Lobe den Tag

28 Tage. Puh. Vier Wochen. Eigentlich war mir schon beim ersten Corona Tagebuch klar, dass dies ein Marathon werden würde. Aber manche Zahlen beeindrucken mehr als andere. Ich könnte langsam mal anfangen, meine Steuern zu machen. Heute rief mein früherer Gartennachbar Horst mich an. Das war wie Gedankenübertragung, denn seit gestern sitzt mir die Erinnerung an meinen Garten, an meine Hütte, an den See dort, wie im Körper fest. Ich erinnere, wie mein Körper sich dort fühlte: im kalten Wasser, in der Sonne, die nackten Füsse im Gras, der Blick, der bis ans Ende eines unendlichen Horizonts schweifen durfte, die Geräusche der Nacht, die Nachtigall, das Glitzern der Sterne am Nachthimmel, wie sich jede Faser in mir komplett entspannte, sobald ich auf der Wiese lag und die Wolken über mir sah und die Insekten um mich herum hörte. Ein Fühlen, ein Tasten, ein Hören, ein Schmecken, ein Sehen.... Jede Erinnerung daran ist physisch. Diese Zeit, die sich in die Länge zieht und von einer Art...

Draw a map of your secret wishes and get lost. (c) Lilly Becker What I learned in Sicily, was unexpected. A lesson in impermanence, tender yet stern. There is no eternity. Everything will end. This was the simple lesson. Everything will end. EVERYTHING. Even the things, you wanted most and never got. Even the things, you wanted most and got, only to regret them later. Even your love. Everything you ever loved will end. How important is it to remember? In Sicily I never saw a single star. But I saw the moon. Full and promising. Walking the coastline, it was kind of surprising to not encounter a single boat with refugees from Africa. It is not possible, to walk the mediterranean nowadays without thinking about all the people, trying to cross it. Without thinking about all the people, drowning in it. Evrything will end. They will end. Their hopes will end. Their hopes will end, one way or another. My hopes too. In Rome, Jennifer got onto our train. I...

I dont recall ever owning any faith. So, how could I loose it in the first place? I wasn't a believer, when I was a child. I went to church, because I had to. I grew up in a catholic household, so god was male for me and old. He had a white beard. I prayed to him like this: „Please make my parents happy.“ „Please let my father stop drinking.“ But also: „Please let me have that doll for christmas, you know, the one, that can walk, with batteries.“ He was somebody, I talked to, but he still was hollow. I would also talk to trees or to myself. I would talk to my dolls or the walls. So god was a normal part of my childhood, without me ever exploring any meaning. He belonged, like the curtains belonged. You did not have to believe in him. There was also fear. There were his anger and his rage, my sinfulness. There was no trust, no joy. You could not be yourself around god, unless you really wanted to get into trouble. Deutschkreutz, Burgenland I was not a believer ...

This week was, and I do not mean to sound pathetic, but it was not much of a great week. Nothing happened. Nothing beautiful, at least. The week was not showered in love or even in random acts of kindness.  I feel a little disappointed and tired about this week. You might call me a person with a very low threshold to boredom, and you would be right. I sit and think about all this. I mean, I could be grateful. Nothing happened, after all, also includes: nothing bad happened. My children are well. I am well. I have great friends, a more than o.k. job, I have an apartment in the middle of Berlin, where tons of people would like to live, I am going to Rome next week. But  I am not grateful. I feel a little bit sorry for myself, while I sit and think about the week, and than, I have an idea, which instantly makes it impossible to continue feeling sorry for myself: maybe, this is exactly the point. Me waiting for whatever greatness to happen is the problem. Has been the prob...

This is a text, which was first published on Valley Haggards page Life in 10 Minuntes . A great page from a great writer and I always feel proud, when she chooses to publish one of my pieces. The text is about one year old, so dating back to April of 2017, but funny enough, it still is totally true. I am even less moody 😘 What is sacred? I read this headline today. It was the title of an inspiring piece of writing by Linda Laino , a wonderful artist and mutual friend of me and my friends from Richmond. It got me thinking. What is sacred, for me?  Deep down, I always knew, that the sacred was everywhere, that it was the underground of human life, of my life in particular. Still, it was difficult for me to reach.  At times, I felt, nothing was sacred. And I wasn’t even depressed, at least not diagnosed, ever. I was very moody, though. I accepted it. My moodiness and the impossibility to reach the sacred. When I first came to Richmond, I joined a poetry group, which was one o...