time to go...

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Everything is changing
Nothing stays the same
One thing leads to another
Here we go again

..and here we go. off to the airport, to catch the plane over the deep blue sea

travel smiles~~~

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Everything is changing.
Here we are again.

...and there we are. back home. not 2 weeks later, but 4 hours later. due to an ice storm in Atlanta that delayed our flight and made the connection to Miami impossible. "Rather fly tomorrow," the flight attendant said to us. and so we collected our bags .. and went back home again.

home smiles~~~
and a home picture.. the snow sun of today.
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Fever dreams

I've had the flu all week; it crept up on me, after staying out till 2 on Thursday, wandering off without a coat Saturday night, the coldest night of the winter. At first I thought it was just a cough, an allergy. In fact I went for a hike on Sunday, in defiance of what my body was trying to say.

But it finally caught up with me, and all the tea with honey could not help me stand up or drive down to finish a project for work. I slept 10-12-15 hours a day, inhaled decongestants, salt sprays, cough drops, and now and then a piece of fruit. One night I made lemonade with maple syrup and bourbon. All of this alone with a needy cat (fortunately when he's out of food, he comes and cries--otherwise he would suffer the same fate as my plants).

The last few nights, I've been running fevers in the midst of all those weird dreams--past loves, this morning one where Bill Clinton was shot in the leg (in Gaza?), a gang member with earrings made of fingers of people he had killed. When I woke this morning, my sheets were soaked, as if all the fears were leaking from my subconscious. The thermometer doesn't register any of this.

The fevers take me to this terrible basic state: shivering, longing, helpless. It was no better to be sick as a child; my mother might bring soup and aspirin, but she was not indulgent and generally suggested I stay in my room. At least now I have the full range of my house. (And what am I reading in the overstuffed chair in the living room? The Fortress of Solitude! Silly girl.) At least my skin is dewy from all the liquids.

I'm just starting to feel better, even considering an easy trip to the gym. But my voice is still gone. And it's human company I yearn for after days and nights of isolation.

Outer Space / Inner Space

A text in a book. I read it Monday, returned to it Tuesday, and share it here, Wednesday, together with a moment from outer space.

When we normally think of resting we switch on the TV, or go out, or have a drink. But that does not give us real rest. It's just putting more stuff in. Even sleep is not true rest for the mind. To get true relaxation we need to give ourselves some inner space.

We need to clear out the junk yard, quieten the inner noise. And the way to do that is to keep the mind in the moment. That's the most perfect rest for the mind. That's mediation. Awareness. The mind relaxed and alert. Five minutes of that and you'll feel refreshed, and wide awake.

- Walking Journey, Hamish Fulton
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radiance

the quiet earth
waiting for our bodies to melt back into it
its patience is almost radiant
like the sun
shining on our bones of ice

Maps

maps on my desk, maps on my screen.



i am still following the path of my past journey through Thailand. yesterday i reached the beach, and sat there again, drawing the route i had taken, surprised that it still was there, in my mind. here is the page: Thailand diary, 12.02.2001

at the same time, i plan the next route: Florida. in one week, i will be there already, and it is now, here, while the snow is falling outside, that i get some orientation, that i learn to place curious cities and sights with strange names: Hobe Sound in the East, a twin of St. Petersburg in the West, and the Keys to it all – in the South.

oh and the map up there – that is the image my daily horoscope delivered today, all in tune with the day, stating that, indeed, "this is the time for plans, not for action."
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Truth. Simple.

Today is the same day that exactly one year ago, during the Chinese New Year festival that I was in Nanjing. Roaming the streets of the former capital of China in the hope of finding a book on Chinese literature. Along with a friend, we searched every bookshop we could find. But no one seemed to have had the brilliant idea to print Chinese novels in any other language apart from Chinese. And just to cap the frustration, we couldn't find a single English book either. For someone who will go without food but not books and in fact, the whole of the week, I had hardly eaten anything apart from plain bread, the idea of going without books too seemed doubly cruel.

The very evening at dinner given by some Chinese friends, I mentioned this and that's when the international director of the school told me of 'Journey to the West', a novel based on the legend of the Monkey King. Lianyungang, where I stayed in China, was also where the Monkey King is believed to have stayed.

Some days later, while back at the school, I was asked to write content for the school's website. And then I remembered the legend of the monkey hovering around the city. So that's when I asked for a translator and had a fascinating conversation with the Chinese teacher. Who not only told me the tale of the Monkey King but also some simple truths. In the end, I was about to leave and as I turned, he turned to me, abandoned the translator and said in broken English: "You. On a journey too, yes?" For a second, I didn't know what to say... and when you don't know what to say, it is better to not say it. He struggled, forming the words over in his mind, searching for the little English he knew. "Life big. But truth bigger. And simple." "And what is the truth?" I asked. "Oh. Simple." "Simple? What does that mean?" I asked, wishing the man knew more English or I more Chinese. "Truth. Simple," came the reply.

I shook my head, not understanding and prepared to leave. Till, he suddenly turned and started searching his desk. I waited. Finally, the wait produced a dictionary. A Chinese-English dictionary. Minutes ticked by as pages were thumbed through and I am never good at waiting. Finally, with a flourish, he turned the book towards me and underlined the word he wanted. The word: Simplicity. And then I understood, truth is simplicity. Simple. "You no look for big truth. See... truth." "Yes, truth is simple," I said. Words beyond languages.

Even now, sometimes when I think that some things are too hard to understand... I remind myself that in fact the simple things are always the ones we overlook at first. And the second time. And the third.

a lesson from starlight

here's a poem I like by Ted Kooser:

Starlight

All night, this soft rain from the distant past.
No wonder I sometimes waken as a child.

In this book called Delights & Shadows there are a lot of good poems. And for me, here is the kicker: In the little biography section at the end, they reveal that Ted Kooser is a retired life insurance executive. Which says to me that none of us can really have an excuse for not pursuing our art because we have to work 'real' jobs.

We sometimes waken as children, too...

Time Links

sometimes time has its own ways to weave a net that crosses space, it seems. an unexplainable relativity that has the power to connect the now to the past and the future in unexpected turns.

exactly four years ago this time i boarded my first flight to Asia. on the 15th of January 2001, at 19.30. a Monday, it was back then. i didn’t write English travel mails back then, didn’t even think of putting an online travelogue together. in fact, i didn’t even know how to create web pages back then.

most of the pictures staid unscanned, like this jungle river picture



lines of the journey found a place, though, in German, in a yellow diary i took with me. it was a friend who made me open the diary again, a friend who works in a culture centre. "How about a photo evening with your pictures of Thailand and Cambodia,” she asked. i wasn't sure. she was.

the evening will happen on March first. thus i am here at my desk now, reading through those diary pages, scanning pictures, browsing memories. and i can’t help but feel that this can’t be just coincidence. here is the link to the first diary page - eastbound

smile. even the time matches. sometimes i think, there are tiny connections through time, undiscovered yet. some kind of time links. moved by future memories to be.

Mexico

I'm home all too soon from the wonders of the turquoise Caribbean (where I first learned to swim) and lovely Mérida, the Paris of Mexico:


I landed on New Year's Day, met my travel companions for the first time on the plane, and later adopted two more (Israeli women, lacking a guidebook, a phrase in Spanish, or a reservation). And then we were five. We headed for a few days in Merida, of song, food, and shopping. Wonderful streetlife. More wonderful visits to Mayan ruins.

After a few days of culture, I longed for the beach. 79 degrees was the air and the water. In four days, I went from anguished to relaxed to radiant.

Now I am home, shivering but enjoying the sunlight. And the photos and the memories. Wishing I spoke better Spanish. Already dreaming of the next visit. Mexico, so close but always takes me so far in my imagination.

Just Another Day

I am writing this at the end of what was such a crappy day. Yet, I saw the most gorgeous sunset, so it couldn’t have been all that bad. And perhaps, it was the ride in a terribly overcrowded bus, in the midst of a really bad chaotic road day, in the evening that changed the tune of an off-key past 48 hours. Somewhere in that bus, packed to the extent that even a mosquito would find it hard to get in…as I stand near the steps, another woman enters the bus. She finds no place to hold on to for support, so she chooses the next best thing…my shoulder. And somehow, in the disappearing ashes of what seemed really like the dying hours…a little flicker in that simple gesture sparked some life. Instead of being exasperated with that lady, as I probably would have been on a better day, I couldn’t help but smile at her ingenuity…at her antics where she could hardly keep her balance in the two inch space…and then…I see the orange globe smiling at me outside. Smiling for a few minutes before spreading the sky with an ethereal glow. Simple things. Complex life. Or is it the other way around? Sometimes we all need a shoulder, and someone to send some sun to ease the wrinkles of an aged day…in some ways, this is a rather convoluted example of the same.

3 Things

1) jogging in the afternoon. mud on the road, the remains of snow. some steps further, soaked silvester fireworks. the earth - cold and chilly, the braches of trees - black arms frozen in motion, the fields - empty. then suddenly on the side of the road - the fresh green of a new born leaf, an everyday miracle.

2) sitting on the sofa, later. in my hands, a cup of melon flavoured green tea. changing channels, i zap into a docu about Colombia. huge trucks driving down mountain roads. a checkpoint in rebel area. a young soldier standing at the side of the road. behind him - a little girl in a pink Sunday dress, handing him a newspaper. the soldier takes a page, adds two sticks, turns it into a paper kite. the next scene - the soldier and the girl on the road, flying the kite.

3) the thought again. that the most important things in life in fact aren't things.

Turning Pages of Time

new year’s morning finds me turning pages of time, lifting the old year gently from the wall, putting the new year in its place.

upstairs, it is goodbye to the colors of Miro. “Birds surrounding the star of hope” – that is how 2003 had started, in the calendar, and in real. i had a ticket to fly back then. Thursday 8th of January, to Bombay. it feels like a week ago, like a lifetime ago.



memories of India in my mind, i walk downstairs, to turn another page of time. the calendar in the floor, it is a museum. at least that is what is written on its top: Museum der Malerei – museum of painting.

here, the new time doesn’t come in months, but in weeks. a new sheet, a new artist, a new painting, a new mood every week. i open the first page, and stand there, stunned, as i see the past turning to present again. for in this first week of the new year, the calendar, from all artists of the world, features: Miro.

his figures, here they take shape again, forming the end of 2004 and at the same time the beginning of 2005. the title of the painting: “Schwalbe Liebe” – Bird Love. so perfect. even if i had tried to plan it, i wouldn’t have figured that one out so neatly.

"Let more moments of the year take wing like this," i say to the old mechanic clock that watched the scene. "Tick Tock," it answers.