just love me. I’m here.”
Nora Wong, the executive director of the Norse Institute, is working on a memoir.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/02/well/family/loving-my-son-after-his-death.html
 

Diesen Artikel konnte ich Euch nicht vorenthalten. Er hat mich so berührt!