Honey made sure to buy a desk for me, a work desk, so that I could comfortably sit there and, well, work. And write. He has been begging me to write again since that night we met in that bar 4 years ago. However, the desk is too tall, and the chair is not so comfortable, so I am not a big fan of the desk. Like Herr Siedenburg would say, the desk is not my baby. But I have found a new baby--a wonderful Ikea chair (donated by the Tunca family), set right by the heater, and facing the window. During the so-called Summer, I enjoyed the rays of sunshine. During the seemingly-year-round Autumn, I watched the rain incessantly drench the world. And now, during Winter, I delight in seeing the snow fall: first small, clumsy flakes, then slowly big, chunky bits of ice that dance like whirlwinds as they fall.
Perhaps the chair has been inspirational. Perhaps the reason I had not written in such a long time is that I didn't have an inspiring nest.
Perhaps the weather has been inspirational. The German weather, apparently conspiring with the universe to keep me indoors, has opened the doors of my imagination and has brought back my writing-mojo.
Perhaps time has been inspirational. I now longer have stress, or things to stress about. My greatest concern is, OMG, what will we have for dinner? And trust me, that is a huge concern. Perhaps having time to think, to meditate, to want to write has been inspirational.
Perhaps you have been inspirational. Even if you did not write a comment, or send a message, I can see that you are reading me (Blogger Statistics are awesome). And if you have written a comment, you have inspired me to keep writing.
Whatever the case may be, and it might just be all of the above and not just one, I'm writing again. I've given serious consideration to writing a book, you know? A novel. A real one. After I had my Thai novel almost finished, and lost it, I unconsciously swore never to write again. But now, now I feel like I must.
But, what about?
Some famous author (I really have to find out who he was) said that, in order to write, one must want to write, not have something to write about. When one wants to write, it comes. Das kommt. Lo que's pa'l perro no se lo come'l gato.
Ok... here I am. I want to write.
When my grandmother was in her last days, she was very fortunate to be lucid, and surrounded by her five children. The day revolved around her medicines. My mom and aunts and uncles were all very cautious to not be late, and so things were done--or not done--depending on when she had to take her pills. But, every time the pill was taken, or the shot was given, or the syrup was drunken; when that was finished, then came the biggest philosophical question: Y, ¿ahora qué hacemos? And, what do we do now?
Yes... what do we do now? When you do what you are supposed to do, what do you do next? When you have huge dreams and they have all come true, what do you do next? When you find yourself waking up from your dreams, because your reality is so much better, what do you do next?
Genieβen, disfrutar, enjoy.
But you can only genieβen for so long... and then?
I have an answer for now: now, I wait. I wait until I get my Prüfung results; I wait for my acceptance letter at Kieler Universität; I wait for my Orientierungskurs to begin next week; I wait for my English lessons every morning at 10 a.m.; I wait for Honey to come home.
So, for now my life consists of waiting.
I guess, in a sense, we are all always waiting. And that's not bad. It's not bad, as long as we're not resting on our laurels just waiting. We must make the best of the waiting period.
In Spanish, the word for waiting is also the word for hoping: Esperar. And then, one must wait, and hope.
And I hope.
But for now, I'm off to bed.