Linden-Limmer - Hannover (Niedersachsen, Germany)
I search for them and I find them – there are several moments of silence. Yet I cannot sink deep enough into any of them to truly rest. But that is what I long for: recovery and peace. Behind me lies a series of bad nights, ahead of me days of heaviness. No matter at what point of the day I find myself, the time before me feels like an infinitely high mountain whose peak is buried in fog.
The world around me is a gray monster. Within me reigns a fragile peace and a weary steadfastness. The only reason to go outside is shopping – a long, exhausting undertaking. Afterward, my mind and body fall into a deep sleep from which I often don't fully awaken. The fog has then settled upon my consciousness. The valley of experience is one without prospects.
So begins the week.
In all of this, I discover something positive: Depression is no longer a guest. I am not cured of it, but it leaves me in peace. And peace is a precious commodity. After a few days, a change occurs. The sun emerges and the world becomes different. I go outside. People smile or greet me, there are even small, interesting encounters.
During a walk through a park, a little girl appears beside me. She is perhaps four or five years old, sitting on a scooter, wearing a helmet, and looking at me. When I notice her, she asks me what my name is. I introduce myself and she tells me her name. Then she stops and disappears.
From a bridge we discover two large, white swans, followed by three smaller ones with gray feathers. They drift carefully toward a boat dock. A man gets out of the boat and sits down in front of them. He has a bag in his hand from which he throws pieces of bread into the water. They come close to him – especially the young ones could eat from his hand, but they don't.
In front of a garden gate sits an elderly man on a folding chair. Before him stands a table with jars full of honey – honey that his bees have produced. He tells us quite a bit about his bee colonies and the process of honey production. We buy a jar and go home with the warm feeling of a pleasant encounter.
It is these small encounters that change my impression of this place, soften it, and drive the gray out of me. At the end of this week I feel a gentle contentment. I close this chapter here, even before we depart. This way I can truly engage with it and enjoy it. We don't have to be here and we won't stay here. We will move on, which is good.
I am doing well.
I search for them and I find them – there are several moments of silence. Yet I cannot sink deep enough into any of them to truly rest. But that is what I long for: recovery and peace. Behind me lies a series of bad nights, ahead of me days of heaviness. No matter at what point of the day I find myself, the time before me feels like an infinitely high mountain whose peak is buried in fog.
The world around me is a gray monster. Within me reigns a fragile peace and a weary steadfastness. The only reason to go outside is shopping – a long, exhausting undertaking. Afterward, my mind and body fall into a deep sleep from which I often don't fully awaken. The fog has then settled upon my consciousness. The valley of experience is one without prospects.
So begins the week.
In all of this, I discover something positive: Depression is no longer a guest. I am not cured of it, but it leaves me in peace. And peace is a precious commodity. After a few days, a change occurs. The sun emerges and the world becomes different. I go outside. People smile or greet me, there are even small, interesting encounters.
During a walk through a park, a little girl appears beside me. She is perhaps four or five years old, sitting on a scooter, wearing a helmet, and looking at me. When I notice her, she asks me what my name is. I introduce myself and she tells me her name. Then she stops and disappears.
From a bridge we discover two large, white swans, followed by three smaller ones with gray feathers. They drift carefully toward a boat dock. A man gets out of the boat and sits down in front of them. He has a bag in his hand from which he throws pieces of bread into the water. They come close to him – especially the young ones could eat from his hand, but they don't.
In front of a garden gate sits an elderly man on a folding chair. Before him stands a table with jars full of honey – honey that his bees have produced. He tells us quite a bit about his bee colonies and the process of honey production. We buy a jar and go home with the warm feeling of a pleasant encounter.
It is these small encounters that change my impression of this place, soften it, and drive the gray out of me. At the end of this week I feel a gentle contentment. I close this chapter here, even before we depart. This way I can truly engage with it and enjoy it. We don't have to be here and we won't stay here. We will move on, which is good.
I am doing well.