Sie ist weg/She is gone

Als ich aufwachte war sie weg. Ich war ganz außer mir, denn ich hatte schon so lange mit ihr zusammengewohnt und sie war mir fast sympathisch geworden. Eine Gewohnheit, immer präsent, immer anwesend. Morgens war sie am Stärksten. Wenn ich das Haus verliess, um an die Arbeit zu radeln, sass sie mir im Nacken. Sie verfolgte mich in mein Büro, wo sie meine Termine verunstaltete, meine Telefonate abrupt unterbrach und meine Kaffeetasse umkippte.
In der Mittagspause ließ sie meine Hände zittern, so dass der Brokkoli runterfiel und der Tisch sich anfühlte, als passierte ein Erdbeben. Im Fitnessstudio schmiss sie mich von den Geräten und abends auf der Couch bewegte sie meine nervösen Füße.
Aber ich lernte mit ihr zu leben. Ich lernte das Zittern meiner Hände zu ignorieren, das Stottern meiner Stimme zu verstecken. Als sie dann heute Morgen plötzlich weg war, war es als ob mir etwas fehlte. Was sollte ich nur machen ohne dieses vertraute Gefühl der Angst?

When I awoke, she was gone. I was disturbed because we had been living together for such a long time and I had gotten used to her. A habit, always present. In the morning she was most intense. When I left the house to ride my bike to work, it was as if she was riding along behind me. She followed me to my office where she messed up my appointments, interrupted my calls and where she pushed my coffee cup from my desk.
During lunch she made my hands shake so much that the broccoli fell off the fork and the table rocked like in an earthquake. In the fitness center she pushed me from the machines and at night on the couch she moved my nervous feet.
But I learned to live with her. I learned to ignore the shaking of my hands and to hide my stuttering voice. Then when I woke up this morning and she was gone, it felt as if I was missing something. What should I do now without that familiar feeling of fear?

Burn, baby

It is fascinating how everything burns. Cloth turns into a gooey clump and metal turns black, rough and ugly. Photos bubble and wrinkle into a ball. Some even make a popping sound. Paper is eaten hungrily by the raging flames and makes the fire temporarily bright and big.
I sat at the edge of a lake on a warm night, killing memories — old baggage. I had made a decision in my life and in a rage decided to burn everything associated with it. I had desired the feeling of relief; just like the decision had brought on, but burning all this stuff only made me hurt. It was painful and stupid.
Yet here I sat, wrapped in a sarong after taking a swim in the lake. I listened to a deer roaring and moaning on the other side of the lake. I wondered whether the deer was calling for sex or whether the animals make these noises while humping? In any case, it felt surreal, but I wanted to finish what I had started, so I kept fueling the fire with memories, when suddenly my dog began growling. Then he barked and I saw a man in camouflage coming towards me. He carried a bucket and fishing pole and barely took notice of me, while walking straight to my little fire at the lakeshore. I had gone away from the fire to hold on to the dog, so I watched the man from above the shore.
This scene could have been great stuff for a soap opera: A woman, hurting, in need of a strong man to rescue her from the flames of despair. They see each other and their needs (the man of course had been longing for a beautiful dame he could protect), she is already half-naked, he takes off the camo suit and his beautiful tanned muscles glisten in the setting sun; she lets go of the sarong and their hot bodies unite right there next to the baggage-fire like a storm of desire.
INSTEAD the man scooped up a big bucket of water and put out my fire! Then he yelled at me in Bavarian that number one: bathing at this spot was not allowed, number two: definitely no fires and three: the dog had to be on a leash. These were three violations already and the police would fine me at least 300 Euros for my misdemeanors. This time, he said, he would let me go. “Do you understand me?” he yelled. “Yes,” I said completely intimidated. Then he stormed off, mumbling that I had no respect for nature, while waving his fishing rod into the air.
Who was this guy? He clearly wasn’t authority otherwise he wouldn’t have talked about calling the police. What gave this man the right to put out my fire? Why didn’t I confront him? Why did I not stand up for myself? In fact, that night I didn’t give a shit whether the police busted me or God himself climbed down the ladder from heaven to punish me! I did what I had to do and I wanted to be left alone! And why didn’t he tell me these things nicely? We could have had a civil talk about this like mutually respectful adults. But we didn’t.
This was a fitting ending to a disastrous attempt to rid myself of memories that perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten rid of? On the other hand, it confirmed that I am done dancing after the nose of men. I am determined to learn to stand up for myself whether it is against a tyrant who puts out my fire or anyone who doesn’t honor me. My fire is lit. It’s burning, baby!

 

 

Freedom

“Freedom cannot be given; it must be won.”
“Those who long for freedom attain it only after experiencing release – and release is a gift.”   ~ The Spirituality of Imperfection

What does it mean to be free? I am free to do what I want. I am free to say what I want. Yet, when I know it may hurt someone what I do or say, I think twice about being so freely. Does that mean I am not free any longer? I suppose I choose not to do or say something. That’s my free will.
I choose to be a teacher, which means I go to school every day. Some mornings I don’t want to go to class. Yet, I do it anyway because I made a commitment to the kids. Am I still free then? I choose to make this commitment. That’s my free will.
A partner once asked me to give him freedom. I did. Yet, I felt I no longer could talk freely to him because suddenly the partnership was on his terms. I did not feel free, even though I made the choice to give him freedom.
Feeling free and being free seem to me two different things. I can feel free when I dance to music, when I watch a copper snake wind through the mud. I feel free when I see the sun rise above the mountains or when a double-shooting star falls from the sky. I feel free when I laugh or when my dog tries to kill his leash and I chase him across the field. I mostly feel free when I am in the here and now. In these moments I am just with myself and with what is directly in front of me. Past and future are irrelevant as is the purpose of my life or that of anyone else.
However, this doesn’t mean I don’t care about anyone or anything. While in the present moment, in the background I am still a friend to other human beings. I am committed to my friends and family and I care about their needs and wants because I love them. So, while I am in the present moment, feeling free, I am still not entirely free. Any interaction or relationship with anyone or anything limits freedom.
Going with this definition, if I wanted to be entirely free, I would only live in the present moment and I would not commit to anything or anyone.
What would be left then? Lonely me.

Fish Short Memoir Prize 2015 Shortlist

My short memoir “I am Made of This” has been put on the “Shortlist” for the Fish Publishing Short Memoir Prize 2015. I am one of 90 writers who made it on there. 780 writers submitted. I have no idea what all that means, but it’s kinda cool.

See the list of writers here: http://www.fishpublishing.com/2015-short-long-lists.php#mmls15
Read what the editor said about the submissions: http://www.fishpublishing.com/short-stories-news.php

Frankfurt Writers’ Group

Check out my Creative Writing Group in Frankfurt, Germany:
https://thefrankfurtwritersgroup.wordpress.com/members/

Public Reading on February 2 in Stuttgart

Here is more information on the public reading of my writing group in Stuttgart.
We will present work on the topic “Boundaries.”
http://www.merlinstuttgart.de/darkmondayfebruar2015.html

I am Made of This

This is an excerpt from my forthcoming piece I am Made of This to be read on February 2, 2015 at the Merlin in Stuttgart (more information to come).

Cancer Keys
I found a collection of keys in my father’s closet. They hung on tiny hooks in a metal box. I opened the door to the box and touched the spare car keys, bike-lock keys, a single skeleton key. One that looked like it would open a basement door. Another could have been the key to a safe. House keys, a mailbox key, file cabinet key and one for the garage door. There were copies of keys. Shiny, cold metal keys.
My father was dying of cancer. We had placed the hospital bed in the living room of my father’s bachelor apartment where he could supervise the kitchen and the small patch of trees behind the building. My brother sold the sofa that once stood where our father lay now, puking and losing all fluids imaginable. The dining table was changed into the nurse’s station with boxes of plastic gloves, green gowns, disinfectant, needles, bandages, urine bags, poop bags, tubes and tape. There was a log where the nurses and the doctors wrote down what medications my father should take for pain, a bleeding nose, the vomiting. Underneath the table were I.V. bags full of milky and clear liquids – my father’s nutrition since January. None of the foods he consumed the normal way fed him. The tumors were all over his stomach.
Sometimes when the nurses had come and gone, leaving a mess on the table and the smell of hospital in the air, I could see pieces of the Christmas tablecloth that was still underneath all the medical equipment. On Christmas Eve, a month ago, we didn’t know that my father would have to sell his couch to make room for a hospital bed. Then I had helped my father set the table and decorate the tree, while he ran to the bathroom to throw up. We didn’t know his bowels had already been obstructed for weeks. I remember the fight we had because I wanted to take him to the hospital on Christmas. He was furious and insisted on cooking for us. I understand now why. My father must have known it would be our last feast.
On that day in January when I found the key box, I dragged the urine-soaked sheets to the washing machine in the closet, and I just stayed there. I held back tears, exhaustion, fear and disgust. I tried to make my mind bland, empty, and I prayed for one of my family members to come and relieve me. Then my father called from the living room. He was thirsty. He wanted Fanta, the sweet yellow liquid that we only drank during special occasions when we were kids.
“Yes, I’ll get you Fanta,” I called back. “Soon.”
But I never did.
When my father looked at me, his eyes were foggy. He couldn’t focus for long and before he noticed that I didn’t bring him Fanta, he was unconscious again. I didn’t because the doctor had told us that anything carbonated would trigger him to throw up. But that is only half of the truth. I was afraid to come near him. I was scared of this pale, sick, shrinking man who was my father.
I remained in the closet that smelled of piss, cleaning supplies and metal. I took the box of keys and packed it into a cardboard moving box, listening as the keys cheered and clinked against each other. So many keys that opened and locked places and things, but not one key that would unlock a strength, a space that would give me the courage to take care of my dying father.

Morla

Covered in darkness I stood on the shores of the Elbe River, tears streaming down my face. On my left I saw the illuminated monuments of Dresden. On my right a group of people from the circus sat around a bonfire. I could here the fire crackling and the water lapping against the Earth. Before me the sky glowed in red, blue, golden and green: fireworks held in honor of Germany’s reunification.
I did not cry because of that. I cried because my dog Morla died in the hour when the German sky lit up. I watched the colors and celebrated my spunky Collie-Shepard. She was my companion for more than a decade. She was part of my life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
With Morla’s death all strings that connected me to that old life in the West vanished.
I let go.
I walk now in the East.
When the fireworks were finished I returned to my guesthouse, lit every candle I could find and opened a bottle of American IPA. My hosts’ grey kitten cuddled and purred in my lap. He did not leave my side the entire night as if he knew. As I watched the flames I imagined Morla sitting next to my father on the porch somewhere in a place that looks like Yosemite Park. I imagine them peacefully observing the light as it moves over the mountains and valleys.
I feel grateful.

The German Has Returned

This was written on September 18, 2013, in Vietnam:

The past few nights I haven’t been able to sleep through the night. I am exhausted in the evening and I often fall asleep, watching TV or reading a book. Then an hour later I wake and stay that way until dawn. Tonight is no different, except I finally understand my insomnia: it’s been exactly one year since I left the United States and returned to Germany.

As I sit here in my hotel room in Danang, Vietnam, I watch the curtains as they blow in the hot South-east Asian wind. I feel very close to the lightning and rumbling of the thunder on the 24^th floor of this high rise that towers over a shit-brown river. On my right I can see a lit-up, white statue of Buddha and on my left is a bridge in rainbow colors. Below on the streets, a Vietnamese man is trying to sell his services by repeating the same phrase, over and over.

The vision that pushed me over the edge tonight and finally transformed my insomnia into a very brief “cry-me-a-river” episode was of my dog Morla and I, walking in the Upper Peninsula fields at the Native American Sun Dance in Rapid River. It was during that time that one of the elders decided that I belong to the Wolf Clan, maa’iingan. Back then, thinking about the traits of a wolf, and my own personality, I found my new clan to be very fitting. I still feel that way, and the vision tonight reminded me that nothing really has changed yet at the same time everything has.

A year ago I was persuaded I am an American. I dreaded leaving my habitual and cozy life in one of the most beautiful spots on Earth with the greatest IPA, my closest friends and best dog ever. My goal was to return to Marquette as fast as I could, buy a house in the woods and live  a life as natural and sustainable as possible.

A year ago I complained about the German way, being suddenly so close to family again, moving back to my provincial home town, having to speak that guttural German language and feeling claustrophobic with 80 million people in a country the size of Michigan (which has only 9.8 million people).

A year ago, I thought 365 days is a long time.

Heavy torrential rain outside my hotel room draws me back into the present moment. I listen to the whistling wind under the door, which – how ironic – sounds like a howling wolf. I better take a look at the emergency exit map and locate the flashlight in case the newly built Novotel skyscraper doesn’t stand this crazy amount of water streaming from the heavens. I wish I could cry as much as it is raining and release all the stored up anxiety, pain and fear over the things that have happened in the past year: My dad’s cancer, my failure to write a book, my disappointing tangle with German men, fights with my mom, grandma’s poor health, almost collapsing under self-imposed workloads, more cancer and death in my extended family, cigarettes, missing my American home, walking without a dog at my side.

Yet during this year also a lot positive happened: I fell in love with Germany. Suddenly I enjoyed German words again, both written and spoken. I realized while mountain-biking the beauty of the German countryside. And look at that: German hip-hop music on my i-tunes. I switched from NPR to Die Zeit, and how did I ever exist without German food and Radler? The best part: I am close to my family again. So close that I can’t imagine leaving them again for another 16 years. It’s bittersweet, of course, since I am still as much of an Upper Peninsula wolf as I am a central German gal, but I think it’s time for me to give Deutschland a second chance.

In Vietnam, the rain has eased a little and the howling sounds more like a ghost now. I am beat and ready to try sleep again. Perhaps I can actually relax now since I finally said it out loud: “The German has returned.”

Manni

Manni needs a tooth. The last few times I have seen him, he has asked me how much a tooth cost. He asked me to look and see if he still has teeth and asked me whether I myself have teeth. Manni, short for Manfred, is our village bum. I have known him since I was a teenager, which is some 20 years ago. Back in the 1990s, he would ring our doorbell and ask for money. A tall man, probably 2 meters in height, he always wore a long grey trench coat and pants that nearly fell off his waist. With his shopping cart Manfred wandered down the main street, knocking and ringing on all doors. Initially I was scared of him, but after a while my family and I realized he was harmless. Manni always begged friendly, smiled and left when nothing was to be had. Over time, he learned our names and professions and held conversations with us as we passed him on the street.

Throughout the past year in Germany, I have seen Manni frequently. Nowadays, he walks bend, with a blanket wrapped around his lower body like a skirt. His face is tanned and weathered, sticky hair, hanging to his shoulders, but what most intrigues me are his large blue eyes. He still pushes a shopping cart that is filled with bags, paper cups, packs of cigarette, clothes, bottles, plastic scarp, boxes of food and the Bible (out of which he tore a page the other day, so he could write me a shopping list).

Although he knows my name, he likes to call me differently each time I see him. These days I am Kerstin. Before that I was Monica, and in between I am Miriam again or Mrs. Moeller. Usually, Manni asks me to get him some food from the store. The other day I ran into him at the cemetery where he slept under the patio roof of the chapel.  It was dark already, and he asked me to get him cigarettes and some groceries: grapes, chips, and trash bags. I left him my loose tobacco (which he returned the next day because he did not know how to roll cigarettes) and told him I would return with his errands the next morning. The next day I came back with the goods, but overnight, Manni decided he also needed the following: 2 packs of cigarettes, bread, milk, oh and a yogurt would be nice, and don’t forget the applesauce, he said. “And, Kerstin, dark chocolate? Two bars? Yes? That would be nice. And sausages? Six sausages in the glass … and a black coffee? That’s very nice.” Then, to my surprise, he pulled out a 50 Euro bill and handed it to me. He kept his money in an empty pack of cigarettes where I saw several other pretty dirty bills (20s, 10s, 50s). Then, also to my surprise, he wrote down the serial number of the bill he had given me. This made me wonder.

When I returned with the groceries and his change, Manni asked me to call his friend whom he knows from childhood. We couldn’t reach his friend, so I tried later again when I was back home. His friend said he would go visit Manni, sighing and sounding like he frequently gets calls from strangers about his friend Manni.

Manni is an interesting character. He always has a funny thing to say. Today when I bought him a newspaper, baby powder and artificial sweetener, he said: “Du bist ja ne Nummer,” which means so much as: “You are quite impressive,” or literally “You are quite a number.” Once when my brother Fredi and I saw him in the woods on a very hot day (Manni was wearing two jackets and dripping sweat, asking for water and food), Manni told us: “Ich geh jetzt mal in Deckung,” or something like “I will seek shelter now.” It sounded like something a soldier would say.

My family has often wondered what Manni’s story is: My great-aunt told me that he is an educated man who held a job once. She told me that he used to live in an apartment nearby. Other people have told me that he chose to live on the streets, that he used to have a lot of money and that his friends betrayed him for it.

The other day I decided to ask him directly about his life: He said he is 50 years old (“und ein paar zerquetschte”) and that he comes from the nearby village of Rechtenbach. He spends the winters in a “Wohnheim” or what I take to be a homeless shelter. Before he lived on the streets he was “working” in a school. I asked if he was an instructor, and he said: “something like that.” I could tell that he didn’t want to talk about his past.

I have thought a lot about Manni, and sometimes I wonder whether he really chose this lifestyle, especially because he seems to have money on him at all times, and he always offers to pay me back. I asked Manni why he doesn’t go into the stores himself to buy stuff, but he didn’t give me a straight answer. I am pretty sure that he is not allowed in the stores as he does look quite ragged and sometimes he smells a little or his pants hang way too low …

In some odd way, I admire Manni’s life: he has no obligations, and he experiences kindness of people, probably every day. When I shopped for him today, a woman next to me in line asked: “What are you buying for Manni?” Then she added: “I am getting him coffee and a sandwich.” While I was talking with Manni, a young man handed him a chocolate bar. Not too bad of a bum life?

But I do wonder whether Manni is lonely. When I talk with him, he comes quite close, and sometimes he smells my hair or pokes my shoulder with his finger. I can sense that he graves touch, and I have begun patting his shoulder when I bid him goodbye. I am not sure why I have such an interest in Manni. Perhaps it is because his eyes are clear and true and a bit impish, and he is appears to be kind? Perhaps because I always feel more comfortable with people who don’t participate in society, in what is considered a “normal” life? Although I still don’t know if he chose this lifestyle.

Maybe it’s because my family and I have known him for such a long time, and he feels familiar to us? For instance, on Monday, he stood on the street in front of my house where we were celebrating my brother’s birthday. After we gave him some cake, fruit and a pot of coffee, Manni congratulated Fredi, and then recognized everyone in my family.

In Marquette, I worked in a homeless shelter and I wrote a series about rural homeless people for the newspaper*. Today after seeing Manni again, I dug up my articles and decided to volunteer again in the shelter in my hometown. There is nothing more satisfying to me than helping others and putting a smile on their faces. Perhaps simply that is my calling in this life.

*Here are links to some of the articles I wrote about homeless in Marquette:
http://www.miningjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/520099.html
http://www.miningjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/520046.html?nav=5087
http://www.miningjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/520153.html
http://www.miningjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/520104.html