Flaring up dialogues with Mother Earth?

The floodgates of the sky are open all night long. Under the insulation mats, the lawn makes smacking noises. The tent floor forms a thin layer between the small streams and rivulets flowing underneath. Due to the high humidity, the climate in the inner tent reminds me of the primeval mountain forests of New Guinea. Everything is clammy. Even our down sleeping bags lie like damp rags on our equally damp bodies. “This must be the worst August since the weather has been recorded,” I say glumly. “Hm,” Tanja replies curtly and I wonder how much longer we can withstand the psychological terror of the rain. Even though we have experienced a lot on our expeditions and travels, we never expected to drown so mercilessly here in the German midsummer. “It has to stop raining at some point,” I whisper. “Hm,” it answers at my side. “There can’t be that much water,” I add. “Hmm,” it mumbles, whereupon I fall silent again to listen to the drum roll of millions of drops. “Summer’s over,” one of the last campers said to me yesterday. “What do you mean?” I wanted to know. “There is no more summer. Autumn will continue just as it is now and then winter will come. I’m breaking off today and going home,” he said, dealing an unfair blow to my already battered psyche. Is billing an alternative? A thought runs through my head. Absolutely not. It answers me in the same breath. “But we could go on later and use the time to recover in a warmer country,” I say to myself. “And then what? You won’t want to give up before the trip really begins, will you?” I hear an inner voice clearly and distinctly. “What if the camper from yesterday is right? If it really stays as wet as before? If there is no more summer and autumn merges seamlessly with winter?” I reply. “Don’t let yourself be boxed in. You know that every weather will change again. That there are ups and downs. Right now you’re in a ridiculous emotional low. Nothing has happened. No one is hurt. No one is ill. You have enough to eat and good equipment. How do you expect to get as far as Siberia if you throw in the towel at the first, barely mentionable challenge? What’s wrong with you? Have you been sitting in a warm office for too long? Have you apparently let yourself go soft? You’re not starting to forget what Mother Earth and the deserts have taught you over the last few years, are you?” I hear it pounding down on me. “Yes, yes…, you’re right. I was just thinking about an alternative,” I apologize. “You are welcome to think about alternatives. You can also think about detour and detours, but it won’t help you to think about giving up or postponing. You know that.” “Yes,” I answer the voice inside me and ask myself with a little spark of thought whether the voice is my subconscious or whether Mother Earth is speaking up again? “Don’t think too much. You know who I am. Or are you beginning to doubt what was fact just a few months ago? Why do you suspect so much? Allow yourself. Let it flow,” I hear, happily surprised by these familiar statements. “You’re back? That’s fantastic! Where have you been all this time?” bubbles out of me. “We gave you a break. Gave you time to do the things you needed to do. If necessary, if you are open, we will contact you from time to time and comment on the situation,” I hear, happy to have found a treasure I thought was lost.

Attempt to explain the dialogues

During our 7000 kilometer walk through Australia, I regularly communicated with Mother Earth or the deserts. At first, I was completely amazed by this phenomenon, which I thought was great, and didn’t want to believe it was true. But the fundamentally positive, motivating conversations came more and more often, became a regular part of the weeks and months in the Australian outback and opened up completely new perspectives on myself, Mother Earth and the global connections of everything that exists. As soon as we left the deserts of Australia to settle back in Germany, even if it was only for a limited time, these conversations stopped. They are broken off. Although I concentrated, meditated, thought and tried everything to hear the familiar voice of the desert or Mother Earth again, she has not spoken to me since. There is no doubt that our time at home was characterized by countless hours of work. It was characterized by weekend and night work. We wanted to do everything in just a few months. Writing books, designing shows, building websites and much more. So I’m not surprised that there was no space left to even hear a whisper of Mother Earth. To be honest, I could barely smell the scent of the flowers in our garden and couldn’t feel the wind on my skin, let alone a drop of rain. So how was I supposed to communicate with Mother Earth if I wasn’t even able to perceive her simplest language? We have now been back in her lap for over four weeks. Even if there is no wilderness around us, Mother Earth is everywhere, even here in Germany. You just have to realize it, smell it, perceive it and listen to it. Through our bike trip I am forced to concentrate on her again, I am forced to perceive her fertile wetness, her wind, her warmth and cold and realize that she is still there, that she is still alive and shows me with a rough caress that there is more than success, shows, books, TV movies etc.. Slowly I begin to wake up from my delusion of work and immerse myself in her reality. I hope that the last two flickering conversations will not remain isolated cases. I hope and wish that I will be able to pick up where I left off in the Australian deserts. That I am allowed to exchange a few thoughts with her, Mother Earth.

I will be happy to record my and our experiences here in this diary. I will be happy to talk openly about my thoughts to other people about my innermost fears and feelings. And of course also about any dialogues with Mother Earth.

“Do you think we should carry on?” I ask Tanja after she has packed away our stove. “That’s for you to decide. If you want us to stay and if you think we should go, then we’ll go,” she replies in a good mood despite the weather. “I don’t know,” I reply doubtfully. “Listen to your gut.” “My gut is all wet and rainy. It’s not coming back,” I reply and look at the rain-soaked clouds from the shelter of the barn roof. After some back and forth, we decide to stay and see the day as a so-called relaxation day.

“Have you heard the news today?” a couple who have just arrived by bike asks us. “Nope, I haven’t read or heard any news for weeks. I don’t really want to burden myself with this constant negative crap,” I reply. “Oh, but you might want to know that Garmisch is cut off from the outside world. A terrible flood of mountain rivers is raging in the Allgäu. There is a disaster alert there. It is said that people have already died. Entire bridges and houses have been swept away by the flood. Mudslides have come down from the mountains and devastated villages. There is misery and suffering. It is expected that the Danube will soon bring another flood that is out of control,” we are shocked to hear.

We immediately grab our cameras and make our way down the hill to the Danube. We want to see if it has already burst its banks. In fact, it has risen alarmingly since yesterday. A mighty, increasingly swelling brown stream pushes through its no longer visible bed at a crazy flow rate. The campsite opposite has been cleared since yesterday and has completely disappeared. A voracious lake has spread where green meadows and paths were at home shortly before. Suddenly a fire engine drives past us. “Attention! Attention! The water level of the Danube has risen to 7 meters. It can be assumed that the Danube will reach a level of 8 meters again tonight, as it did during the flood disaster of 1999!”, warns the endangered residents on the loudspeaker announcement.

Some of them stand together in small groups and talk about the threatening situation. “I don’t think it will reach its peak. What do you think?” “I don’t think so either. They’ve been regulating the barrages better since the disaster in 1999. I think they didn’t open the barrage in Regensburg in time because of their folk festival. They didn’t want their festival to flood.” “I think so too. They were certainly partly responsible for Passau flooding.” “Could be. Every city cooks its own soup. They want to keep as much water as possible in front of their barrages. That means nothing other than energy when the water flows through the turbines again later.” “Yes, that’s right. The weirs should actually be regulated by a higher authority.” “Still, they’ve learned from the mistakes of 1999. It certainly won’t rise that far.” “Let’s wait and see,” I listen spellbound to a conversation.

In the meantime, some of the residents on the riverbank are erecting scaffolding. If the Danube really rises as announced, they will be able to enter their homes through a side or back entrance on the second floor. Tanja and I watch the hustle and bustle of people. They don’t have too much time left. They drive their cars out of the garage and take them to a higher safe place, away from the shore.

Thick tree trunks, plastic canisters and other flotsam flow past us. The river carries more and more garbage on its back. The atmosphere is strange, almost eerie. Sirens wail, come closer and disappear somewhere in the void. The first cellars are pumped out. Blue light flashes from the other bank. “Something’s happened,” a man of about fifty says to me. He gazes intently into the voracious waters of the constantly rising monster. “Are you afraid for your house?” I ask cautiously. “No, more about my mother’s house. But I’m confident. I’ve known the Danube for 50 years. It won’t be dangerous for us tonight.” “And if it is?” I want to know. “See those people over there? Those are my relatives. We’ve all come to clear out our mother’s house in time.” “Do they still need help?” asks Tanja anxiously. “No, thank you for asking. We have enough hands to get what my mother has to safety in a short time.”

The fire department is coming again. The loudspeaker booms over the few people present and the houses. As dusk falls, two rescue boats race down the river. They skillfully dodge the dangerous tree trunks. Shipping has been suspended since this morning. Only rescue boats and fire engines are allowed to navigate the increasingly voracious monster. A shiver runs down my spine. The power of water forces its way into my consciousness. The Danube has been shedding its peaceful, harmless appearance for hours. The narrow dams behind which the fragile-looking dwellings of the people duck look like toys against the increasing power of Europe’s second largest river. Heavy rain works the dark stream. Gusts of wind ruffle its surface and seem to conjure up the image of an inevitable catastrophe. We are glad we decided to stay. Here on the high campsite we are at least safe from the hungry floods.

We look forward to your comments!