heart water dream

The heart. The heart as impulse. The heart as pulse generator. Pulses poly-rhythmically. Plays its* own melody. Embedded. Independent. Always connected. Very close to the breath. Like in the dream of these two women tonight. Very close to each other they are. Almost into each other they go. Each pair of legs still within their own step-patterns. Nevertheless. One in blue, the other in red, in tight-fitting clothes.

My heart is two women. Is many women. Women. Are also people. My heart is many people. That is the cycle. Connected. Connected with others. Our cycle. With the cycle of nature. With which we circle. Which we run after. Of which we are a part. A tiny little part, by the way. Geologically seen. And everything. Circles around us. People. Although. The cycle of plants is especially close. We share one air. And not only the air. Also, the water. Blood is water. 70% of it. It needs water. Good water to nourish the organs, the cells. Yours and mine. We need good water. Where does it come from? Where does it go? The water. The heart pumps blood through the body. Connects my organs. With many organs. My cells have many cells. I am connected with many others. With all the others. I am only a small part of all these connections. I draw a border where there is actually permeability. Boundary here does not mean separation. Boundaries mean rest. The pause between breathsThe pause between heartbeats.

We stand in a circle and hold hands. We want to engage in a rhythm. Through a squeeze with the hand. First in one direction. Then in the other. Laughing in confusion until silence comes. And with it a shared, wandering rhythm.

The heart is a three-dimensional organ. It has a front and a back. And so many more sides to it. Are there. Back there. At the back of the back. Support is created. And with it an additional space. A different feeling. Please put it there again. Your hand. Between my shoulder blades. So that my heart can open with every pulse. Something like freedom. Freedom here means: to be cared for. To be nourished. To be refreshed. With every pulse: oxygen. Nutrients. With every pulse: clarification. Detoxification. With every movement. Every gesture. One beat. And the other. Almost simultaneously. And at the same time. Very orderly. With this freedom, a space emerges. Almost as a matter of cause. A space. With which to  connect. A green grope.

Now. If Vienna were the heart, the rivers the blood, and our thoughts and actions the nutrients. What would there be to do then?

I take these thoughts in my hand. Let them pulsate. Let them flow. Be in motion. As we go on our way. And beyond. Through time. Through the city. To the border. To the divisions of the rivers. The distribution of the water surface. To be with these different flowings. Rhythms. Which I also feel in my body. This restlessness. This awkward tenderness. This powerlessness. These connections. Here. With the vastness. With the land. And their waters. Up to Ukraine and this miserable war. With every wave. Connected with this war. It is war. And. Everything is wrong. … It’s peace. And. To make everything more right, to make it right. We’re going to have to take our lives more seriously in what contexts and what consequences we’re in the world with.[1]

And so. Let’s practice friendship. Again and again. In gestures of peace. Unobtrusively. Steadily. Mindful and attentive. Peace must be able to invoke a life practice of fundamental rights. For everyone. That, too, needs to be practiced. Then my heart vibrates. Sings. Is grateful. So much. (Aus dem Tanz geschrieben, Sabina Holzer)