By Anna Weiss

Windprint I – Gallop through the veil

“The tart smell of horse sweat. The creak of saddle leather. The tug of reins between calloused fingers. All of it called him back—to the steppe, to home, to infinity.

To freedom. The real freedom. The kind carved into the wind, where a stallion’s gallop devoured the horizon, and the line between muscle and earth, rider and breath, no longer held. He became the speed. The pulse. The wind. He dissolved. Body blurred. Mind vanished.

There was no self, no story—only impulse and meaning. And the horses were the key.

The bridge. The soul’s original shape.

So when he woke again—after the long sleep between lives—he found himself in a world of steel wings and screaming skies, of machines instead of beasts.

And still, before language returned, before thought remembered how to shape itself—his longing surged.

He needed to ride. Again. To return to the only truth his soul remembered.

But no one rode anymore. Not like before. No one loved the horse more than their children. No one spoke to them as to gods, as to brothers, as to the last loyal friend on the battlefield.

Yet his bones remembered. His blood remembered.

His little body, too small now for armor or command, vibrated with one plea.

He turned to his mother. This new mother. The one with eyes too full of her own weather.

“Take me to the stables,” he said.

She smiled, nodding vaguely—her mind already drifting elsewhere. The request slipped from her like mist.

But he remembered. And returned. “Take me to the stables,” he asked again. And again. He was asking the same question every single day.

Not with tantrum. But with the insistence of something ancient. Something older than language. Something older than this life.

And a year later, she took his small hand—and at last, they went to the stables.”

This is a flashback from the General’s past lifetime. The General is the 2nd main character of my authobiographical novel.

Half the novel* is finished! Six out of twelve chapters are now safely stored on my laptop.

Here’s a fresh draft of the cover. Pssst—don’t tell anyone that the calligraphy is just a cropped “Ulan-Bataar” in Mongolian script… It’s only a placeholder. Why Mongolian? You’ll find out once you read the book.

And now, a glimpse from Chapter 12: Weaving the Self:

“My years at the Institute of Architecture were dreadful. If I had the choice, I would never repeat them. Drawing finally vanished from my life altogether, and now it feels as though it were only a dream. A bad dream—yet even that dream bore its fruit.

I learned design. My husband and I can now create all our own materials and books without relying on anyone else. A sense of proportion and beauty woke in me. And most importantly, that endless, torturous schooling became an unexpected preparation for my path as a Namkha weaver. It taught me endurance—the ability to keep working when no strength was left, in any state, sick or well.

Back then there was a meme: a skeleton slumped over a drafting board, captioned _“Death is not an excuse.”_ It wasn’t a joke—it was the truth. You could finish a project and be carried straight into intensive care, but the work had to be done. That is why, even though my surface may look polished now, underneath it is stitched with scars from many battles. Study was the training ground for them.”

Where the Wind Remembers Me – Fragment #3

From the upcoming autobiographical novel – “Where the Wind Remembers Me. The story of the Namkha and transformation”

The fragment:

“There are moments when the heart doesn’t just see — it recognizes.
When your whole body dissolves into pneuma, and only a luminous vortex remains — meeting another vortex, as if the two had always been one.

That’s how it was when I first saw the Longsal symbol.
There was no screen, no distance. No “between.”
For a moment, cause and effect, past and future, you and I — all of it disappeared.

Its blue-on-white symmetry laughed, roared, beckoned.
It shouted and whispered: Come here.

In that instant, I knew — without any logic or explanation — that I would receive Direct Introduction from Namkhai Norbu, and the International Dzogchen Community would become my home.”

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P.S. At the time, I didn’t know what this would require of me. I didn’t know that a dream — one of the most powerful of my life — was waiting just ahead.

But I did know this: I had found my refuge.
And somewhere, far beyond sight, the path had already begun to open.

Chapter 5 of 12 now complete.

The fragment:

In Russian fairy tales, a hero plunges into three enchanted waters and emerges transformed—from fool to prince in an instant. But in reality, though the principle is the same, the steps and deeds are countless, immeasurable.

Having clawed our way out of the underworld of human wrongs, we face the steady, unglamorous labor of each day—working until the horror of the past no longer shows its blackened face.

The road will be long, but scattered along it lie quiet, luminous gifts of fate—treasures that will be dear to the heart and soul.

We will untangle the knotted consequences of our choices, until an infinity of small actions weaves itself into a new pattern of change.

And so, step by step, we can arrive at a different destiny.

More about the upcoming novel here: https://anna-weiss-writes.com/where-the-wind-remembers-me/

The fragment:

“The cables of my bridge – those taut, invisible cords keeping me suspended over life – screamed one last metallic howl. They snapped. One by one. And then all at once.

Collapse.

The bridge broke. The supports crumbled into the black river of exhaustion, down into the floodwater of timeless despair. My nervous system roared like twisted steel. My life crashed around me, not with a whisper, but with the sound of tearing. Of demolition.”

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I’m writing this book now. An autobiographical novel about how Namkhas changed my life. About the kind of change that leaves nothing untouched – when life peels you raw so something true can emerge.

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If you want to see where it goes, stay close. The path is still unfolding.

What if the story you lived through was waiting for you to write it—just as you are, not ten years from now?

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The story of recovery.

Of finding the woman within myself.

Of my past life remembered through dreams and visions.

Of the fierce and subtle current that changed everything: Buddhist teachings, Namkhas, and the thread of destiny I never expected to follow.

It’s all being written now.

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I’ve wanted to be a writer for a long time. It began in Russia—I wrote two books in Russian about my healing journey. But back then, I didn’t know the story wasn’t finished.

For years I believed I needed ten more years to perfect my English before I could write in it.

But it wasn’t true. The story is ready now. It’s been waiting for me.

And it was one of my students who reminded me of that.

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I’m writing “Where the Wind Remembers Me” — an autobiographical novel about collapse, transformation, and the path out of silence and misery.

A story of disorder, escape from Russia and liberation.

A quarter of it is already written.

Simon Weiss has created the cover… and the process continues.

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I’ll be sharing fragments, insights, and moments from the writing journey in the weeks ahead.