Chapter 7: Rippling

Chapter 7: Rippling

A Chapter by Philip Muls
"

Pay It Forward

"

Kristina Vikander, and I were on a first-name basis now - Christine and Kristina - and we had started to enjoy each other’s company. I found her to be bright and cheerful, with sharp insights.


Once I had acquired a feel for her abilities as a therapist, be it an intern, I had allowed her to participate in the actual patient sessions. And who would have thought that, rather than feeling intimidated by her good looks, most of my patients would actually grow to be more open and talkative, with her in the room?


I had not been able, however, to make her change her titillating secretary-like outfits into something less suggestive and so I had finally resigned myself to her teasing ensembles. Why she insisted on contrasting her obvious intellect with that particular bimbo look could be the subject matter of a therapy case in itself.


Together we'd been waiting for Peter in my therapy room for fifteen minutes now. When he finally arrived, he profusely apologized for being late. He wasn’t wearing his usual business attire and I wondered whether he was taking a vacation from work.


Kristina offered him a cup of coffee with a small plate of Sprüngli biscuits, a local delicacy which he accepted with a nod and a weak smile.


Settling down in his usual chair, he said quietly: “Ladies, again my apologies, I hate being late.”


“No worries, Peter, how have you been?”


He hesitated for just a moment. I could sense from his body language that something was up. And it turned out to be very significant.


“I am sad to say my father passed away the day before yesterday, Doc, so I still feel shell-shocked. The sudden deterioration in his condition took me and my brother and sister completely by surprise. Dad was ninety-four and I know now that, at that age, things can happen fast. That’s what I keep telling myself, but a part of me cannot believe he’s gone. A week ago, there were absolutely no signs that this would happen.”


I was somewhat taken aback by the fact that Peter had not called me the day his father died, but I guess he wanted to deliver the news in person during our session. “I am very sorry to hear that, Peter, my sincere condolences. How are you coping?”


While I was saying this, Kristina’s soft voice chimed in with expressions of sympathy for Peter and she put her hand on his arm. She definitely went for a more personal approach, and it could not be denied that she did it with a flair all her own.


Peter was clearly moved: “Thank you both. It’s been an emotional week, as you can imagine. I am so glad I had the chance to visit my dad every day, right up to the end when he lost consciousness and we had to let him go.”


Peter looked out the window: “You know, just a month ago, we celebrated his ninety-fourth birthday at my sister’s house, where dad had lived since mom died. The whole family showed up for his birthday, not one person was missing, and I can tell you we have a large family. That in itself is uncanny like we all knew deep down this was going to be the last time, that there would be no ninety-fifth edition.”


He smiled while reminiscing: “On the day of his anniversary, we took this great family picture outside in the garden, with my dad positioned on a chair right in the middle of four generations of his progeny. The younger kids posted it on Facebook and so many people liked the picture and left comments, it was endearing.”


He looked down and concentrated on his shoes for a long minute as if the mystery of life and death would be revealed right there and then. When he looked back up, he said: “That beautiful day with the whole family was the celebration of a lifetime, not just another birthday.”


“I am glad you got to have that last memory of him, you should treasure that, Peter.”


“Yes, Doc. My dad took the photo with him when his condition suddenly got so much worse that we had to rush him to the hospital. He kept looking at the picture like it provided solace.”


“As the days went by, I could feel his consciousness changing, like he was getting ready to go home to my mother. Something in him slowly but surely let go of all the worldly stuff. But he held on to that picture as if that was the only thing he wanted to take with him.To show it to his wife, maybe.”


He blinked a couple of times. Then he stated in a less emotional voice as if he realized he had to man up in the company of two women: “A good way to go really, I would sign up for an exit like that. I am so glad his doctor administered morphine when it was clear the end was coming, my dad did not suffer much.”


“Peter, can it be that what happened with your father has given you the strength to look at death in a new light?”


He hesitated again. The events of the last week clearly had not given him pause to think about what this meant to him and his anxieties.


“The word that comes to mind is hope, Doc.”


Peter sounded inspired: “Yes, that’s it, hope. The dignified way in which my father dealt with his departure gave me hope. It’s as if he knew he could give me one last gift by teaching me how to die, modeling how to do it with a level of courage and grace that had seemed utterly impossible until I saw him do it. As if it was just another natural step in his life, rather than something to dread."


He paused and then said in a quiet voice: "It was deeply confrontational and beautiful at the same time.”


“Did your dad know about your fear of death, Peter?”


“Well, he knew all about my anxieties, way back when I was young. And I told him a while ago that the old fears had returned after I had stopped drinking. He never gave me advice on how to deal with that so I had assumed he too was at a loss. But I guess he showed me in the end. He showed me good.”


“Are you ok if we explore this somewhat deeper today, Peter? We can do it at a later time if it is too painful now?”


“No, that’s fine, Doc. Talking about it will help me grieve.”


“OK then. The fact that your dad gave you hope by passing the way he did, Peter, could it be that he helped you lift an old taboo, helped you set the record straight on the whole business of death?”


Peter answered with a question, which is an excellent technique, usually reserved for the therapist in the room: “Did you read my last story, Doc? The one in which I dream about the time before I was born and the time after my death?”


“Yes I did, Peter, you called it Slow Time. And that dream made you realize that now is your time to be alive and you should savor that.”


“When writing that piece, that dream came back to me in a flash. I had fully repressed it somehow.”


“The way you described arriving at a tipping point between past and future - I believe you called it the rite of passage - I thought that was very special. Much like you were returning from a suspended state back to your real self, back to the present you, as it were. There is truth in that. We all need to realize we only have one life and it is only ours to live, now.”


“It feels like my life again belongs to me, after a long period of stifling guilt, with the drinking and all the bad stuff I imposed on my family.”


I wanted to encourage him with the progress he was making. I could tell that he did not fully realize how far he had traveled since rehab: “I strongly believe it is your sobriety which brings about these new insights, Peter. I hope you know you are doing good work here, give yourself some credit.”


“I do feel a transformation, Doc, I feel I want to live again. For the longest time, with my addiction, I just wanted everything to stop.”


He turned to look at Kristina. I could only assume he was unaware that his gaze followed a path from her eyes down to her legs and back up again.


Then he looked at me and said: “That dream also made me realize that what I am really scared about, even more than the actual act of dying, is the thought of not being alive."


"You do realize, Peter, that you will not experience not being alive? Your consciousness will be gone."


"Even so, Doc, the mere concept of not existing feels unbearable to me, it feels as if all will be truly lost when I am gone. My world, and the significance I have given to all the people and the things in my life, all of that will be gone when I am no longer there to experience it. I hate to think that all I’d tried to do on this earth has been all for nothing?”


Unexpectedly, Kristina answered: “And then again, your father just demonstrated how to be at the root of a long bloodline and to be remembered and honored for many years to come?”


Peter had not seen this coming, this link with his dad’s legacy. He took a minute to reflect on this and then said: “Well, Miss Vikander, you are right. Although my father’s gone, in a certain way he’s still here. And not only due to the fact that his genes are carried forward but even more so by what he taught us during a lifetime of caring. My mom and dad were authentic people, and somehow I am still able to tap from that source. Even more so now, that they are no longer here.”


I said: “I would like you to capture this feeling in an image, Peter. Can you try?”


He closed his eyes for a moment and said: “I see a mental picture of a container slowly being filled to the rim with a precious liquid and then overflowing into a much larger basin. That capacity, or better, that permission to spill over somehow gives meaning to the whole thing. When the container is full, the flow continues and yet nothing gets spilled, nothing is wasted. Does that make sense?”


I was quietly amused but also glad by the way Kristina had jumped in at the exact right time. With the enthusiasm of the young, she had managed to establish a rapport with Peter which really added value to the session. There definitely was a future in therapy for her yet.


I said: ‘Perfect sense, Peter. You call it overflowing. Dr. Irvin Yalom, a renowned American psychiatrist calls it rippling.”


“Rippling?”


“Yes, like when you throw a rock into a pool of water, it creates ever-widening concentric circles across the surface. This rippling effect, if you will, can take many forms in the context of transcending death.”


“How so?”


“When your father set an example of how to go to his end with valor and equanimity, he gave you an antidote for existential fear which you can use on yourself and in turn pass on to your children. And also, as you said, the fact that your parents’ essence will go on from generation to generation will bring an element of continuity into the future. As you said, the flow will not be interrupted.”


“Rippling in ever widening circles, I like that, Doc. Same principle as paying it forward, right?”


“I had not thought of the parallel but indeed you could compare the two concepts, Peter. Paying it forward is all about doing some good, with the aim to inspire and trigger others to do the same. The pay-off is not getting something back, but knowing that you propel goodness forward, to keep the cycle going. It has that same rippling effect into the future, on to people who the initial benefactor might never get to know.”


Peter jumped in before I had fully completed my sentence: “You know, I was recently confronted with an extreme example of that, when I was on a business trip to Singapore. At the time, I did not know you called it rippling, but now I realize that is what it was. The memory of it still shakes me up.”


Kristina said: “Peter if you have time, I would love to read about that.”


I felt I had to intervene here: “Peter, remember when I introduced Kristina into our sessions a couple of weeks ago, we agreed that I would let her read your stories. Well, I guess she did read the ones you sent to me. I trust that is still ok with you?”


I was somewhat apprehensive as I had not expected my dear trainee to come forward like she did, encouraging him to write. I should have told her to refrain from this kind of instructions and leave that to me. But Peter seemed ok with it. 


He said: “Well, although I do feel a bit self-conscious about those stories, I guess I’m ok with it, for the sake of progress. We did agree that Miss Vikander could read them, so I should not be surprised.”


Kristina said: “I feel like your stories tell me even more about who you are than the sessions, Peter. Or better, they are oddly complementary. Together, they are so much more than just the sum of the separate parts.”


Peter seemed to like hearing this, he seemed flattered. “Ok, I will try to put my recent Singapore experience into words. The incident has made a deep impression on me and I want to put that to good use.”


I looked at the clock and tried to get us back on track: “Peter, in the time we have left for today, I would like to briefly touch again upon your preoccupation with control.”


Peter nodded.


“In your last story, you rightly concluded you really should let go of the constant contingency planning, when there is no real need. You made a great analogy with the 2 pm turnaround rule in mountaineering. You said that on the days you’re not climbing Everest, you should relax and let go. Did that insight have any lasting effect on you?”


Peter sure liked to talk about his stories and said: “Writing that indeed made me see that I should not worry about the future all the time and just accept the facts as they are now. But insight is one thing, Doc, turning that into actual change is quite another. I seem to be unable to stop myself looking for certainty and security.”


He sighed: “At least, I understand better now that this is an area I need to work on. That’s a start.”


Kristina said: “Do you know the expression If you want to make god laugh, tell him about your plans? To me, that really says it all. Control over what will happen tomorrow is an illusion. We should focus on today and let the rest unfold. ”


Making a mental note to come back to this in the next session, I said: “Things will never go the way your mind wants them to, Peter. Insisting all the time on getting everything just right according to your personal preferences just causes frustration. You expect your mind to fix the world for you. But as know by now, that will not happen. Give it a rest.”

 

Ether by Peter Baer

 

My taxi got stuck in the evening traffic on Singapore’s Orchard Road so I gave the cabbie a solid tip and proceeded on foot. Slightly out of breath, I walked up the stairs of the Raffles Hotel and into its famous Long Bar. My friend Arthur was sitting with a cold Tiger Beer in hand and talking animatedly into his phone.


I sat down and ordered a Singapore Sling which by the way was first created in this very bar in 1915. I grinned at Arthur who gesticulated that he was trying to finish up his call. I looked around and took in the wonderful ambiance of the place. Named after the founder of Singapore, Sir Stamford Raffles and immortalized in the novels of Rudyard Kipling and Somerset Maugham, the Raffles Hotel just breathes heritage. The elegant stateliness of the old mansion with its British Colonial style furnishings makes it more legend than a hotel.


We were seated in low rattan sofas on dark hardwood flooring and from the high ceiling, authentic Diehl fans produced a soft humming noise while their blades cut through the air. The walls were filled with displays of globes and telescopes.


We were looking out through shuttered French windows onto a wide veranda with teak lounge chairs. The sound of crickets chirping in the cool night outside made the tropical mood complete.


Arthur is a large, bald man and as usual, he was dressed like he just came back from a week in the outback. He moved to Singapore a year ago with his wife and three children after a four-year stint in the moist heat of Chennai, India. Addicted to expat life, the couple has sworn never to return to their roots in cold and wet Europe. Arthur and I go back a long way and feel at ease with each other, without the need for a lot of words.


Our plan was to head out to the Esplanade in Marina Bay near the mouth of the Singapore River, where Australian rock band Tame Impala were scheduled to do a live gig. On an impulse, I had bought the tickets online that morning at twice the face value because Arthur and I both love the band’s psychedelic sound which blends rock with dreamy melodies.


The band’s off-the-wall personality is reflected in their name which refers to an impala, an African antelope known for its typical nervousness and capable of jumping up to three meters in the air when startled. Tame Impala then points to the one, un-vexed specimen grazing the savanna, which lets you come closer and make real contact. Pretty cool name for a crew of talented musicians who project a maturity beyond their young age.


As if brought on by my thinking, I heard a TV voice saying: “Although very weak, she will attend tonight’s performance of Tame Impala by special invitation of the band.”


My interest triggered, I looked up at the large LCD screen above the bar and recognized the portrait of Michelle, the young girl who recently became the nation’s symbol of suffering and hope. Everyone knows her as the sweet seventeen-year- old who has been on the waiting list for a heart transplant for four months now.


The entire population of South-East Asia has been following her story ever since she collapsed on stage, right on national television. That fateful evening, Michelle was performing a violin solo as the Singapore nominee for the widely popular Asian Youth Orchestra competition for best classical performer under eighteen.


When she had entered the stage, she walked with confidence, head up high. Her long black hair framed her delicate face and she radiated the sophistication that came with a privileged and classical upbringing.   


The image of the elegant soloist in black evening dress giving her very best to Paganini’s Caprice No. 4 and then suddenly passing out on the podium has been burned in the collective memory of millions of viewers.


When it happened, it had taken a long twenty seconds before the entire orchestra finally stopped playing and then there was nothing but an eerie silence.


A general awareness took hold of the audience that this was not just the harmless fainting of a young woman under the glaring heat of spotlights. A few drops of blood had poured from her nostrils and a TV camera zoomed in before the editor decided this was too intrusive. The camera moved to take on a more discrete angle but the close-up of the blood on the wooden floor remained fixed on the audience’s retinas.


The seriousness of her condition was soon confirmed by a doctor in the audience who established heart failure as a diagnosis and gestured that emergency transportation was needed ASAP. The audience held its breath, fearful of losing a talented young soul, representing the best of the nation.


TV stations continued their live broadcasting while Michelle was evacuated by helicopter to the Singapore National Heart Centre with ever more viewers tuning in throughout Asia as the word spread.


Several international news crews including CNN and CNBC, who had been covering Singapore’s parliamentary elections, switched focus and followed in her wake. They set up camp right across the hospital’s front entrance and made sure also the Western world became aware of Michelle’s affliction.


Once the cardio team had stabilized her, it emerged that Michelle’s coronary artery was so dangerously narrowed that her heart function had dipped to just twelve per cent and her blood pressure had sunk to a near-lethal level. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had not fallen into a coma when she lost consciousness on stage. The hospital had her hooked up to the heart-lung machine which immediately started pumping blood round her body.


That had been four months ago. Michelle had regained consciousness a week or so after the collapse but had remained very fragile ever since.


From day one, she had been on the transplant list with top priority status A1, reserved for the critically ill. Any matching donor heart is offered first to a patient with that designation but while in the US and Europe the average waiting time is four months, in Singapore it is double that. Too few donor hearts are available on the island city-state and as a consequence, more than forty percent of patients do not survive the wait for a heart. This cruel statistic has been quoted in the news almost on a daily basis since Michelle’s breakdown and has triggered wide public indignation.


Obtaining a healthy matching heart for Michelle had proven impossible so far. On three occasions the South-East Asia Transplant Network came close. The first potential donor tested positive for cocaine, however, and the second showed signs of hepatitis C. The most recent donor case had raised hopes but close investigation of the living cadaver showed the victim had not only suffered a head injury but also a chest trauma with evidence of cardiac damage, so again a no go.


That was three weeks ago.


Since then each day came and went without donor news and Michelle’s condition deteriorated to a point where her doctor told the public to hope for the best but expect the worst. He stated his patient had only the smallest possible window for survival with a life expectancy of less than a week without a transplant.


The image on TV now switched to Tame Impala’s lead singer who explained in Aussie-speak that the band came to know that Michelle liked their music and they had invited her to attend that night’s concert if her condition would allow. He had spoken to Michelle on the phone two days ago and she had confirmed she would love to be there.


Then Michelle’s cardiologist came on and stated that his patient’s condition was rated as extremely severe and only a last-minute donor heart could mean the difference between life and death. Yet, there were no signs that a match could be found in the coming hours. Therefore, he would respect Michelle’s wish to be present at the concert that evening and he would be there right at her side.


The specialist spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as if this kind of thing occurred on a daily basis. And it probably did with many patients who were not in the public eye and had to suffer their fate in silence. In any case, his words sent shivers down my spine.


I looked around me in the Long Bar and absolutely everybody was motionless with eyes fixated on the screen. Clearly, my peers here were also in awe by the events unfolding and we felt strangely connected by this harsh confrontation with the fragility of life.


It was very hard to believe that science or money could not save the life of this precious young girl. Even that very morning, the CEO of Singapore Telecom had pledged their corporate jet to fly in a healthy heart from anywhere within a six-hour radius, which was the maximum time a donor heart would remain viable. But without a last-minute match, that plane would stay where it was on the tarmac of Changi International Airport. It felt as if a higher force wanted to show who ultimately had the power.


When the news anchor finally changed topics, Arthur and I discussed what to do next. We both had mixed feelings about tonight. We wanted to go to the concert because we had tickets to see one of our favorite bands play live. But the last thing we wanted was to be voyeurs, selected by fate to witness up close the very delicate situation of this young girl on the verge of dying. We both wanted to do the respectful thing but it was hard to figure out what that was.


In the end, we decided to go to the concert because we wanted to be united with other people wishing that this would end well. Maybe the massive public support would give Michelle the strength to hang on another day. 


The event hall, nicknamed the Durian, as the twin structures with the thousands of spike protuberances resemble the pungent national fruit of Singapore, was already filled to the rim when we arrived. We wrestled our way through the crowd to our designated places right in the middle of the arena. We watched in silence as up front, near the podium, an area was cleared by security and a medical team took their places. 


Michelle was brought in on a special bed, hooked up to an intimidating amount of medical equipment, just five minutes before the concert started. Her face was projected briefly on two huge screens. She looked incredibly frail and vulnerable yet somehow she managed a faint smile and waved briefly at the camera as if she wanted to say thanks for having her here.


A surge of emotion went through the audience and her name started reverberating through the large hall. Not loud but rather like a thousand whispers converging into one, as if the joint human presence here knew exactly how to pay tribute to this sacred moment and this brave girl, hanging on to life.


Tame Impala opened with a subdued statement: “Good evening Singapore and a special welcome to Michelle. We in the band hope you will enjoy this concert tonight.”


The two large screens projected only the stage as the band performed the first three songs of their set. Gradually the crowd eased into the evening and seemed to forget about the special guest.


Then suddenly the musicians stopped playing and the lead singer gently made the crowd go quiet and said, facing the hospital bed: “Michelle, you told us that Let It Happen is your favorite song and we want to dedicate it to you tonight”.


It took a moment for the crowd to take this in.


The lyrics of the band’s signature song Let It Happen and its typical effervescent sound make it a spiritual, almost hallucinatory piece. Its meaning centers on accepting a personal transition in a world of chaos: It does not help to resist, it takes more energy to shut it all out than it does to let it happen.


In any non-life-or-death situation, that wisdom makes perfect sense. But projected onto Michelle’s predicament, this triggered a deep concern.


What exactly was the message here?  Let it happen as in do not resist and surrender to dying? Surely, this is not what the band meant? This whole thing was either completely inappropriate or exactly right.


A murmur went through the crowd as people speculated whether Michelle indeed wanted to give them a message here tonight. Or was this song just the personal favorite of a teenager enjoying a rare and special night out?


The song started and soon the crowd was overwhelmed by a massive wall of synth sound, filling the music hall with an exceptional cosmic ambiance and magical vocoder harmonies.


The screens now projected the face of Michelle who seemed to be crying softly with her eyes closed. She apparently had difficulty breathing which was painful to watch.


But then near the end of the song, she opened her eyes and her face lit up. She smiled softly and she seemed to radiate a sense of peace.


Whenever groups of people together experience a challenging situation and reach a higher emotional state, their collective awareness starts resonating at a higher frequency range.


Upon seeing Michelle smile, such vibration of increased consciousness rippled through the crowd.


People were confused and upset but most of all hopeful. They wanted so much to be reassured that this was a good thing, that Michelle was feeling the love and there was still time and a way to save her.


Surely she would not just vaporize like Ether into the open air, although there was no denying it felt like that could happen. It was the most tender of moments, and we all knew it.


Suddenly, the doctor next to her bed was seen taking Michelle’s pulse and shining a light into her pupils. He gave urgent instructions to his medical team and the bed was rushed out of sight. A couple of minutes later a helicopter was heard taking off and then it was shown on to the two screens, speeding away. The audience was in disarray. 


The cameras switched back to the band’s lead singer who spoke in a soft voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, we will pray for Michelle the only way we know how to.”


With that, an acoustic version of The Moment washed over the audience and people just stood there until the song was over. I think each of us prayed to his or her personal god, even those who did not at all believe. Especially those.


Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, I boarded the first riverboat taking off from Clarke Quay where Singapore River starts to cut through the heart of the city.


I took deep breaths of fresh morning air and felt alive. I also felt privileged and somehow wizened by the events of the evening before. I mostly wanted to be alone on the water to contemplate the meaning of what happened after Michelle was evacuated from the Esplanade concert theater.


Yes, Michelle did pass away during her helicopter transfer to the hospital. Her weak heart finally gave up in mid-air. There was absolutely nothing the doctors could do.


And after her family had said their goodbyes, Michelle’s vital organs were harvested because she carried a donor card.


Social media this morning showcased last night’s concert and Michelle’s presence there.


But most of all, they were all over the fact that five people during the night had gotten a new lease on life, one of them a seven-year-old Australian girl who played the violin and received one of Michelle’s lungs.


Yes, Michelle did surrender her last resistance but she did it on her own terms. The world will have known Michelle and that knowing will ripple onwards.



© 2017 Philip Muls


Author's Note

Philip Muls
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Featured Review

Phillip,
I have read chap.4 thru 7. Your style of writing this story works well. Addiction and recovery can be complex but the manner that you tell your story enables the reader to understand and keep up.
Your writing is tight yet with adequate descriptions. You give the reader solid background info on Peter's life to make sense on what is happening in his present life. You tie this all together well with the Dr. explaining how certain events may or may not matter to Peter's addiction.
Your dialogue flows well and keeps the story moving.
Anyone who reads your story will learn something about recovery and most certain about themselves. People in recovery will bounce many of your offered theories against their own experiences. You offer a lot of useful information.
I think your story is solid and well written. The strengths and fragility of our make-up always makes for interesting and debatable material. Your story puts faces and suitable scenarios into the equation. Well done.
With sober sincerity,
Richie b.

Posted 7 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

Very nice. The best way to honor the dead is to live well.

Posted 7 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Phillip,
I have read chap.4 thru 7. Your style of writing this story works well. Addiction and recovery can be complex but the manner that you tell your story enables the reader to understand and keep up.
Your writing is tight yet with adequate descriptions. You give the reader solid background info on Peter's life to make sense on what is happening in his present life. You tie this all together well with the Dr. explaining how certain events may or may not matter to Peter's addiction.
Your dialogue flows well and keeps the story moving.
Anyone who reads your story will learn something about recovery and most certain about themselves. People in recovery will bounce many of your offered theories against their own experiences. You offer a lot of useful information.
I think your story is solid and well written. The strengths and fragility of our make-up always makes for interesting and debatable material. Your story puts faces and suitable scenarios into the equation. Well done.
With sober sincerity,
Richie b.

Posted 7 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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Added on December 11, 2016
Last Updated on January 2, 2017
Tags: overflow, bloodline, continuity, antidote, ether, Singapore, donor


Author

Philip Muls
Philip Muls

Grimbergen, Belgium



About
Living in Europe, but travelling frequently in US and Asia. I love to combine what I experience during travel with observations and thoughts about the human condition. more..

Writing