A Village in Rheinland-Pfalz (Germany)
One morning I wake up in feelings of sadness and emptiness that I can only slowly shake off. My gaze drifts to the garden, where I witness a territorial dispute between a crow and a very aggressive magpie. Larger animals seem to have this sense of their own space and the will to defend it – something I only learned very late in life.
Like so many things in my life: they came late, or not at all. And now we are here, a full month in the place that is meant to become our home. Only the arriving is harder than expected. I still feel like a stranger when I walk through the village and greet the people I meet. And even when I simply step outside the door and say hello to one of the neighbors.
Everyone is friendly, but quietly reserved. Each person keeps to themselves – and there they want to stay. I'm no different: I am happiest in my own company, and hers. I don't need other people, I tell myself again and again. And perhaps it's even true, because I feel no loneliness. That, to my great fortune, has left me.
And yet I sense that I am moving in the right direction, step by step – that I am in the process of arriving. Simply leaving the last four years behind all at once doesn't work. I have to give my body, my soul and my mind the time to separate from the old story, to let go of the old path and to accept the new one. Then perhaps something like happiness will happen. The thought of it feels good.
Happiness can neither be bought nor lived in. You can only see the good in people, in things, in life – recognize something that brings you joy and gives this existence meaning. I believe this capacity is given to all of us, to some more, to others less. And yet there are those from whom it was taken early, who were let down or even broken by those who should have protected them. How can such a person still see the good in this world? I can – thankfully.
We have our first encounter with someone from the village, even if he no longer lives here and is only visiting. We are on our walk, which lifts her spirits – not only because of the mild temperatures and the sunshine, but also because for the first time in many days we are outside.
Just then, an older, sturdy man steps out of a house, and we fall immediately into a conversation full of surprises. He is from the village, born in that very house – once his family's farmhouse – but has been living in Ireland for over fifty years. A former architect and filmmaker, he is clearly well-versed in the history of the places he has lived in or travelled through.
We are enriched with new knowledge and receive a gift on top of it: a small booklet about an old oak tree that once stood in this area. It was blasted and nothing remains of it but this little story. I take the booklet gratefully, still wrapped in its plastic film. At home, I place it on the stack of boxes in which all our books are packed – the ones we couldn't bring ourselves to part with before our journey.
The time for real books has come. Little by little I will free them from their boxes and use one or another as nourishment for my mind. There it is again, that feeling of happiness and joy. More of that – and this place might truly become our home.
One morning I wake up in feelings of sadness and emptiness that I can only slowly shake off. My gaze drifts to the garden, where I witness a territorial dispute between a crow and a very aggressive magpie. Larger animals seem to have this sense of their own space and the will to defend it – something I only learned very late in life.
Like so many things in my life: they came late, or not at all. And now we are here, a full month in the place that is meant to become our home. Only the arriving is harder than expected. I still feel like a stranger when I walk through the village and greet the people I meet. And even when I simply step outside the door and say hello to one of the neighbors.
Everyone is friendly, but quietly reserved. Each person keeps to themselves – and there they want to stay. I'm no different: I am happiest in my own company, and hers. I don't need other people, I tell myself again and again. And perhaps it's even true, because I feel no loneliness. That, to my great fortune, has left me.
And yet I sense that I am moving in the right direction, step by step – that I am in the process of arriving. Simply leaving the last four years behind all at once doesn't work. I have to give my body, my soul and my mind the time to separate from the old story, to let go of the old path and to accept the new one. Then perhaps something like happiness will happen. The thought of it feels good.
Happiness can neither be bought nor lived in. You can only see the good in people, in things, in life – recognize something that brings you joy and gives this existence meaning. I believe this capacity is given to all of us, to some more, to others less. And yet there are those from whom it was taken early, who were let down or even broken by those who should have protected them. How can such a person still see the good in this world? I can – thankfully.
We have our first encounter with someone from the village, even if he no longer lives here and is only visiting. We are on our walk, which lifts her spirits – not only because of the mild temperatures and the sunshine, but also because for the first time in many days we are outside.
Just then, an older, sturdy man steps out of a house, and we fall immediately into a conversation full of surprises. He is from the village, born in that very house – once his family's farmhouse – but has been living in Ireland for over fifty years. A former architect and filmmaker, he is clearly well-versed in the history of the places he has lived in or travelled through.
We are enriched with new knowledge and receive a gift on top of it: a small booklet about an old oak tree that once stood in this area. It was blasted and nothing remains of it but this little story. I take the booklet gratefully, still wrapped in its plastic film. At home, I place it on the stack of boxes in which all our books are packed – the ones we couldn't bring ourselves to part with before our journey.
The time for real books has come. Little by little I will free them from their boxes and use one or another as nourishment for my mind. There it is again, that feeling of happiness and joy. More of that – and this place might truly become our home.