My final days in Dalfsen. I’m trying to make time pass as slowly as possible, though so far without much success. As a small tribute to this green countryside, I’ve selected sixty-four photos I took from the window, which looks out over fields, a row of trees and the Vecht embankment.

*

There are just three copies of The Dynamics of Standing Still left.

*

And tomorrow morning, of course: the week kicks off with music. Have a lovely Sunday!

Just another ten days or so and we’ll be setting off for Portugal. The realisation that our time in Dalfsen is drawing to a close has gradually sunk in. The last frost and snow in winter, the pale green of the beech trees one last time this spring, and now grumbling for the final time about the cold May rains. And about house prices. They meant we couldn’t find a new home here and stay a little longer with the trees, the Vecht river and this very window.

Without going outside, you may know
the whole world.
Without looking through the window,
you may see the ways of heaven.
The farther you go,
the less you know.
Tao Te Ching 47

*

I’d like to draw your attention once again to the book promotion (please click and scroll down for English text).

*

*

*

And tomorrow morning, of course: the week kicks off with music. Have a lovely Sunday!

The I Ching is not light reading that can easily be consumed in between other activities. You should therefore read the book in the quiet of your study. Don’t have a study? Then pop the book in your bag, hop on your bike or drive out of town, and find a lovely spot by the water. Sit or lie down comfortably, open the book, and the images and words will come to you more easily in that setting.

The painting above is entitled ‘Reading the Book of Changes by a Mountain Stream’ and was created by Uragami Gyokudo (1745–1820), a Japanese musician, painter, poet and calligrapher. It takes a bit of looking to spot the hut belonging to the person studying the book.

sixty-four different views, one window

sixty-four times, one sunrise

Water below, Heaven above. Water sinks ever deeper, Heaven rises ever higher. As a result, they lose sight of one another. They drift apart and no longer understand each other’s story. The image of dispute and conflict.

The fog obscures the view. Fog in the brain obscures clear thinking.

Cold causes moisture to condense. A band of mist, clinging to the earth. The sun’s heat cannot possibly penetrate it. The mist intensifies. Heaven and Water drift apart.

The origins of the I Ching date back to the Zhou dynasty, which, in terms of duration, was the longest of all Chinese dynasties (1046–256 BC). In its first phase, the Western Zhou, central authority lay with the Zhou kings. Over the centuries, their power gradually waned, and in the subsequent Eastern Zhou, they fulfilled only a ceremonial role.

The Eastern Zhou dynasty is divided in the Spring and Autumn Period (771–481 BC) and the Warring States Period (475–221 BC). The various states fought each other for power; coalitions were formed, were played off against one another, and fell apart just as often. Ultimately, the easternmost of these states achieved hegemony and unified China as the Qin dynasty.

The Warring States period marked a long era of conflict and war. Despite, or perhaps precisely because of, all the turmoil, philosophy flourished as never before: the Hundred Schools of Thought, 諸子百家. It was the time of Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, Zhuangzi, Mozi, the Legalists and the Naturalists. The list of renowned philosophers who lived during this period is long.

In the introduction to Zhuangzi: The Complete Works, Kristofer Schipper offers a nuanced take on the prevailing historical view that has emerged of the Warring States Period.

In Welcome To The New Warring States, Chinese writer Hui Huang draws an analogy between the Warring States Period and the political situation in 2026.

The image shows a human figure, seen in profile. Only the torso and head are depicted. The whole composition bears a resemblance to a foetus. Inside the body, there are no bones, organs or blood vessels, as one might expect. Instead, there is a grove of mulberry trees, the Great Dipper constellation, a mountain range, a ploughing farmer, a raging torrent, a pagoda, a bridge and much more. The entire outside world can be found inside the human body. An unexpected interpretation of anatomical illustration.

There is one exception. One single object is depicted outside the body. Just above the crown, a tiny grain of millet floats. The accompanying text states:

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

The I Ching as we know it today opens with a treatise on initiating. Represented by six unbroken lines—the pinnacle of creative power—this seems the most obvious choice as the subject for the opening chapter.

In ancient China, in addition to the Zhouyi – the original name of the I Ching – there were two other similar works: the Lianshan and the Guicang. Neither of these books has survived the test of time.

The Lianshan is thought to have been written during the Xia Dynasty (2100–1766 BC), the oldest of the three archaic Chinese dynasties. The Guicang is believed to date from the Shang (1766–1047 BC), which succeeded the Xia. And the Zhouyi was compiled, as you might expect, during the Zhou (1047–256 BC), chronologically the third in the succession of Chinese dynasties.

Whilst the Zhou I begins with the chapter Initiation (followed by Chapter 2: Response), the compilation of the other two books took a different approach. The Lianshan, translated as ‘Connected Mountains’, opens with the equivalent of Chapter 52. Gen, Keeping Still. And the Guicang with the equivalent of Chapter 2. Kun, Response (or Earth).

A very first beginning of events, an essential starting point, in the form of a mountain. How am I to understand this? A pile of earth and stone? A collection? A savings account? An accumulation of ideas indeed precedes all undertakings. Full grain silos. A bulging haystack, enough to see the livestock through the winter. And a well-stocked war chest, or rather, a library full of knowledge and wisdom. A crowdfunding campaign. A reserve of friendships and mutual trust. All of that is true, and certainly a water reservoir can be added to the list too. As well as a well-stocked larder. Not to mention a daily moment of meditation and introspection. And what to think of a high-pressure area as the cradle of the wind. The high mountains, as the source of a river. Thus, a mountain range, liangshan, 連山.

Following the prelude of Chapters 1 and 2 – the descriptions of the archetypal Heaven and Earth, Initiation and Response, Space and Time, or however else one might choose to interpret them – the Zhouyi, and with it the current I Ching translations, only really gets into its stride in the third chapter. The image of Chapter 3. Beginning consists of the combination of a mountain and flowing water: a wild mountain stream. So here too, the image of a mountain appears as an indispensable ingredient for the dynamics of creation.

All right then, where am I supposed to find a mountain here, in the Salland countryside? The other seven trigrams appear in many forms, but here, around Zwolle and Dalfsen, a mountain? The days of haystacks are long gone, so must I then see the mountain in the form of round, plastic-wrapped bales of hay? Or is it the mass of bricks from the local church? A mountain in the form of a full trailer during the potato harvest? Or the mountain in the guise of the village library? As a container for used glass or paper? Or represented by the unique historical accumulation of so much food in every local supermarket? Or the moraines of the Vecht? Not much higher than a few metres. But in this flat country, that too can pass for a mountain. And named after those river dunes, a stone’s throw from here lies the manor house Den Berg, residence of the Barons of Van Dedum.

At the start of Papenalle, on the grounds of Den Berg, lies a small hill. Modest in size, yet composed of solid stone. If you were to join me on my morning walk – a habit I’ve recently been able to resume – you’d spot it straight away. Like a fish out of water, like a solitary boulder in a flat landscape. Sandstones like this were transported down the River Vecht on ships in centuries past, from the quarries around Bentheim in Münsterland to the cities of the Republic. Stately houses were built from them, in Zwolle and also in Amsterdam. The town hall on the Dam – which, since the first Dutch king, was transformed into the ‘Paleis op de Dam’ – and this solitary stone are, therefore, close relatives.

But why go all the way to Amsterdam or Bentheim to find the ultimate mountain? It can be found much closer to home. How about a house – your house, my house, a Keeping Still, a sturdy structure built from a mass of stones? A place where one’s inner, intimate life can be lived.

The colder winter weather and my reduced mobility have prevented me from going for a daily stroll or bike ride (what is the equivalent of a stroll when it comes to cycling?) over the last few months. And what would you do when you can no longer explore the imagery of the Book of Changes in the outside world? Exactly. I continued my journey indoors. And straight away stumbled across thevold antique farmhouse cupboard. A curious, domestic representative of the Mountain-family.

Between a mountain, an manor, a family house and a cupboard are numerous family ties.

A cupboard you could practically live in. A cupboard that was originally made to store all your belongings. I’ll spare you the trouble of opening the doors and drawers, but rest assured that this cupboard can hold an enormous amount of stuff. It was already in the house when we rented it and there was absolutely no way it would fit through the door. To store it somewhere temporarily. Somewhere out of sight. So even in the pre-Ikea era, they were capable of making incredibly ugly furniture. Anyway, it just stayed where it was, and I’ve actually grown quite fond of this oversized storage unit. It’s still not exactly beautiful, but it stands as solid as a rock. Like a mountain.

At the Palthehof Museum in Nieuw-Leussen, where traditional Salland farm interiors are on display, I recently came across an exact replica. It was uplifting to realise that every single day I look at a museum piece.

or

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

A fascinating red mark. Some say it stands for ‘chameleon’. Maybe they are the sun’s rays? It is printed on the cover of a well-known translation of the I Ching, a text dating from the Bronze Age. The imagery used in it still holds great appeal for both existing and potential readers. And this is despite archaic phrases and cryptic chapter titles such as The Taming Power of the Great or The Preponderance of the Small.

1964 - SCHOOLBOARD
My distinctive style of drawing the human figure was already evident right from the very start. I still had to learn how to draw letters. Those always come after the images.

1968 - AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS
I got it for my birthday or for St Nicholas‘ Day; I can’t remember. Hardback, full of illustrations. I read it and reread it; lived inside the book; and stepped into the shoes of the main character and his butler. The plot of the story was fantastic, but it was the illustrations that really did it for me; they stayed with me till this very day.

Many years later, I read on the first page of Alice in Wonderland:

The small group of travellers arrives in Shanghai, and an illustration captures the bustling street life there, shop signs and banners bearing red and black Chinese characters, inscrutable yet full of promise.

1970 – ENCYCLOPEDIA
In those days, subscribing to an encyclopaedia was very common. Every week, a new instalment, in the form of a magazine, would fall on the doormat. Once there were enough of them, they would fit into a special red binding. In my memory, building up the complete encyclopaedia took up my entire childhood. And the first errata and additions were not long in coming. The encyclopaedia struggled to keep up with the rapidly advancing reality and would never be completed. Which in no way detracted from the pleasure of endlessly leafing through its pages.

Together with a school mate, I’d hatched a plan to put together our own encyclopaedia. We felt there was still a wealth of untold stories and forgotten adventures waiting for us. We divided up the tasks: the research, the writing, the interviews, cutting out the pictures from magazines, drawing the pictures. With great enthusiasm, our wonderful, but overambitious, project got underway. It never made it to publication.

1974 - THE YELLOW ‘M’
A comic strip— could anything ever be better than The Yellow Mark featuring Captain Blake and Professor Mortimer?

1976 – JUDGE DEE
In the Haagsche Courant I read the serialised novel Judge Dee, the adventures of the famous Chinese magistrate, written by the diplomate Robert van Gullit. I immersed myself in the books of Pearl Buck, such as East Wind, West Wind and The Good Earth. There was Tintin and The Blue Lotus and the stories about Tibet by Alexandra David-Néel. Beyond the orderly Netherlands of my youth, the unknown world of the Far East presented itself.

THE RED MARK - 1978
I had ended up in Amsterdam as a geography student. Amsterdam was a completely different city back then. Rough edges, hippies in Afghan coats, and the Noordermarkt was a car park. Many of the shops from back then have disappeared, but Kok Antiquariaat in the Oude Hoogstraat has stood the test of time and is still there.

As a penniless student, I became a regular visitor to that marvellous sort of second-hand bookshop where the books seem to choose you rather than the other way round. It was on that particular afternoon that I came across that oblong book – with a black linen cover and a red Chinese character prominently displayed on the front – which I simply couldn’t leave behind. It swapped the dusty bookshelf for my bag. I would carry it everywhere with me until, years later, it finally fell apart. The content and meaning of the book eluded me for the most part. What was to be made of The Taming Power of the Great or The Preponderance of the Small?

of

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
본문은 나중에 추가됩니다
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

text to follow
tekst komt later
內容稍後補上
o texto será publicado mais tarde
teks sal volg
il testo verrà aggiunto in seguito
본문은 나중에 추가됩니다
der Text folgt später
teksti lisätään myöhemmin
…

THE IMAGE of the entire hexagram: a door, a gate, a passageway. It provides access to the next space, which may be completely unknown. Pay close attention. Observe.

This story is about a door in an old stone wall. A wall surrounding a convent. Near a quiet mountain village. Behind the marble mountains of the Apuan Alps. It was published in the summer of 2025 on tree-time.nl.

HIDDEN TIME. How long can you still lounge before boarding starts? You look around. The large round ceiling clock is encased in a white bag. Nothing to see on it. And further down the departure hall, the other clocks are also enveloped. Strange, precisely at this place, one of Europe's major airports, where the high mass of precise timekeeping is performed. The advent of the train in the late 19th century forced the synchronisation of clocks across the country. Factories and offices brought time further into alignment. Previously, it was lived through reflexive seasons and the rhythm of day and night. It got light, it got dark and in between, somewhere in the middle, the sun was at its highest point. Step by step, the 'approximately' was replaced by 'exactly', which was much needed, because a plane lands here at Schiphol Airport every minute. Punctual.

SCHIPHOL, 29 July 2025. According to the spokesperson, the first clocks were capped back in 2012. 'Because of rising maintenance costs.' The spokesperson could not say what amounts are involved. He did say that it is very complex to keep the clocks running. ... If one of the 87 clocks is stationary, you can't just replace the battery. ...'Repairing the clocks costs money. Replacing them too,' said the spokesperson. 'Covered clocks at an airport, where people still like to know what time it is, are of no use. Schiphol has therefore now decided to remove most of the clocks permanently. 'In places where time is crucial, think transfer zones or gates, they will return. In other places, they will disappear. 'Covered clocks add nothing to the quality and travel experience we want to offer passengers.' nu.nl

LOST TIME. The plane will take you to Milan Malpensa this time. MXP in aeroplane language. No matter where you fly to, every trip is - apart from the destiny airport code - completely interchangeable. The welcome and security chat, the drinks and food, the newspaper or a brief uncomfortable nap. The resolution of the experience of travelling between Amsterdam and Milan is negligibly small. You step out of reality at Schiphol Airport, only to re-enter in Malpensa. As a rule, travelling by plane is smooth, you gain time. Or is the time between take-off and landing just totally wasted, a cut from your life?

'Welcome, please stay seated and still keep your belt fastened', the taxi music, then as fast as it goes through the jet bridge, down the long corridors, briefly going to the toilet, washing hands, perfume cloud from the duty free, luggage belt, customs - you can dream it all, you can go through it with your eyes closed. The time under a copy machine, the boredom. Then the train to Milano Centrale, and if you're lucky, and you are, immediate connection to Genova and La Spezia.

DREAMED TIME. You doze, it was also early rising this morning. The lowlands of Lombardy, the bridge over the Po, your attention flickers. The inexorable sequence of events blends with the cadence and directionality of the train. Wagon follows wagon, like one moment does the previous The arrow-shaped time that - like a needle -threads events together like beads. Without a needle and thread, everything would happen simultaneously. Present, past, future, there and here - everything would happen at once, like emptying a bucket by turning it upside down.

Perhaps you are now dreaming like Zhuang Zhi once did. About a butterfly, fluttering around without any hurry, carefree, knowing that her life will last only a few weeks. Or is it that butterfly, that is dreaming. Dreaming that she is you, nodding off on an Italian train? You open your eyes. Those must be the hills of Liguria.

SCATTERED TIME. After Genova, you are clearer in your head again. The train follows the coast, misty soft light, pastel-coloured villas, vineyards on the slopes. And then, unannounced, a staccato alternation of light and dark. A tunnel followed by views of a wonderful Italian fishing village, followed by another tunnel, and yet another village, even more beautiful than the first. I don't know if you know, this is iconic Italy, the Cinque Terra, at the top of every self-respecting bullet list. You must have been here to experience the tranquillity and authentic life. During the half-minute - the interval between two tunnels - you have a good view of yet another village and the crowds of tourists in the narrow streets and around the small harbour. On the paths connecting the Cinque Terra villages, there are regular traffic jams. Of travellers, of vacationers, of seekers of emptiness. There are time slots for walking from one village to another, and everything you would have liked to do spontaneously has to be booked long in advance. Surely, the etymology of 'holiday' must really be sought in the notion of emptiness. Emptiness of worries and emptiness of time pressure. Anyway, these dilemmas have nothing to do with you now.

BORROWED TIME. In La Spezia, you have an hour. It is now late afternoon and the train to Aulla will leave a bit later. Outside the station you find a small park. And what suits you nicely, there is a free bench. The dull rhythm of airport, plane, station and train is still under your skin, and how good it is to simply sit and look around. You don't know anyone here, no one knows you, you have no obligation, and the train to travel on is not here yet. Was it long ago that you had nothing to worry about and didn't get nervous about that? Was it long since you could observe freely? There to your left, an old man approaches, shuffling along. A friendly old gentleman, grey, slightly stooped. For a moment freed from the compulsive restlessness of doing, you can see beyond the limitation of the single moment. You see today's old man and you see the young fellow he was yesterday. Why creating separations and denying the one the naughty pranks and dreams and the other the wisdom? You see young in old and old in young.

ELAPSED TIME. In Aulla, a small nondescript town in the Magra valley, you are picked up. A vital, tanned man is waiting for you outside the station, leaning against a jeep, that has clearly been through a lot. He introduces himself to you: no, he is not Italian, but actually he is. Originally from Switzerland, he has lived here most of his life. You hit the road and that road leaves the sleepy town, into the hills. Your driver seems to be able to dream the route and does not skimp on speed. There is nothing to do but trust his steering.

If you look from the side at his hands, which loosely encompass the steering wheel, it is clear that they have been doing labor. And if your eyes discretely wander down, you see that he is driving a car with no shoes on. When he notices your searching eyes, he smiles. 'The other day I was stopped, routine check, by the carabinieri. I don't think they had experienced that before, a barefoot driver. 'That's not allowed, signore, please, shoes on behind the wheel.’ I complied, but you just drive much better without them, you have much more feeling with the car.'

Meanwhile, you drive through wooded hills, here and there a village, a group of talking people, a river, a bridge, trees, trees everywhere. 'Yes', he says, 'earlier, longer ago, this region was much more inhabited. Like in so many places in the world, families migrated to the city. In the village where we live, it is quiet in winter, there are few of us living there. Yes, in summer, then they come, from the city, to the family house. Ferragosto, the holiday. And as soon as it ends, back to the city. Their heart is here, but yes, there is nothing to earn.'

The jeep turns a corner, the narrow valley widens and a wide view presents itself. In the distance, steep slopes rise out of the green hills. The peaks turn soft red by the light of the early evening. 'Those are the peaks of the Apuani’, he says, ‘you can't see it from here, but on the other side, just below the summit, are the marble quarries. Michelangelo got the white marble there, for his David, and other of his works. In a straight line it's not far, Carrara, Massa, that's where the money is made. That marble is shipped everywhere. This here is another world, the mountains are in between. This land is called the Lunigiana, the land of the moon. It was always a forgotten part of the wealthy Toscana, and in fact it still is. Look there’, and he points ahead, towards a wooded slope, ‘there were terraces there not long ago, barley and vegetables, fruit trees. The Lunigiana emptied in the last century and the fields and villages depopulated.'

We drive on for some time without talking. The road gets narrower and even more winding. The evening sun is no longer able to peep over the hills. The green becomes dark green. 'Look', he says, making a broad gesture from left to right. 'Chestnuts, all chestnuts. The whole region is covered with chestnut forest, planted long ago. That used to be an important part of life for the people here. In autumn, chestnuts were collected, and dried. Chestnut flour, chestnut bread, chestnut biscuits. Yes, it is still done, but not on the scale of back then. What did they have? Wild boar, chestnuts and porcini. Many of the chestnut plots were abandoned, and rewilded. You'll see tomorrow.'

Dusk has set in. The winding road and your empty stomach don’t combine well together. Then your driver says: ‘there it is, that's Casola.’ You see a medieval village, glued against a hillside. And there lies Il Convento.

The jeep turns right into a dusty path, which after a short time is crossed by a small river. The driver does not hesitate and steers the jeep through the splashing water. A sharp turn and then steep uphill and we stop in front of the old monastery. He switches off the engine, we open the doors, get out, the engine hums and ticks. It is silent.

TWISTED TIME. Throughout history, in all cultures, trees held a special place and it is no different today. Yes, yes, surely you mean in the form of lumber and Christmas tree plantations? Ireland and Portugal were covered in oak forest, all of Europe was once one big forest, and look at it now. And just signing petitions to save the forests in the Amazon and Borneo, while here the continent was stripped of its trees long ago. Of course, there are forests allowed on this continent, as long as the trees stand nicely in rows next to each other and quickly provide straight lumber.

Our society worships youth. Fresh cheeks, tight body, youthful attractiveness. Everything possible is done to avoid wrinkles and, above all, to preserve the body as untouched as possible. Imagine what it would be like: on all billboards, in TV advertising, old wrinkled faces and aged bodies displayed to advertise products. It could be reality, in a distant future, old age and weathered bodies as an ideal to be pursued.

That is exactaly how we observe trees. An ancient lime tree, a rare old specimen, a fence around it, a placard with his history and what he has witnessed. That tree as a curiosity. In regards to trees it is all about old age, weathering, twistedness. Tell me, you wouldn't go to all the trouble, make a long diversions to go and look at a youthful spindle, straight and lean, with soft flawless skin, and translucent leaves.

How can you become as old as that linden? Definitely not by standing out much, or by trying to be useful.

Carpenter Shi went to Qi and, when he got to Crooked Shaft, he saw a serrate oak standing by the village shrine. It was broad enough to shelter several thousand oxen and measured a hundred spans around, towering above the hills. The lowest branches were eighty feet from the ground, and a dozen or so of them could have been made into boats.

There were so many sightseers that the place looked like a fair, but the carpenter didn’t even glance around and went on his way without stopping. His apprentice stood staring for a long time and then ran after Carpenter Shi and said, ‘Since I first took up my ax and followed you, Master, I have never seen timber as beautiful as this. But you don’t even bother to look, and go right on without stopping. Why is that?’

’Forget it—say no more!’ said the carpenter. ‘It’s a worthless tree! Make boats out of it and they’d sink; make coffins and they’d rot in no time; make vessels and they’d break at once. Use it for doors and it would sweat sap like pine; use it for posts and the worms would eat them up. It’s not a timber tree—there’s nothing it can be used for. That’s how it got to be that old!’

After Carpenter Shi had returned home, the oak tree appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘What are you comparing me with? Are you comparing me with those useful trees? The cherry apple, the pear, the orange, the citron, the rest of those fructiferous trees and shrubs—as soon as their fruit is ripe, they are torn apart and subjected to abuse. Their big limbs are broken off, their little limbs are yanked around. Their utility makes life miserable for them, and so they don’t get to finish out the years Heaven gave them, but are cut off in mid-journey. They bring it on themselves—the pulling and tearing of the common mob. And it’s the same way with all other things.’

‘As for me, I’ve been trying a long time to be of no use, and though I almost died, I’ve finally got it. This is of great use to me. If I had been of some use, would I ever have grown this large? Moreover you and I are both of us things. What’s the point of this—things condemning things? You, a worthless man about to die—how do you know I’m a worthless tree?’

When Carpenter Shi woke up, he reported his dream. His apprentice said, ‘If it’s so intent on being of no use, what’s it doing there at the village shrine?’

‘Shhh! Say no more! It’s only resting there. If we carp and criticize, it will merely conclude that we don’t understand it. Even if it weren’t at the shrine, do you suppose it would be cut down? It protects itself in a different way from ordinary people. If you try to judge it by conventional standards, you’ll be way off!’
Zhuang Zi - translation by Burton Watson

TIME LINE. You wake up early. Everything in this monastery breathes history. The robust stone walls, the ruins of what was once a chapel, the pavement of the forecourt. You don't know it, so I whisper it in your ear: this was once a refuge for pilgrims on the road to Rome. Sure enough, all roads lead there, and the closer you get to the eternal city, the more all those roads have come together, like the tiny veins converge in the large central vein of a leaf.

UNSPECIFIED TIME. This morning at breakfast, you met the wife of yesterday's jeep driver. The latter, incidentally, turned out to be the owner of the old monastery. Found as a ruin and rebuilt into what it is today. Ah, that's where the penny drops - those working hands, you had noticed them during the drive. And so this woman is the owner as well. Her gaze is intense, her appearance earthy. 'I wasn't born here either,' she told me, but by now I belong here. I ended up in Italy at the time, by chance, in Pontremoli, as a member of a theatre group. Do you know Pontremoli? It's not far from here, also in the Lunigiana. Inside the castle, steles are on display. Strange, intriguing statues from prehistoric times, all excavated around here. That's how long the Lunigiana has been inhabited.

Deciding to stay here, we drove through the Lunigiana, without a defined plan, looking for a place to settle down. As if by chance, we found the Convento. Half in ruins and completely overgrown. We took a walk around the area, came into the old chestnut forest and that made it all clear. This was without a doubt the right place to stay.'

‘To get into the old chestnut forest, you also have to know where to enter. In the past, when this whole area was more populated, there were countless paths running through the woods, over the hills, from village to village. Paths used by porcini pickers in autumn, and chestnut gatherers. Now, if you walk into the forest, randomly, just from somewhere along the road, you won’t come far. Brambles, prickly plants, tough bushes, there is no way through. Go there and have a look. I can't go with you myself today, but my children are here and can show you the way.'

Just as Harry Potter had go to King's Cross, platform nine three-quarters, where he had to pass a wall in a rather unusual way, all in order to travel to Hogwarts, the entrance to the ancient forest is located at an unexpected place.

FORGOTTEN TIME. In the stone wall that surrounds the monastery you find the door, colourless and inconspicuous. The two young people are already there waiting for you. The door opens with some creaking and squeaking and you are standing on a narrow forest path. That path follows the outside of the monastery and then dives into the dense foliage of the forest. When you turn around after walking for a while, you see the hushed village in the distance. The sounds of the world - a power saw, the knock of a hammer, a crying child - fade away and are absorbed by the silence.

At a fork in the path - you would have walked right past it - the young man says: ‘straight ahead it continues to the convent of Codiponte, we turn right here.’ Near the fork is a huge chestnut, with a hollow base, from which a large number of stems have grown. You remain standing, is it your imagination? Looking through your lashes, it seems a forest spirit, with a tangled bunch of hair, a wild beard and open mouth, a silent scream. An ent from the Lord of the Rings, Treebeard. Is this the guard at the entrance to the ancient forest? No, your fantasy is to vivid. Still, you don't dare take a picture of this bizarre apparition. The two young people have moved on and you now walk a little faster to catch up. They certainly haven’t notice anything about your imagined encounter with the old tree.

For a few more minutes, you walk on. The conversation is hushed. I know, the atmosphere of the place where you stop is hard to describe, so I won't try. The three of you sit with your backs against the trunk of one of the forest masters. The sun can barely penetrate the thick foliage, the light is dappled and green. This time is the time of the trees. How long you sat there?

On the way back, as you pass the guard, you give a hidden nod of your head, as a sign of respect, After all, you never know. But the young woman saw your furtive gesture, your gazes cross. She smiles and winks. Would she know the guard too?

As you approach Il Convento again, you pick up the conversation again, at the same point where it had died down on the way out.

THE TIME GONE BY. Now that I have retold your journey, or inspired you to make it soon, we can talk further. I know the road that starts at Aulla well. I remember the hundred curves up to the small medieval village. And the first night's stay at Il Convento. That was 1999. The following morning we took a walk and - was it a coincidence, was it the magic of the wooden door - we found the ancient forest. We sat leaning against an aged chestnut tree, silently, was it an hour, was it longer? It was clear, this was the right place to organise an annual chi kung summer school. The first one in 2000 and about 15 more would follow in the years after.

TREE TIME. Participants came from all directions: Iceland, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, England, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Poland, Spain, Portugal, Austria, Switzerland, America, Italy and, of course, the Netherlands. At least once during each summer school, in the afternoon, once the heat of the Italian summer had calmed down a bit, we gathered at the wooden door in the outer wall of the monastery. Squeak open, everyone through, squeak shut again. Gaily chatting, we then followed the same narrow path on which you, with Shirin and Aaron, the two young people, walked. At the level of the fork and the guard, the carefree chatter had invariably lost its volume, and when we finally reached the oldest part of the chestnut grove, it had fallen completely silent. Not because it was so agreed - we were probably absorbed into the time scale peculiar to trees. Talking then becomes more laborious, actually redundant. Tree time, exactly, that the right term.

For some, chi kung practice in the ancient chestnut forest consisted of sitting simply, with their backs against a tree. Others lay down for a moment on the soft ground and fell into a deep sleep. And there were, of course, some who practiced chi kung in a more recognizable form. But all experienced a naturalness, an effortlessness. Like when it rains and you don't have to make an effort to get wet. Being present is enough.

TIMELESS. Shirin and Aaron's parents, Martina Weber and Marcel Müller, who have rebuilt the Convento over the years at an unruffled pace, provided warm hospitality year after year. They offered the perfect conditions for intense chi kung study. The first time I visited them, their children were small. Now they are adults and the initiators of a recurring summer festival in and around Il Convento.

THE IMAGE of two trigrams: Earth above, Water below. Groundwater. Deep reserves. Potential. Danger. An army. Multitude.

I

THE IMAGE of two trigrams: Water above, Thunder below. A thunderstorm, moisture, an electrical discharge, creation, a beginning.

In 1953, Stanley Miller and Harold Urey conducted an experiment in which a mixture of substances such as ammonia, methane and water vapour was subjected to electrical discharges. This experiment simulated the conditions of the early Earth. In this laboratory ‘primordial soup’, amino acids – building blocks of life – appeared as if by magic.

In the decades that followed, the experiment came under scrutiny. It was said to be too simplistic a view of things, a mere flash of lightning bringing life into being. Yet the power of imagination is evoked by the idea of a primordial soup – a divine brew, though could it be any more earthly? – would never leave us. It became a source of inspiration for thinkers and artists.

What are we to make of recent research at Stanford University into ‘microlightning’ – electrical discharges between individual water droplets – as a factor in the origin of life?

Some things have always been there: potatoes, Monday mornings and the National Lottery. It’s hard to imagine that they ever had a beginning. In your memory, they seem to have always been present. Other phenomena did have a beginning, an introduction, a debut on the scene. It couldn’t be any other way: at first they didn’t exist, and suddenly, without further ado, they had taken their place in our reality.

In the beginning, the opening words of Genesis. A phrase typically used to refer to something with a long or unknown history.
etymologiebank

That’s how it went with the concept of the primordial soup. I assume that before 1953, this was not part of everyday language. Now, the image of a bubbling, steaming and sparking primordial broth has become an integral part of our construct.

There was a primordial soup 4 billion years ago; before me stands a modern-day version.

What can you discover here? Tectonic plates, lava flows, umami and CV scams?

… miso and Murano …

There are parts of the world where people start their day with miso. There are people who, instead of heading for the coffee machine, begin their day by drinking/eating a bowl of miso soup. A strange habit, a fad? That remains to be seen. Just think of it this way: before you know it, the novelty has turned into a habit, the origins of which have been forgotten. That is certainly how it went with coffee.

Coffee and miso, both made from beans. Both dark brown and comforting. But there are differences too.

Coffee in the Age of Enlightenment? Coffee was the Enlightenment! And coffee was the cowboy life in the Wild West.

In the morning, the aroma of a perfectly made cappuccino. The shades of brown and caramel, white and ochre. If the day ahead holds the same richness, you can count yourself lucky.

Or perhaps an archaic Ethiopian coffee with butter and a sprig of rue.

Yesterday: mugi muso, soba, dulce, a bit of kimchi, sesame and chilli oil …

This morning: shoyu – miso’s little sister – tofu, wakame, bonito flakes, spring onions …

And finally, a few valuable tips from the miso barista …

See also:

THE IMAGE of two identical trigrams: Lake below, Lake above. Water reflects water. A mirror within a mirro

Out the door, turn left onto the narrow road. Oak trees and bare blackberry bushes line both sides. Three bends. The junction with the main road. The level crossing. A desire path. The start of one of the dead-straight avenues of the Den Berg estate. It rained last night and there are still puddles of water here and there.

The puddles reflect the trunk and bare branches of the trees. And behind them, the clouds. Water reflects water

Water reflects water.

Was the still surface of a pool of water the oldest mirror? The first mirror in which we saw our own reflection?

An eye sees an eye.

A eye-phone sees an eye.

A house of mirrors in your pocket.

Al-Haytham was one of the first to figure out that almost everything is in fact a mirror of sorts that you see because it’s the light that’s bouncing off of that object and how it does it. It comes into your eye and makes you able to see it.

BBC The Forum: Mirror Mirror on the Wall

As well as crystal-clear mirrors, there are also blurred ones.

And they come in all shapes and sizes, from small cabinet-door-window mirrors, …

… to bathroom mirrors …

… and magic mirrors …

THE IMAGE of two trigrams: Mountain above, Water below. A wild mountain stream, untamed and unspoilt.

A half-hour’s walk from our house, or ten minutes by bike, lies the Vechterweerd, a weir on the river. The Vecht may not be a wild stream, nor are there any mountains here, but the water cascading down over the weir suddenly becomes childlike again. If you stand on the narrow walkway atop the weir, lean over the railing and look down, you see an unrestrained play of eddies and roars.

In Richard Wilhelm’s I Ching translation, this chapter is called Youthful Folly. Other I Ching translations use titles such as Youth Immaturity and Youthful Inexperience'

Yes, when you’re young, you do get up to all sorts of silly antics. Sorry about that; I didn’t know any better. After all, this is my first time doing this. You’re right. Call youth foolish, and you’ll have to constantly tame, restrain and restrict it. If you see youth as play, then foolishness paves the way for new possibilities and fuels creativity.

Take away a child’s play, and you take away their childhood. To keep playing throughout your life is to preserve your youth. Therefore, I chose Play as the title for this chapter.

Let’s be honest, what would we have done back then without play? How on earth would we ever have found our way through the hall of mirrors that is the human world? Play is imagination – today I’m a fireman and you a vet, or would you rather be an explorer? Who’s Batman, and who’s the villain? Step into the shoes of: with nothing but your imagination, the adventure can begin.

Without any inhibitions, children can lose themselves in the fascinating game of imitation. Walk and dance like your idol, and even if you can’t sing very well yet, you’ll at least know what it feels like. Today you’re an astronaut; tomorrow you might just win a gold medal. You can decide for yourself what it’s for.

Do you dare to play? An instant time machine is at your disposal. Back to the past, or a giant leap into a time yet to come. It’s all free; it’s child’s play. Unhindered by conventions and the stifling straitjacket of reason, play reveals hidden shortcuts and well-trodden paths. When you think, you see the limits; when you play, there is always a new beginning.

The hexagram of Play is an inversion of that of the preceding Chapter 3. Beginning. Most of the paired chapters are opposites of one another, but in this case they follow on from one another. To take part, it is not necessary to know the game – simply starting is enough.

Anyone can draw, as long as there’s no pressure to make it look like something. As soon as the pencil touches the paper, follow the line, the strokes, the marks and the scratches. Watch in wonder at what emerges this time. Making music, dancing, playing football – you can do it all, as long as you just have a go. As long as you don’t worry about what others think of it.

Playing is sweet and innocent. A few scrapes and a plaster – and then it’s back to business as usual. You lose track of time, and before you know it, the day is over. Play is risky and dangerous. It takes you to places you would never otherwise have gone. You feel the power of your muscles, the dexterity of your hands and the strength of your words. Play is full of the unexpected; it creeps where it cannot go, meandering like a river.

Inevitably, the time comes when you have to earn a living. Playing was for the little ones, and as they grow older, the fun is over; then it’s time for serious business.

Play is then replaced by study. Next comes work, and by working hard, you earn your free time. Wonderful! That free time comes with the promise of a return to play. Alas! Play is now called sport. Spontaneity has been swapped for rules. No meandering adventure, but a competition along straight lines.

You rarely see such a lack of variety as during the Olympic Games, even though the Games hold such great promise. Just taking part is for losers. Victory goes to the one-dimensional specialist. A skater who only skates in a counter-clockwise direction. A sprinter who can’t keep running for more than ten seconds. Steroids and diving.

After more than a century of football, only a handful of clubs still matter. They have the money, they can buy the best players, and they win the trophies. The rest are mere extras. The advertising on the football shirts is from a gambling company and promotes cars or airlines. The transfer market is funded by tech companies and oil-rich nations. This football is war; it is politics; it is business, but it is certainly not play. How much simpler it was to spend hours playing football in the street with friends after school.

It sounds like a conspiracy. First, you take away the children’s space. The streets are full of cars, and the only place left to play is a football cage. Then you take away their time too, with phones and games. Free play has been successfully tamed.

A high fence surrounds the nature reserve – or what remains of its natural wilderness. Unauthorised entry is prohibited, let alone climbing trees, lighting fires and building huts. Who is being protected from whom?

Emma Marris writes in Rambunctious Garden:

There is always hope. Free play lies dormant just beneath the surface. Let children make mistakes. Embrace failure. Skate clockwise. Get rid of the football cage. Tear down the fences and let the remaining wildness in. Set the river free. Think in twists and turns. Celebrate the folly of youth!

Mountain above Water, the image of a wild mountain stream, of a meandering lowland river, of play. In the absence of mountains in the Netherlands, Mountain above Water can also be read as a weir in the river. The river may seem tamed, but if you stand on the spillway above the Vechterweerd weir, lean over the railing and look down, you will see that the wildness and the youthful folly are very much alive.