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Dear Readers,
Today, as I write this newsletter, the war in Ukraine has been lasting for 72 days. It is hard on me to put this into words. I am just reading a book of poetry by Serhij Zhadan, born in the district of Luhansk in 1974. What can poets do when there is war? Zhadan provides with his voice a place for the pain of grieving. That is a consolation. I love poetry, perhaps because it is art and therefore close to the unspeakable.
Recently, a colleague from the in-patient hospice came to me and asked for a conversation. She asked me how I was doing and I said that I was grateful for not having to remain in an inner helplessness. Many paths of support for the colleagues in Ukraine have opened up during the last weeks. First, she did not understand when I said, that to me it is as if doors were opened again and again in these terrible times. I told her a little bit about it and that is what I will do now. Not in detail but rather briefly. No pride but rather the joy of being able to do something.
Zhadan writes: “We have only the duty - to share the most important thing: our voice, our sensitivity.” Later, he continues: “May the next spring come. May our optimism be embarrassing to us. May the stalks of the reeds like aerials filter the most important thing from the air – rhythm and forgiveness.”
Forgiveness, I think, does not stand at the beginning. But perhaps it is too big a word.
I greet you sincerely in the middle of the incredible colours of spring
Yours
Andreas Stähli
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