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Signs scattered intermittently told about the park, the flower, and its benefactors, pointing out that the park was built by the country garden society and sponsored by the state. The signs said the flower was discovered and named after a famous professor from the main state university of agricultural and environmental research and that the flower was the only one of its kind; no other flowers had been found in the area.

At the end of the sign there was a long list naming benefactors with titles such as minister, professor, lord, etc. The little girl and her father hurried to the flower. Many people were surrounding the. Amy and her father found an empty space between two men with big cameras. The flowerbed was surrounded by a circle of thick chain hung on six stone pillars. The ground around the flower was cleared of all leaves, grass, and weeds, and the little flower stood alone in the middle, looking more beautiful than ever.

It was stretching straight up and had grown at least twice as tall as when they had last seen it. The five tiny leaves at the bottom of the stalk had not changed much in size, but their color had become a brighter green now.

The biggest change, though, was the flower petals. They had opened, and the previously bright pink color was changing to white. Amy and her father stood looking at the flower together with all the cameramen taking pictures. The cameramen were stretching, bending, and moving around to get the best picture. Amy's father was amazed at all the people coming to see the little flower and all the excitement it caused.

And as he stood there looking around at them all, he felt Amy pulling his jacket sleeve to get his attention. He looked with surprise down at his daughter, not knowing what to say.

He lifted his eyes from his daughter and looked at the flower, trying to figure out what on earth she meant. He did not notice Amy sneaking out from the circle of people. Amy quickly ran to the nearest spot where she could find some old leaves. She grabbed a small pile with both her hands. She ran under the chain to the flower standing there alone in the center of the flowerbed and lifted her arms, letting her load of dry leaves fall evenly over the flower to cover it.

Of course the people standing around started to shout at her. Amy kicked and screamed angrily. Everything happened so fast. As he did so, he got a sharp scolding from the guard for her behavior. People around agreed loudly with the guard.

But she was not hiding or ashamed for what she had done. Amy was certain she had done right, and she sought the comfort of her father protecting her, standing up for her in front of all those nasty people shouting at them. Soon, park officials from each direction jogged over and carefully picked away, leaf by leaf, the grass and weeds covering up the flower.

They cleared the area entirely, and the little flower started to rise again. Evidently it was not harmed in any way. After they had left the flowerbed, the spectators gathered around the flower again. It was not happily peeping back at him as he had seen before when Amy had lifted the leaf that had been giving it shelter.

Instead, he saw the flower stretching up and looking around for something to cover it up again. He felt like the little flower was trying to reach higher and higher, looking farther away for someone friendly to protect it. But all the flower could see were angry feet and legs surrounding it like a fence, preventing any contact at all.

Even though people were smiling, their smiles looked more like greedy leers to him. The heavy chain around the flowerbed that had previously appeared beautiful in its simplicity now seemed like a chain that would hold a slave to a post. The park guards were more like prison guards, poisoning the air with their very presence. But the flower was no criminal, and she as he now thought of it should never be exploited like this.

All her dignity had been stripped away. Her image was being sold bit by bit to. Everything he saw in the park now was made out of greed. Everyone he looked at was there only to gain profit from a simple flower.

They associated themselves with the flower to gain fame for themselves, letting the media portray them as caring people who protect the environment for everyone.

He felt both sorrow and shame for betraying the little flower, but there was no way he could undo the damage. As he left the park, still with his daughter in his arms, he felt relieved, like he could breathe again. Amy hadn't said anything since the park guard had handed her over to him.

She could feel that her father was upset in a way that was new to her. But she also could tell that he wasn't upset at her, so she continued to rest safely in his arms. After a while, they started chatting quietly to cheer each other up.

When they reached home, Amy was the same happy girl she had been just an hour before, jumping along with her father and asking questions. Once inside the front door, Amy immediately ran to tell her mother what had happened. He could also hear his daughter telling the story her way, making him once again understand how right she had been.

He didn't want to disturb them, so he sat down in the living room, sadly looking out through the window but seeing nothing.

Shortly, his wife approached him with a puzzled look on her face, asking him to verify what their daughter just had been telling her. He smiled as he lifted her up to sit with him. There was something she couldn't put her finger on, but. It had been a full day. With Amy safely asleep in her bedroom, he told his wife the story again from his point of view, leaving out only how badly it had affected him.

At this moment he wasn't sure himself how his feelings had changed, and he had to give it some thought in private, some time to let it sink in. The next day was Saturday, and Amy and her family seemed to be as happy as they were before. After waking her father and helping him prepare breakfast, they discussed what to do that day. In spite of what had happened the day before, Amy wanted to go up in the forest to see the flower again, but they both agreed not to go into the park.

Neither of them wanted another confrontation. This time they had their breakfast at home and then they walked up the road into the forest, avoiding the main gate. They wandered around a bit, and from one spot outside the park fence they could see the flower there in the flowerbed surrounded by the chain. They stood there for a while looking at it without saying much. Two weeks passed, with Amy and her father visiting the flower almost every day.

Sitting outside the park fence they could watch the flower grow in height, trying so hard to look as beautiful as possible, attempting to attract someone who would cover it up and return its dignity. Then early one sunny Sunday morning, as Amy and her father were sitting outside the park fence watching the flower continue to grow before their eyes, it slowly started to bend down, seemingly in a gesture of sadness.

Its petals fell off, one by one, like tears, and its leaves sunk farther and farther towards the ground. When the little flower had no petals left, its stalk slowly sank onto the dark, bare earth. With what seemed like a last, slow sigh of. Lying there naked on open soil and hurt deep down to the root of its soul, the little flower never rose again.

Its life was over within a half hour, but for Amy and her father time stood still. It was like they were each holding a deep breath that lasted through the whole event. It was Amy who started their conversation. As they walked, they reminisced about sitting there on the slope having breakfast, playing hide and seek with the flower and the leaf over it.

Their normally good moods returned, and after a while Amy was again that same happy little girl as always. When she talked about the flower, it was with the joy of having had the. Over the next few days Amy and her father continued to walk up the road to the forest, talking about the little flower and remembering their joyful moments there as they enjoyed their weekend mornings together.

But as days and weeks passed with the flower gone, the park grew deserted. Now all the park guards had left and the two small houses near the gate had been pulled away. All that was left was a ripped-up field, broken fences, and a parking lot starting to fill with litter.

The stately signs with the names of benefactors had quickly been removed and no one but Amy and her father talked about or even mentioned the little flower again. As children grow and take on new interests, their memories fade. But for Amy this little incident with the flower did not.

As time went by, Amy and her father nursed the memory and kept it close to their hearts. And through their shared happiness the little flower was given a place to rest in peace. If you engage with this site Earth constellation activities, this story most likely will change in its meaning while doing so. Nothing is simple in life, same as with this story. But what is it that makes life so damn complicated?

Well…, what do you think…? The illustration was originally meant as a cover for another poem that I had written, but the image was so different in its approach and I felt some other words wanting to come out with it. In a bigger picture, the meaning of these three stanzas put together, has everything to say about life at its core, far out and deep down to the tip of its roots.

Where Horizons Meet Did life happen by chance or was it somehow planned, just as birth can be? These three poems, which from the beginning was one Where Horizons Meet , creates an emotional life cycle of our very being. That afar place is both now and eternity at the same time and is what made us happen. We feel life like meeting with ourselves, you and me. Like drops joyfully playing at the wave tops, we aim high.

When the sun lifts us higher we can even touch the sky. On the ground you travel with time through fairy forests, land and dreams. As a child that first drop will feed you, it makes you grow fast as a weed. Whatever flower you will be, you are water at heart like the very first seed. Even if an ocean appears to be the same water, dark, vast and deep. Our past may haunt us, making us afraid of the dark. The child within will guide us to where we need to go.

Where horizons meet is where the past and future merge. Looking back you see the future as from the other side. Trust the child within you and you will never need to hide. If our time starts to shift and circle, gets lost, or fades away, We must hold on to time and bring with us what we need to stay.

The ground you have walked, stays safe and happy through time. If you feed life for your future, even mountains can be climbed. The child within should never be abandoned or left to suffer alone. The End That home the poem ends with is not just a house, apartment or a property something. My home, what is it like?

What the poem also tell us about, is that we all carry that home feeling within us. These three poems creates an emotional life cycle of our very being. The King and the Boy. Their upright sincerity and straightness in all their personality and all what they do and say, is a guideline to me and something that we adults should cherish and learn from. Their truth is different from what we as adults see as true and right.

We should never deny our children their truth, because in the end of it all, it will be them guiding us home. So to all you children, this tale is for you! Regarding Earth constellations, this tale has a lot to do with that and everything, and contains several underlying layers, which I have added as extensive insights following the tale.

However and whatever layers, I hope that you will find the tale worthwhile reading as is. The King and the Boy O nce upon a time there was a kingdom where everyone was happy. Everything was in perfect balance in this peaceful place and no one ever asked any questions.

Then one day it happened: A little boy became mightily unhappy. The little boy was out shopping and he wanted his mother to buy him a dress instead of trousers and a shirt. When the little boy asked his mother about the dress, she kindly looked down at him and, in a soft friendly tone, she explained no. But no one she asked knew the answer either. The only advice she got was to go to the king who was regarded as a very wise man. The king now realized that he had a bigger problem to deal with than he first thought.

He thought that by doing this he would make clear to all of his people what gender they each belonged to and consistently what was expected from them.

No more questions would be asked, and everyone would go back to peace and happiness again. As the king started to define what he thought are gender differences amongst his people, he used small pieces of wood to show what he imagined in both genders for character and looks. He shaped the pieces so they easily could remind him of what he considered to be male or female characteristics, and he made it possible for the wooden pieces to fit together to make an image of a person, either male or female.

When the king finished he had a lot of wooden pieces and he felt very satisfied with himself. But before he could make use of them, he had to see if these pieces worked as he had planned. So in secret he tried to label the people of his kingdom, male or female, by using his wooden pieces. First he tried with a gardener he knew well, a big strong man. The pattern the wooden pieces showed was a mess, and the king had to admit that to himself.

So the king tried once again with another person, a woman he also knew very well. But the same thing happened. The king became puzzled. But still wise as he was, he asked for the little boy who had started this confusion.

The king spread out all the. The king then asked the little boy to select those pieces he thought fitted him most. The little boy seemed to like this game, easily selecting his pieces and putting them all together quickly. All pieces fitted exactly to create a full person.

However, there was this one odd piece that the king noticed because it showed a vagina. The king gently asked the little boy why he had chosen that piece and not the piece showing a penis. The king was forced to conclude that the little boy knew exactly what gender he belonged to and, as the king saw it now, the little boy was right.

It was just that one wooden piece that was out of place. The kindly king looked at the little boy with concern, since if he was able to spot this error so easily, so would everyone else in his kingdom. After a long while the king suddenly smiled back at the boy. With a small tingling bell he called for his royal magician. When the magician silently emerged before him, the king told him to fix the problem so that the last wooden piece would fit.

The magician looked at the wooden image the little boy had created of himself and scratched his head, puzzled. The former unhappy little boy, now a happy little girl, finally was able to accompany her mother and buy that dress she so eagerly wanted. And the king now understood that neither he nor anyone else could tell the true gender of another person, but anyone using his wooden pieces could reveal the proper answer to him.

Each person alone knew by heart how to put. And he used it wisely, so everyone in his kingdom lived happily ever after. The End …but perhaps not after all. These entries can each be visualized on their own in Earth constellation workshops and be referred to in both lectures and seminar, but they can also be approached one following the other, in order to get the complete picture of what this tale is telling in-between the lines.

I the author, hope through these pages have brought you something to talk and discuss about, rather than me telling you. Best regards, Li Sam. Strange is that we refer gender as opposites, almost as black and white, when in fact men and women can vary so much over the border in their appearance and still be and identify as just men and women. It becomes even stranger when some people identify themselves as both genders.

Some others identify as a third, fourth, fifth gender and so on and some no gender at all. So what is it that decides gender, what does it do and looks like? There are children born so call intersexual, which means their bodies developed both genders, both physically and medically.

How do they know their gender? What makes a person? We can either be a mother, a boy or even a king, but what is it that makes them that their person, besides their assigned labels? The personality of a mother, how does that work? And what about the King?

Is that personality a function or a real person? As we grow up, somewhere along that line we miss the point about being a person. The children knows who they are, their personality is already there at birth and without having been taught about labels or how to behave. How does their personality change? Either I have got my gender and personality assigned for me, or I am who I am.

But where do I fit in? Where do I find me in life? Is it me in charge and is it just about behavior and looks? No of course not! We do change and vary our looks and behavior depending on fashion and occasion and we do so to either to please family, people we meet or ourselves. It all comes down to sharing and we share our lives differently with different people. But how do we reach our conclusions, what are all those assumptions based on?

A simple answer would be that we base all our conclusions on our own lives and living, which means that nothing else is really relevant, other than in relation to ourselves. To perceive someone different than we assume a person to be is a serious challenge affecting all we are. And trusting a person is difficult, as it to some degree means that we give up on ourselves and our own judgments, for instance, how to perceive a person.

But strange is that growth in integrity can turn these kinds of unsecure feelings around. Like if you just believe a person, you give up integrity. Meaning that belief and trust rely on integrity, it emerge the other way around. In this tale you could say that the little boy both challenged and crossed all whatever borders and limits there was, but not quite. All it took for the King, was to admit his ignorance in order to make the little boy inclusive.

So we create ourselves borders, like castell walls protect a Kingdome, to keep that whatever we fear out. To keep us safe we assign guards to protect our values and we trust them like no questions asked, so that we happily can carry on with our lives without being bothered.

No one minded as this was what the King was there for, keeping everyone safe and unknowingly happy. But this King was different as he looked for the better. His integrity were strong and wide enough to expand his borders and that way he made his Kingdome and everyone in it grow.

Where do I find you? Are you inside or outside any of this tales borders, or any other borders set up? If you are inside, how tight are those borders and how many of the same you are there? If you are outside, will we ever meet? That outside you, that little girl, how do I know I would have liked to meet either you or her? There are some things about life and that is all we made ourselves miss. And if that we missed is happiness, what then? You might be happy without having met me, but would I?

The King here was right in so many senses whatever borders. You can always override them all by trusting life as appears. As we grow older and hopefully wiser, too, we may think that this awareness of ourselves has increased like a lot.

But really, has it? Are those pieces really me or are they just a mish mash of what family, friends and people in general, and me  wants me to be?

If you were to fit your life puzzle upside down, the soul image of you would appear face down. Then, if you dare to turn that image, do you think it would match who you think you are? There are reasons for everything and this small tale is no exception. That girl emerging is very real and in fact very much more so than the boy ever was in the first place.

But it takes some efforts to switch and perceive that little girl after first having perceived her as a boy. The ability to recognize what may prevent you from turning from perceiving that boy image to perceiving the girl, is very much the same key that can be used to unlock most relation problems, experiences which otherwise could be too hard to understand.

A reflection of life, -Li. This tale is for the reader to understand their way exclusively and regardless whatever extensive insights there might be. Instead, if a tale challenge you by raising too many and perhaps uncomfortable questions, you should trust your soul feelings more than anything and anyone else. The true soul you are, that child within you, will guide you right.

The King and the Boy This fairytale in all its simplicity tells about life and us humans in a both specific and general way, where identity and our true selves—who we are—turn into question.

But this is a one-person dedication only. In the process of changing sex, your friends easily disappear. But this manuscript has made us friends. So this is for you Shelly. Marianne sends her love too. And even though transsexualism occurs worldwide, regardless of sex, race, religion, society, and upbringing, we work hard to deny its existence. What we try to deny, hide, and even kill is an inherent part of nature and very much a part of ourselves as human beings. Gender is basic to everything we are.

Why deny the beauty of life, the persons we are? Yours sincerely,     Li Sam. Peter and Sara, a middle-aged, loving, Swedish couple, had found a place, a spot on Earth, where life was different, as if life meant something else to them here. Their happiness and relationship had grown stronger during all their years together, but, as on any paradise island, life changes as you follow the phases of nature and let it take control. This time nature was going to take Peter and Sara on a journey beyond their known beliefs and imagination, indeed beyond all possible understanding.

Peter and Sara had been on these islands, the Seychelles, the year before. On this particular small island called La Digue they had found a. On this trip, before reaching their small paradise island they had planned to stay a couple of days at the main island Mahé and visit places they had enjoyed on their previous visit traveling around the Seychelles archipelago.

The airplane landed on Mahé in the middle of the night, and as Peter and Sara stepped out in the pitch dark, the warm, humid air surrounded them. The airport was just big enough for a jumbo jet, and only a small mobile platform with metal steps led Peter and Sara directly down to the ground not far from the arrival building.

It was a warm, pleasant night, but it was windy. And what was that smell? Peter and Sara recognized the smell of paradise from last year, but this time there was something else the wind was carrying. They were met at the airport by a woman working for a tourist company who would take them to a small resort called Sunset Villas near Beau Vallon Beach, one of the best beaches on Mahé Island.

Sara was fairly slim too, and of medium height; she took the seat behind the woman driving. As the small car had passed the only real town, Victoria, and climbed over a passage to the north side of the island, noise from the outside vanished. As they came downhill and closer to the beach the sound of waves started mingling with the sound of the car engine.

The sound of the waves was powerful, and the already small car felt even smaller. There was not much light outside the airport. As the woman with the resort turned off the car engine, the sound of heavy waves rolling ashore was roaring. Peter and Sara unloaded their bags while the driver walked to a small house to get their key. When she returned, she told them where to go and gave them the key and a small torch, as there were no lights along the path leading up to their cottage.

The cottage itself was perched on a rather steep slope, and the stairs to it seemed to lead up into darkness. There were no lights coming from within or from any of the other cottages on the slope, so Peter and Sara had to rely on the torch.

It was a strange feeling, climbing the stairs, as the sound of the car driving away faded into the night. The darkness amplified the sound of the waves beneath them as Peter and Sara climbed the stairs, and somewhere in the middle they stopped together to listen. They could remember the slow peaceful cycle each wave continues as it washes up on shore, like an.

But now, was that sound all they heard? It seemed as if the waves were trying to climb up to them, to grab hold of their feet, and by force take them out to sea. Sara suddenly lost her balance and Peter had to hold her by the hand as they completed the climb to their cottage.

The cottage was nicely prepared for them, and they were tired from traveling, so Peter and Sara tucked themselves in bed while listening to the sound of the waves filling each corner of their bedroom.

The next morning came soon as the sun rose from the sea, and Peter was quick out on to the cottage veranda to have a look over the beach and the waves that had been so present for them all night long. Sara got up too and followed him out. It was a beautiful morning, and the wind had calmed down a bit. It was as if the sun had broken the spell cast by the night, the spell that feeds our deepest fears and most vivid imaginings. Peter looked toward the horizon, smiling.

The waves that were rolling in on the beach were not as big as he had felt them to be in the dark, but they were bigger than he ever had seen on this beach before. Peter had learned body surfing the year before and he loved to play around in the water, waiting for the right wave to carry him back up on the beach.

Sara was not that enthusiastic; in fact she was afraid. It was not the water itself that scared her, but when Sara felt the power of a wave grabbing hold of her legs she panicked. Even if the surf was mild, she often felt vertigo when the smallest bit of water reached up to touch her where she stood.

For Peter this was holiday, but he of course had to bring his laptop, mobile phone, and other things that would keep him busy. Because he was self- employed, a contractor in electrical engineering for the last twenty years, he never really relaxed; he never did nothing. In some ways Peter was different from other men. Peter turned out to be a very gentle, caring person, and there was even something shy about him, but without him backing off from situations or putting himself in the shadow of others.

Sara was an independent person, and with Peter she felt encouraged to be the person she truly was. Peter never tried to control her as many other men had tried to do in her earlier relationships. If Peter was different, Sara was not, apart from choosing Peter as her life partner, of course. Sara was pretty by normal Swedish standards, with dark brown hair, grey-blue eyes, and medium height and weight.

In fact, everything about Sara could be said to be normal. Especially sexually, Peter had always had this problem with women: Peter never felt that pressure from Sara, and whatever happened between them sexually always came naturally from a lovely day together. They both had aged beautifully together and had maintained their relationship without any strings attached; they just enjoyed being together, and sexually Sara felt more. The confidence Peter projected in public may not follow him in bed, but Peter was careful to take his time, and to Sara he felt safe.

Now they were out on their own again, this time planning what they were going to eat on this slightly familiar, still exciting island. Peter was responsible for cooking, and he had made up his mind that on the menu was fish and whatever they could find locally. So one of the first things Peter and Sara did, after signing for a small rental car provided by the resort, was to drive to the fish market in Victoria to explore.

Besides, they had nothing in the fridge so they had to shop before they could have breakfast. Exploring this part of Mahé Island even on empty stomachs was fun, and Peter and Sara enjoyed every minute of it. After a first tour around the market it became clear: There were a lot of different types of fish displayed that Peter had never seen before.

Sara liked these cooking adventures and she very much took part in whatever he did, or at least, she tried to do. He enjoyed using cookbooks more as a source of ideas, not as rule books to be followed word for word. Methods of cooking were also something he enjoyed investigating—once he had read that in the Stone Age people cooked food in holes they dug in the ground, so of course Peter had to try that. He had dug a hole in their garden and covered the bottom and sides with stones, and then he filled the hole with logs he had chopped to fit, and he lit it all on fire.

When the fire had burned out it left a red-hot charcoal bed in the bottom of the hole. Peter had selected a pork loin about two pounds that he wrapped in. Then he found a big flat stone to cover the hole, and he sealed the hole with dirt.

After one hour a thin smoke pillar smelling of pork rose from the ground, and Sara told Peter to check it. After two hours the smoke had increased and the smell of burnt pork permeated the entire area. Well, Peter just had to go pick out his now over- cooked, black piece of meat. But Peter did learn, and after several stubborn tries he got it right and most often very right, surprising even Sara. That morning at the market they selected a big fish, much too big for just the two of them, without knowing what it was.

So they bought this strange-looking fish, some vegetables, fruit, and other groceries: And then, well, what to drink? They bought some bottled water, but they had no intention of drinking water with their exotic meal, whatever it was going to be. For Peter and Sara there were never enough occasions to celebrate in a year, and anyway, with whom would they celebrate? They often celebrated being together, and as Peter was leaking ideas all the time, his ideas of celebrating something were one of his specialties.

These ideas Sara never moaned about. They drove back to their cottage and unloaded everything on a kitchen table in the back of a big room. The front room had a beautiful view out over the ocean, with a few palm trees between them and their view of the whole bay and the beach below.

Alongside the big room serving as both kitchen and living room was the bedroom, and in the back of the bedroom there was a door to the bathroom. Outside was a big veranda with a roof protecting it from the sun. When Peter and Sara had sorted out all the new groceries and put them away, they finished unpacking from their very late arrival last night. As they unpacked their light bags, they prepared a breakfast of tea, toast with butter and marmalade, some sort of cheese that looked familiar, juice, and of course fruit.

Local fruit here was just delicious, and it also turned out that the trees on the resort bore fruit. A quiet young girl from the staff gladly provided fresh papaya, some sort of grapefruit, melon, and some other fruits Peter and Sara had never seen before but loved.

After an exotic yet comforting breakfast Peter and Sara cleared the table, putting everything back in its place again, and then they prepared for their first real island excursion in their new rented car.

The Seychelles Islands have left- hand traffic, an inheritance from the British who had left the islands to its natives not long ago. She knew though from last year that most roads were very narrow, and the hill and mountain roads could be steep.

In fact Mahé Island was a big granite mountain rock sticking over three-thousand feet straight up from the surface in the middle of the Indian Ocean, with at least a three-hour flight in any direction before anything else could be seen that was not water. The space to live on was limited, and houses often were climbing up what seemed to be impossibly steep slopes. Peter slowed in the car just after they had left the resort. The road was curvy and went close to the shore, with just a tiny little piece of beach between it and the ocean.

As the road turned inland, he increased his speed a bit. At the other side of the hill Peter and Sara had to trust the brakes. To Sara uphill was okay, but downhill on these curvy roads was something else. Peter liked to tease, and he tried to show off as if there was nothing to it, but even so he realized this was no game. Many cars they met drove full speed and passed closely. Other cars coming up from behind tried to pass and some even tried to pass in curves with no view in front of them at all.

Peter often turned aside, letting other cars pass safely instead of challenging fate. So they drove around the coastline, stopping here and there to visit places they knew from last year. As they reached the southwest end of the island they found an amazing beach, Anse Intendance, that stretched wide before them.

It was fully open to the west, with no protecting reefs in front, so the ocean had full access to the beach and showed its entire strength. Even though the wind had calmed down a lot, the ocean had not. There was no way to get in to swim, Peter knew that, but he just had to tease Sara for a start by walking out to the edge of the water.

He stood there watching the waves, letting the remaining water of a big wave wash up his legs. The returning water was strong and the water wall that was rising up from the ocean was enormous. Sara was scared and called for Peter constantly as he stood at the edge of the ocean. In some spots on their walk the water reached high up on the beach so that even Sara got wet. One of these times Sara felt something burning on her instep. A tiny thread-like thing was attached to her skin, and only after several attempts did she manage to get it off.

But it left a red, itchy, burning mark, both on her foot and her fingers, proving that an encounter with something unknown had taken place despite her care.

They arrived safe and in a good mood, so now it was cooking that mattered. Peter enjoyed this part of the day most: Peter had always liked fishing since he was a little kid. There had been a couple of small lakes where he lived, and he had enjoyed cycling out there with his simple fishing gear—a rod, line, cork, and hook—just to be by himself.

This fishing interest had followed him as he grew older, and when he married for the first time and had children before he met Sara he moved out from the town of Stockholm with his family to be near the coast, where he could go fishing whenever he wanted. Peter had enjoyed fixing dinner for his family when he caught enough fish for a meal.

His wife Ann had been much older than him and had brought two of her own children into the marriage, both teenagers. Just a couple of months after Peter and his family had moved out to the coast, his daughter was born, and as soon as she got old enough she too complained about his strange cooking.

He had made himself a long line with loops every ten feet, and on each loop there was a short line with a hook attached. On each hook was a small piece of fish as bait. The line was about feet long, and the evening before Peter had placed the line at the bottom of the sea with two small weights on each end, and with two other lines with empty plastic bottles attached as floating devices marking out the location.

Now was the time to take it all up. The sea was rather deep there so it took a while before Peter could feel some resistance from below. There was just this one eel but it had made a mess of all the line and all the hooks—it was all like a. It was well hooked but it was definitely not still.

The eel was heavy, and putting it in the plastic bag he had brought with him was not easy. He managed to get the tail in the bag and tried to lower the rest of the eel in, but the tail quickly was up again and out of the bag.

There was no way he could hold the eel no matter how hard he squeezed. So with that in mind, Peter held the eel high using the line, and with his other hand he placed the plastic bag with the opening right under the eel. The eel immediately reacted, working itself backwards into the bag. Peter then was quick to knot the bag closed. Now finally the eel was trapped. It was a very proud father who came home with his catch that morning, showing the moving bag to his wife and later the children.

Still though he was thinking, everything was good and well so far, but how was he going to kill it, and what kind of dish can you make with an eel? Out came the headless, squirming eel leaking blood all over the kitchen, even slipperier than before.

Dinner that evening was definitely not going to be eel: However, Peter did learn, and later there were many eel dinners. Sara was very happy that this new fish they had bought was dead for sure, no surprise there.

As Peter finished telling his story they had entered their cottage, and he had opened a bottle of their very special German wine. They now were sitting on the veranda chatting, sipping the wine, and looking out over the ocean.

After a while relaxing and getting in the mood for cooking, it was time. Peter had become quite skilled at preparing fish, so this new one was no problem for him. While Sara prepared the fruit and vegetables and laid the table, he cut out two very nice- looking filets and salted them, then melted butter in a frying pan and added a curry he had discovered last year at the market.

First he fried finely chopped onions in the curried butter and took the onion out of the pan, and then he fried the fish filets. When the fish started to turn light brown, Peter took it out of the pan too and added thick full cream and the chopped, sautéed onion back again to make a thick tasty. Peter and Sara had a wonderful evening, and the wine was just perfect. The night air had gone pitch dark, with only a couple of lights shimmering below their veranda, creating shadows from trees and bushes slowly swaying in the now soft, calm breeze coming in from the sea.

The temperature was exactly right, and Peter and Sara stayed up as long as they could, enjoying the scenery. A light touch and a kiss conveyed their feelings this night just like during their other nights together. The love Peter and Sara shared had grown during their almost twenty years together as a couple. They had not married; it never had been an issue for them. They were a pair because they enjoyed and loved each other.

Marriage to her became a mere institution, with a lot of things she had to do to please her husband and family, but nothing for herself. Sara had lived by herself for three years before she met Peter. Life for Peter during that time had been hard: It all started when his wife got the message about her breast cancer, and only days later she lost an entire breast to surgery. From the beginning her condition was declared minor, with the surgery being routine, and the doctors told them not to worry.

But watching his beloved Ann die during the following year made something die within Peter. The concepts of faith and trust in people, believing that people help each other in times of difficulty, all became a dark ugly lie for him. What was there to talk. Can you really invite a person who just lost his wife to a party where everyone else has a partner? People may have meant well, but most times their half-hearted attempts to reach out to Peter only hurt him further. Am I supposed to neglect my children and shove them aside for some stupid beers?

And as a consequence he became an odd person in the neighborhood, and especially the men started to avoid him from that day on. As it turned out, these two women provided the only decent adult contact Peter experienced for years after his wife died, until Sara came along. Peter and his father had never gotten along, so as an adult, his only.

So with no support, Peter had to manage on his own. This, however was a long time ago, and, as people like to say, time heals every wound. Just sitting there smelling the air, hearing the waves down below,.

As they started to prepare for bed they were treated to a memory from last year: It was catching flies that were attracted by the light and the white walls and roof in the bedroom. They let the contended lizard carry out his work catching flies in silence. Peter and Sara snuggled close in bed. Even so it took some time before they fell asleep. The slow roaring pace of the waves filled the night, and Peter and Sara fell asleep, holding each other by the hand as so often before.

They spent most of their time on a small beach that was well protected from any surf, and they drove around in their rented car visiting favorite places and sites that were new to them. The evenings they spent on their cottage veranda celebrating a different exotic fish dish each night. When the time came to continue their holiday on La Digue Island, Peter and Sara packed their few things and drove to the airport. They left their rented car there and checked in to fly out by helicopter to their little paradise island.

Their flight was only half an hour, but it was a memorable trip. As they lifted from the airport and climbed in the air, they could see their destination far out surrounded by water. They also could see other islands forming a small and very beautiful archipelago near the airport. The flight over the sea was spectacular enough,. The pilot kindly took them on a small sightseeing detour including flying in low from the east over the sea and one of the most spectacular beaches you could ever imagine.

This was Grand Anse, the beach Peter and Sara had dreamed of when booking this holiday trip. They flew close over the tree tops, following the small road to the beach from the village on the other side of the island, where they landed at the end of a small open field. The airport, or whatever it was, had a shelter for a maximum of two persons if they left their luggage outside and a pole with a sign indicating that this was indeed an airport. It was grassy all over, and someone had tied a cow to the pole, probably to keep the grass short.

The few cars on this island were mainly for transporting tourists with luggage, so Sara and Peter got in one waiting for their arrival. The village on the west side of the island was small, as was everything else in this unique little microcosm.

It had spread on the only flat area available; otherwise the island was hilly, with one big hill in the middle and a smaller one in the south ending steeply in the ocean. The Mer Gardens resort was placed right in the middle of the village, but the village beach was still close, only five-hundred feet away. Grand Anse beach was a little more than a mile away and you could either walk or cycle there. Mer Gardens had only three cottages and a small reception building.

Right after they had checked in and been shown around, they quickly unpacked, grabbed their bathing suits, towels, and sunscreen, and then cycled to the Grand Anse beach they just.

The small road they took passed between the two major island hills. After a short and pleasant ride, Peter and Sara left their bicycles behind a sand dune at the end of the road and walked the few steps to the beach. The beach stretched a third of a mile wide, with the only building being a small palm-leaf restaurant that offered soft drinks, beer, and lunch at the end of the road where Peter and Sara had left their bicycles.

There were seldom more than thirty people at this beach at a time, so they really could feel they had the beach to themselves. A big tree, near the north end where people entered the beach, offered protection from the sun with its widespread branches, so most people spread their blankets there in its shade. This popular spot had the biggest waves rolling in close to the shore. Peter and Sara had found another place, about three-hundred feet farther south towards the middle of the beach, where they could get some shade from a branch of a big tree in the background.

Smaller waves broke on the sandy shoals there, stretching out a bit from the. Peter liked this spot best, as he had learned how to body surf here and the waves rolling in could carry him a long way up on the shore if he got it right.

The wind they felt at the airport had churned up bigger waves than they had ever experienced on this beach, up to ten feet high and perhaps more than sixty feet apart. But here on this side of the island, sheltered from the wind, the waves broke in a more controlled manner, but the amount of water each wave carried and its power were both impressive and scary.

It was high noon when Peter and Sara spread their towels in the shade of the big branch stretching out from behind them. Behind the breaking waves the water seemed calm, and although swimming was perhaps not the right word for it, swimmers were out there, moving up and down like corks.

The only problem was getting out there and back. Peter and Sara watched the people out there playing among. People who knew how to handle themselves, on the other hand, were able to get past the waves and back to shore with style. After watching for a while Peter just had to go in. It took Peter a while to adapt to these new conditions, but soon he managed to ride on some big waves all the way up on shore, filling his swimming trunks with sand in the process.

Sara stood most of the time with water no higher up than her knees, trying to figure out how to get in while avoiding the waves. They looked rather harmless a bit farther out, but as they came closer in they rose up as a wall of water and collapsed not far in front of her. The amount of water washing up on the shore and back again had enough power to tip her, even if it only was knee-high. Sara experienced that a couple times, with the same result as Peter: After that she retreated to their place in the shade.

Another couple, maybe twenty-five to thirty. The couple brought with them a baby not more than six months old, and they sought shade from the same tree branch where Peter and Sara had spread their blankets. There was plenty of room for them. The woman was very much like Sara, afraid of the waves. Every now and then, after tucking her sleeping baby in some white towels, she went down to the water front, but not farther out than up to her knees too.

Very quickly she experienced the same as Sara—a big wave washed up on shore and made her fall, and when all the water returned, it dragged her out quite a bit before she was able to stand up again. It was obvious that she got scared, and she immediately walked back to her blanket. In spite of several tries and the encouragement of. Throughout the afternoon Peter tried a couple of times to help Sara by telling her where to stand to let a wave pass and when it was safe to get in, but Sara got scared every time a wave got close and did the opposite of what Peter had told her, so she frequently fell in and was washed up on shore.

The amount of sand filling her swimsuit on each of those trips was uncomfortable, and there was nowhere to shower. Peter and Sara were the first to leave the beach, but before they cycled back to the village they just had to have lunch at that palm-leaf restaurant behind the beach.

As they came over the sand dune, they could smell it: Of course it had to be fish, but it smelled wonderful even if it was predictable.

As they stepped under the palm-leaf roof the smell became more intense, so it was going to be grilled fish for lunch. The floor of the restaurant was sand, and there was a bamboo wall in the back; behind was the kitchen and in. In a corner next to the wall, open for everyone to see, was an oil barrel cut lengthwise, set on scrap metal poles with the open side up.

On this crude iron grill was a very big fish, nearly the size of the barrel, suspended over a glowing charcoal bed. Many lunch guests now began to gather inside the restaurant. The tables were very simple, just planks on poles, with cut logs as chairs around them.

A small ring of people interested in what was going on were gathering around the cook, and he willingly explained for everyone what kind of fish it was and exactly what the lunch options would be. Peter loved this and Sara did too. They quickly choose a place to sit, and then Peter just had to go have a look at the fish.

It was a red snapper, the cook said, and it was huge. To cook the fish was really simple; it had just been set there, nearly whole. The cook showed Peter how he had done it—his only nod to gutting was having cut the gills off.

Peter had grilled fish the same way back home even though every cookbook he had read said to fully gut fish. Peter was quickly back to Sara, who was holding their places, and with a broad smile he told her that he had been right all the time about cooking fish.

Sara smiled back at Peter and went to see for herself. It was just that Sara followed cookbook recipes and Peter did not, so who was right? There was no winner in this game, but both of them enjoyed debating about what might work or not.

Just as the cook at the palm-leaf restaurant gave a perfunctory nod to regular cooking by cutting the gills off the fish, the restaurant itself gave a nod to regular dining with one wire for electricity and one pipe with fresh water, plus two big refrigerators with cold beer, some wine, and various soft drinks. Peter and Sara ordered a beer each, and after sipping for a while, chatting, and digging their toes in the sand, the. People lined up at the barrel grill to eagerly watch the cook fold away the skin from the fish and carefully pick out a piece for each guest on a platter.

Another girl assisted the guests with their choices of sides, rice and fruit, and there was a lot to choose from. Lunch was the same price whatever you choose so you could have any mix you wanted. Both Peter and Sara loved to try out new things so they really felt like they were in heaven now. They sat eating and chatting at the palm-leaf restaurant for almost two hours, enjoying a mix of fruit for desert as well as coffee.

In a place like this there was no dress code, so people came and went as they were in their swimsuits or whatever they had on. There was a joyful atmosphere all around, and Peter and Sara left in a very good mood, picking up their bicycles and cycling back to the village again, happily discussing what to do next along the way. So it was a happy Peter cooking dinner this evening, and Sara shared in his excitement.

Their dinner was perfect, as it had been each evening on Mahé Island, and they still had a bottle of wine saved for the occasion. Denn kaum werden die täter festgenommen, sind sie auch schon wieder auf freiem fuß bordell in flensburg: Typischer ablauf eines bordellbesuchs. In der liste unten haben wir die besten bordelle in un um leverkusen für dich zusammengestellt. Man betritt einen gastraum, der eher schummriges licht abgibt und setzt sich an die theke die hamburger huren- und bordell- kontaktanzeigen in unserer hurendatenbank sind voll mit geilen nutten und scharfen huren aus dem raum hamburg, die nur darauf ….

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