The streets of Celle shine with clean cobblestones.

Half-timbered houses line up like pages from an open picture book. Behind them lie small courtyards where the air stands still. People here seem reserved, polite.

The care home is located right in the old town.

The communal room with its open kitchen is bright and cheerfully decorated. People sit in a semicircle. Some talk quietly with each other. There is a sense of order, of gentle attentiveness. It feels cozy.

Mrs. H. always sits very upright and alert in her place.

The caregivers tell me she hasn’t been here long.

When I sit down next to her, she smiles kindly. When I ask if I may draw her, she nods immediately.

Her eyes look intelligent.
Her words, however, come out very confused.

At first, as so often, I try to take her seriously — to follow meaning in what she says. But I soon notice how difficult that is. So I shift my focus to the drawing. While I draw, I begin to sing quietly.

Between individual strokes, I hear fragments of sentences about a grandson and a daughter.

“… are far away.”

There is no bitterness in her voice. No longing. No distress.

It sounds as if she had lived as much family life as there was to live — and then, still relatively self-determined, decided on a place in the care home. Better that way. It wasn’t possible anymore.

I piece this together from her words while I draw and sing.

She watches me intently.

Suddenly, as if she has recognized me, she asks without warning:

“Are you from Portugal?”

I am completely taken aback.

What a coincidence — I really was born in Portugal.

I don’t overestimate the moment. She cannot know that. She certainly cannot “mysteriously” see it in me.

And yet, the astonishment itself becomes something shared.
So surprising, so unexpected, that we are both delighted by this small shock.

In the days that follow, she lights up immediately whenever she sees me.

Each time, she starts a conversation as if we were old acquaintances.

Later, a caregiver tells me that Mrs. H.’s grandson emigrated to Portugal — a decision that had not been entirely easy for the family. Mrs. H. had a good relationship with him and had visited him until quite recently. Her daughter comes often, but at that moment is on vacation.

What stays with me from this encounter is not the coincidence itself.

It is how easily connection can form

when we stop insisting on logic.

In creative encounters like these, meaning does not come from correct information.

It arises from resonance.

A tone of voice.
A shared surprise.
A moment of recognition that does not need explanation.

When we loosen our grip on understanding,
relationship often finds its own way.

— Claudia Wolfe
Sharing lived stories of creativity, care, and connection beyond words.