I recently remembered a photo of a painting that I stored away for decades. It shows someone who has come a long way: his clothes worn, his shoes dirty. He holds out a single flower in the evening glow, his face a grimace of carefree joy. I remembered my mother telling me that she identified with the foolish-looking guy in that painting when I was a teenager. It made no sense to me then, but it stuck. Over time, I developed a soft spot for the fool in literature, religion, and in life. I hope to wander into my own grimace of joy in this incredulous world—a world that seems to be missing the point of each day, this wonder of existence, of connection, and of beauty.

Apparently, Hans Dieter, the painter of said fool, was not only a painter, musician, and poet; he also had to explain his actions during the Nazi era. Well, I thought, that serves as a good reminder. Wouldn’t we all be better off remembering what it is we should uphold as citizens of this beautiful planet before we throw the first stone at someone who probably got stuck in the rhetorics of a pub conversation (or the internet), belted out a few heartfelt romantic songs, looked away when it all became too much, and probably wished himself away at the end of it all?

I remembered how odd it seemed that my mother, who kept everything on track, declared occasionally that she would join a nunnery whenever we drove her crazy, and that she was particularly taken by the painting of a fool. How telling that her daughter spent years in a monastery that established itself on the lineage of a fool who once held out a flower in answer to what Buddha nature was to a smiling young man who, unlike many others, understood. The same daughter who is now painting 15 paintings on a guy she never met but who she connected with through music and books.

I had planned on painting you as a cosmic dancer with an elaborate lavender-coloured background, but whatever I projected in my mind and onto my wall fell flat; it didn't speak. And then, the foolish dreamer came to mind, and here you are on a golden yet dusty road through lavender fields that reach high into the sky. You hold a single twig of lavender and seem to delight in the journey. There is a barren little tree to your left with a pale bird, that does not cast a shadow, but watches on as you make your way to your kingdom in the sky.

Love,

Cordula