I once was a writer...

As I enter my 40th year on this earth, I find myself with the need to create a Bucket List. Not because I have a sudden fear of death or because I feel my life has been empty until now. Neither of those are true. Rather, "new decade, new me". I want to travel the world. I want to discover what new cultures, new languages, new foods and new people have to share.  I want to go to the happiest place on Earth, and I want to discuss whether the flavors I am tasting are rather red or purple fruits, while the sun sets on the west coast and my purple dress floats with the cool breeze of the pacific fall.  I want to go back home and drink coffee while sitting on the veranda, knowing that this cup was harvested, milled, dried, ground and prepared with love for me, exclusively. I want to get lost trying to find out where the mountains of the Sierra Nevada blend into the Caribbean Sea, while the birds drown the silence and the fresh caribbean spring breeze wisks my curls across my face. ...

I always needed more time. I was always complaining about not having enough time. I could never do what I had to do, because I didn't have the time. Much less could I do what I wanted to do, because there was no time. Self-care? No time.  And for those things that I did need to find time for, it was always tightly scheduled. Garden work? Hurry, there is little time. Reading to my children? Only one book, there is no time. Dessert after a meal? Quicky, there is no time. Showering or bathing in the tub? Not so long, we don't have time.  Always this excuse, always this word, always this made-up concept. Made-up, yes, but absolutely necessary. My kids, for example, want to eat dinner and chat and also play a game and then eat seconds and then have dessert and then a hug and then cuddle and then please-don't-make-me-brush-my-teeth and then also read a book together and also read a book alone and listen to a song and listen to a story book and ... there are only so many hours in ...

Since mash-ups in the musical industry are the big hit at the moment, I fugured I'd jump on that bandwagon and attempt to mash-up some literature myself. Because, in the infamous words of my little sister, "why not?!" As I lay dying - and this is a very metaphoric death, because at my latest check-up my doctor told me I have the health of a 30-year-old - I find myself rather than pondering the future, just waiting for Godot. Interesting, because as a pscudo-catholic, the kind that just follows the socially-accepted holidays and refuses to pay taxes to the institution, I do find myself praying to God to show me the reason for my sadness, to guide me out of it. To save me. Now, I don't want to say God has not responded - rather, I'm aware that I may not be listening. It is hard to listen to that which one does not want to accept or admit.  Waiting for Godot I have noticed that I have been waiting for a long time now. Always with a good excuse, always with good reaso...

I'm well aware of all my identities, past and present. I wear them like masks - some, I have even worn like capes. Proudly displaying them for the world to see and admire. I used to believe that I could "put on" one identity and be authentic, and then "put on" another one and still the authentic. And at least in my heart I was authentic. Natalya, the 16-year-old poet was an authentic identity for me; Natalya, the Journalist was a thrilling identity (that came with an official badge and access to many venues and people I would have otherwise not been able to get close to); Natalya, the Foreigner was (and continues to be!) my favorite identity, the one with which I feel most at ease. Perhaps because it is the simplest one, the one that requires the least amount of work from my side: I just happen to not have been born where I live. I have been living with this identity for 22 years. Most recently, Rolfs-Mutter and Christophs-Mama have joined the ranks of my favori...