Nordhofen Westerwald (Rheinland-Pfalz, Germany)
The missing begins. One day before we leave. It's raining, and that means we can no longer go to the forest for one last walk. Most things are packed, including the hiking boots, which I don't want to take out of the boxes and get dirty again. Besides, there is still quite a bit to do. Because as so often: for the last little things, you end up needing more time than expected.
And I don't want to fall into stress. I've had too much of that lately. So I keep myself busy. But I keep stopping and paying attention to what I feel. Time passes slowly, which I take as a good sign – I seem to be doing something right. That hadn't been possible for me in weeks. There is a heaviness on my chest that stems from this lost time. I was so consumed by work, and couldn't withdraw either, that I no longer had the time or the energy for the small and beautiful things.
Now the next farewell is upon me. I should have gotten used to farewells long ago – there have been plenty of them over the last four years, yet it still feels hard to leave every single time. I know this one will be particularly difficult. Because tomorrow, a long stretch of time spent in one single place comes to an end for us, and the prevailing feeling is a dull, clear melancholy, in which a muted emptiness nestles alongside sadness. Besides, old patterns and impressions don't simply dissolve just because you keep repeating them.
My gaze lingers on the house across the way. I stand at the window for a long, quiet moment and stare over. It still stands empty – visited only by nesting birds that disappear into the leaves of the shrub in front or cling to the façade and look straight up toward the sky – and I don't believe that will change anytime soon. Only I will no longer be around to notice, should new life ever find its way between those walls. It's strange how much that house draws me in and how deeply it stirs a warm feeling within me. It is old, uninhabited for years, and yet I feel strong, positive emotions when I take the time to look at it.
Something I notice only now: the roof tiles on the canopy above the door are of the same kind as those on the canopy of our house. Black stone, covered with moss, coated with the traces of time, and worked beyond that by the weather. I hope I will develop a similarly warm feeling toward our house as I feel when I look at this one here. I am afraid of the new and allow that fear only in small doses. What I truly want is to feel joy and to have the warm sense of well-being that comes with a home. What I will get, I don't know – and with that uncertainty, I struggle.
The missing begins. One day before we leave. It's raining, and that means we can no longer go to the forest for one last walk. Most things are packed, including the hiking boots, which I don't want to take out of the boxes and get dirty again. Besides, there is still quite a bit to do. Because as so often: for the last little things, you end up needing more time than expected.
And I don't want to fall into stress. I've had too much of that lately. So I keep myself busy. But I keep stopping and paying attention to what I feel. Time passes slowly, which I take as a good sign – I seem to be doing something right. That hadn't been possible for me in weeks. There is a heaviness on my chest that stems from this lost time. I was so consumed by work, and couldn't withdraw either, that I no longer had the time or the energy for the small and beautiful things.
Now the next farewell is upon me. I should have gotten used to farewells long ago – there have been plenty of them over the last four years, yet it still feels hard to leave every single time. I know this one will be particularly difficult. Because tomorrow, a long stretch of time spent in one single place comes to an end for us, and the prevailing feeling is a dull, clear melancholy, in which a muted emptiness nestles alongside sadness. Besides, old patterns and impressions don't simply dissolve just because you keep repeating them.
My gaze lingers on the house across the way. I stand at the window for a long, quiet moment and stare over. It still stands empty – visited only by nesting birds that disappear into the leaves of the shrub in front or cling to the façade and look straight up toward the sky – and I don't believe that will change anytime soon. Only I will no longer be around to notice, should new life ever find its way between those walls. It's strange how much that house draws me in and how deeply it stirs a warm feeling within me. It is old, uninhabited for years, and yet I feel strong, positive emotions when I take the time to look at it.
Something I notice only now: the roof tiles on the canopy above the door are of the same kind as those on the canopy of our house. Black stone, covered with moss, coated with the traces of time, and worked beyond that by the weather. I hope I will develop a similarly warm feeling toward our house as I feel when I look at this one here. I am afraid of the new and allow that fear only in small doses. What I truly want is to feel joy and to have the warm sense of well-being that comes with a home. What I will get, I don't know – and with that uncertainty, I struggle.