What the Hell Am I Doing on Substack?

A Mild Identity Crisis in Winter Withered Grass

My love,

It may sound strange, but the most satisfying and blissful thing at the moment is this:
Running like mad with three- and six-year-old boys. The dogs are always faster than all of us. And don’t ask what happens if the legs of the 3 years old are faster than himself…one of the cutest things I heard lately was the younger one exclaiming- very serious- that for my birthday (which is in October!) he will go in the shop and buy me a present and that he will go there with the tractor.
Watching Ben play with his eight-year-older friend Tessa without being dictated by his hormones.
Drinking a beer, sitting on a meadow of withered grass, waiting for spring. Isn’t it beautiful to recognise this subtle, shy blushing of nature?
Shoveling horse manure and, for whatever reason, becoming a magnet for the horses.

Shikh the clown.
Bagira the boss.
And Niki the pony.
All come, although they have total freedom to move in various areas. All interact in their own way.

The scents, the crispy air, the sun. The horses’ muzzles trying to steal my cap or caress my face. Their request for a rubbed shoulder. The withered grass, tired from winter. The birds singing - hundreds starting to gather, igniting spring.

Those little interactions and happenings are ordinary. And total bliss.

Yet… you are missing. And there at the same time.

Later.

I recently stumbled upon a quote saying that poets do not write for an audience, but for one person. Actually, that is exactly what I did many years ago. In emails, letters, reflections. Part of it became Rebelleheart ten years later.

Nowadays, since being on Substack, I feel that simplicity compromised at times. Absurdly, in order to reach the resonating readers for Rebelleheart - which wasn’t written for an audience at all - I have more and more started to write for an audience.

It isn’t wrong. It isn’t bad writing. But it is more specified. At times it includes the wish to share practical impulses and begins to feel, in some way, educative.

And that is something I don’t like. I do not get (to) the point. It’s frustrating at times…

And: I do not see myself as a teacher. Or messenger. Or expert. Or writer.

I don’t even know how I see myself - and I do not want to put myself back into any role. I do not want to identify, nor be identified (with). We are all unique. We do not fit into labels. None of us. Not a human being. Not an animal. Which, for me, is not so different.

What I would wish is to encounter other human beings as I encounter horses or dogs or - more fleetingly - birds, ducks, leaves. It is always an interaction arising from the very moment. It happens. Or not. Anything is fine. It flows. Nothing is forced. And that enriches every part involved. It’s like a speechless, non-conceptualised depth, one just falls into. If it is a second or an hour doesn’t matter.

The difference between animals and humans is that interactions with the former do not happen through words. They unfold in space. There is more question than answer. More exploring than concluding. More flow than final destination.

With humans - especially on a digital platform - everything depends on words. And again and again, I feel their limitation. Sometimes my own words even annoy me.

That may sound strange for someone who has published a book. Some may say, because of that “This is a writer.” The only thing I feel is: I am a being. There is no need to narrow that down to anything special, or to a specific role.

And I am humbled, excited, in awe when my simple presence moves beings ten times my weight. Who are even wired for flight. That they want to connect. Not for a reason. Not because of words. But probably because I am.

That results in an ordinary, indescribable joy and delight I would wish for anyone in the world to experience. Especially now…

But what the hell am I doing on Substack now?

And then I open my laptop.

I arrange words.
Edit sentences.
Press “publish.”

Which, if I’m honest, is mildly absurd.

Because what moves horses or dogs does not care about syntax. What connects without reason, encountering what is, does not require a newsletter. Presence does not need paragraphs.

Yet here I am.

Trying to translate something that never needed translation.
Trying to let being leak into language.
Trying to see whether words can stay porous enough for something alive to pass through.

Not teaching.
Not proclaiming.
Not performing expertise.
Rather a subtle touch through sharing, as if a bow is softly- or at few times forcefully- moving over violin strings.
That is at least what I hope…
I fucking love freedom. Even from the known, maybe especially from the known (that’s my struggle with words and thoughts, as they move always from and within the known, no matter how much we twist and stretch and re-order them).
And exploration, within the physical limits given. And- contradictory- the ordinary. And simple exchange. Conversation with no specific goal or even a final conclusion. And subtle interaction. With words- and honestly- even more without.

Just experimenting - again -
with whether presence can survive articulation.

And sometimes, quietly, against all odds,
it maybe does.

And maybe that is why I keep writing, whenever and whatever comes…

Love Karin

PS: Did I ever tell you that I am in love with the word “what(so)ever”? It’s delicious, isn’t it?

PPS: I didn’t send it right away because I had just spent a few days with my sister. A sweet immediacy. With Ben - who behaves like the mayor of any place he goes, greeting dogs and humans alike with never-fading enthusiasm - and Milo, my sister’s dog - a shelter dog wired to defend resources and territory, but who slowly grew closer due to Ben’s irresistible charm, funny patience, and intelligent communication skills.

We didn’t do anything special. Eating when hungry, walking and admiring nature, playing, dozing off, watching two documentaries, conversations, sitting at ease in silence when words were exhaled and suspended in space.

I guess in such turbulent times it makes sense to keep things simple as often as possible. To ground. To soften in safe spaces. To return to the immediate moment - and thus be able to face the amplification and insanity on a global scale without collapsing.

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