Blaue Finger, gesunder Geist

Sometimes the time has come to stop. I'm not talking about eating chocolate or being embarrassed. For ten years, I have been meditating with stones and stacking them into dry stone walls. From sheer despair in the beginning, when no stone fit, I have now reached a point where stone stacking becomes Zen meditation. When I whisper half-loudly with the stones, engage in intimate conversations or lovingly wipe the moss from their faces, Nirvana is probably not too far away. On the other hand, passing tourists experience moments of fear because they do not know if the apparent self-talk is the prelude to an impending violent crime involving Bickel. When they look back at us, the Daltons, from a safe distance, they wonder what we could have done if they see us moving tons of stones in the landscape. One reason for this hard work is that I somehow have to pay for my expensive bike repairs and do not want to end up in the gruesome catacombs of an office. Another reason is that in complete concentration, like a Buddhist monk, the flood of thoughts comes to rest. Neither missed opportunities in life nor the imminent downfall of humanity play ping pong with my emotions. Of course, that is not always successful, because I too have days that are unpleasantly wet and cold or when my inner demon runs wild without restraint. What could be more beautiful than lying on the warm bosom of one's beloved?

As a dry stone waller, one must be an optimist and build a wall with the stones one finds on site. A dry stone wall is nothing more than an organized rockfall. In a spotless Switzerland, where only the Wi-Fi holds on to the dead concrete walls, the orderly chaos of a stone wall appeals to my primal instincts.

Despite the spherical experience of building a dry stone wall, I am once again exaggerating wildly, 10 years is enough. I will probably dive into this trance-like state for the last summer, from which I will only be brought back to reality by a pinched finger or Averell Dalton's call for lunch.