Translations

Dear Crew,

There are moments when life doesn't change. It's our perspective on it that changes.

I think I've had a lot of moments like that over the past few days. They weren't dramatic. More like little pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fall into place. And then the whole picture changes.

I used to often think I didn't really fit into this world. I was always a little different somehow. Too dreamy. Too deep. Too playful. Too quiet. Too colorful. Too spiritual. Too scientific. Too German. Too Chilean. Too indigenous.

At some point, you stop asking who you really are. And you start asking how you can be less noticeable.

Over the past few weeks, I've noticed something strange. I've stopped making myself seem smaller . Not on purpose. It just happened.

When people say, “You work as a shaman,” I no longer have to explain that I haven’t actually had any shamanic training.

When people say, “You’re an author,” I don’t have to explain anymore that I “actually” do something else as well.

When people say, “You create special spaces,” then I no longer have to prove that I’m qualified to do so.

I'm just me. And I do what I do.

Maybe that's what freedom is. Not no longer needing labels, but no longer being afraid of them.

Still, I hope for a future in which, at some point, we no longer get to know each other first through our categories, but through our humanity. Until then, we need precise language.

I've realized something else over the past few days. I'm not actually searching for my identity. I'm discovering my forms of expression.

Merkén had been there long before she was called Merkén. I didn't invent her. I remembered her.

Maybe that's how everything in my life comes about. Less through thinking and more through recognition.

I used to think that creativity meant creating something new. Today I believe that creativity often means rediscovering something—a language, a movement, a symbol, a truth. The meaning usually comes later.

Maybe that's also why I don't like ready-made concepts anymore. I love translations.

A few years ago, I learned about a despacho ritual. My partner and I wanted to do one in Chile. But we didn't have any wrapping paper. So I painted some paper.

At some point, I realized that the act of painting itself had become a ceremony.

That still moves me to this day. Not because we copied something perfectly, but because we understood its essence .

I believe that respect doesn't always mean copying a form exactly. Sometimes respect means understanding its essence. And letting it live right where you are. With the plants that grow here. With the people standing right in front of you.

Maybe I've been doing this my whole life. I translate. Between cultures. Between science and spirituality. Between the body and language. Between silence and dance. Between mountains and cities. Between scenes. Between people.

This week, I also realized why I love being a host so much.

First, I set the mood: a space that can breathe. And then people arrive. They help out. They carry chairs. Children fetch instruments. Someone pours tea. Suddenly, it’s no longer my space. It’s our space.

Maybe that's exactly my leadership style—not doing everything myself, but creating conditions that make people want to get involved.

Just as I finally had some time again to continue writing my new book, a white feather flew past my window. Shortly after that, a butterfly. On the fifth floor, right in the middle of the city.

I had to smile. Not because I needed proof. But because it felt as if life itself were answering me.

Maybe life doesn't answer in words at all. Maybe it answers in moments that touch us deeply.

I think I'm slowly beginning to understand what it means to be called—not by a task, not by a role, butby my own life.

With love and a collection of white feathers,
Jeannette