The Beautiful Beast of Now

Sometimes, when I close my eyes and let the noise and worry of here and now fade away, I can feel the warm salty wind blowing and the wheels of our Opel Classic turning, racing along that highway. I hear the laughter of good friends, new and old, chattering or singing along to some song. One hand on the warm steering wheel and one dancing in the wind, I delight in the splendor of the moment, a smile welling up in me. I see the desert, awash in the light of the setting sun and the road, running away from underneath us. We stop to watch the last rays disappear beyond the horizon. We stop for sweet mint tea. Did we stop to realize how wonderful it was to exist in that moment? I am caught up in absolute contentment, wrapped in the arms of companionship and wonder of simple beauty.

And sometimes, the vision is different. We are still racing, but on the sweet water of the lake, hot African sun pouring down on us, not oppressive, just very much there. I reach down into the water; it sprays back at me in response. Ba Ringwell, captain of the Pelican, swings his steering lever back and forth in childlike play. The Pelican sways dramatically and everyone in her loses their balance. But laughter pours forth and Ringwell is pleased with the result of his game; the mischievous twinkle in his deep, wise eyes and the crooked smile etched in his wrinkled face tell me so. But we are out here for fish, so we pull up and latch onto another boat, manned by two strong, shirtless fellows looking completely at ease, floating above their source of income. We buy some fish and carry on. “This one is yours; you will scale it.” And I did. Acquiring dinner has never been so fascinating before and I am filled with joy.

And still other times, I am lying in the grass on my belly. Several children have positioned themselves on either side of me for the story-book reading. One, even, has taken her place lying on top of me. Her weight says “I am here.” And I am glad of it. They are never as still as when I am reading to them. I take in the sound of their breathing as they take in the story, losing themselves, maybe, for a moment, in the illustrations. We are bound together in this space and time by Ms. Twiggley's Treehouse and the love of story. After the third “Another one.” I lay my head down in the grass. I don't quite remember the one on top of me leaving. When I awake, I am struck by the simplicity of their presence, of their expectations of me, the unassuming nature of their coming and going. “Aunty Anna-Lena, were you sleeping in the grass?” … “No.” A grin revealing my lie.

When I open my eyes again to the beautiful beast of Now, I struggle to explain why, in these moments, I felt truly alive, entirely content, wanting nothing. They are not extravagant moments; on the contrary, they are dazzlingly simple… but rich and full of being. Life, I believe, is teeming with them, if we are ready to see.

When I open my eyes again to the beautiful beast of Now, I wonder if I have lost the ability to see, if paperwork and new responsibilities have veiled my eyes. Now is a strange, inescapable place to be. I don’t know what your Now is like, but mine is tumultuous. It is like treading water in a restless sea. The phases of transition, as we so like to analyze and talk about, are apparently not at all as clear as those graphs depicted. (Apologies to those who created them.) When I jumped into the sea of the foreign motherland, I knew it would be hard; but in reality, I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t know how out of place I would feel. How lonely. How different. “Fremd” is a rich German word. Foreign. Alien. Strange. Weird. Different.

“Where are you from?” They ask the dreaded question.

“Lauffen.” I answer. Am I normal?!?

“Oh, so you’re not too far from home.” Home!?

“Well, actually…”

The illusion of ‘normal’ has already vanished. ‘Fremd’ takes its place and the long explanation commences. I am an anomaly. My boss told me recently he only invited me for an interview because my CV was so weird. He couldn’t figure me out. Still can’t… Neither can I.

But if I am strange, Germany is stranger. You need an entire book and color-coded map and calendar just to understand what to do with your garbage. Everyone is governed by little green and red men, green and red arrows, green and red lights, like a boring version of Christmas decorations that tell you how to live and how to cross a street. There are so many offices you need an office to tell you which office to go to. You do so much paperwork, you feel bad for the environment as you walk to the nearest store to buy a pen because all of yours have run out of ink. At some blurry border between winter and summer and summer and winter, everyone’s tires get changed because… I’m still not sure. Everyone rushes through the week to get to the weekend, through work to get to the holiday, through a career to get to retirement. And let’s not even start with insurances. Sometimes I walk through the town and look at the people passing by, going about their secure, insurance-covered lives, wearing masks over pain and joy alike and wonder “Where am I?”

Germany.

Beautiful, green Germany. Dynamic, international Germany. Strong, efficient, productive. Taking in refugees. Championing social care and education. Providing, adapting, and being safe. Land of Aldi and Lidl and pretzels and abundance. Land of the speed limit-free autobahn. Hosting endless Walderlebnispfade (forest experience pathways) and Freibäder (outdoor swimming pools) and countless other delights.

“You have called me higher, you have called me deeper, and I’ll go where you will lead me, Lord, where you lead me.” I sang. *

Even Germany?

Even Germany.

So here I am, treading water. Overwhelmed again and again by waves of loneliness, of fear, of confusion, of fremdheit, my feet not reaching the floor of the restless sea. At first, there was always a heavy weight, whenever I woke up in the morning. A seemingly unrelenting, incapacitating monster. I don’t feel the heavy weight as often as I did at the beginning. I have adopted a kind of rhythm since then. It is a slightly unpredictable, spontaneous rhythm, rather like jazz, but a rhythm nonetheless, with a growing sense of familiarity as the accompanying harmony. I tread to this rhythm and keep my head above water, but the waves, well, they still come as they please. Just the other day, I was cycling home from work, when all of a sudden tears welled up in my eyes and a lump lodged itself in my throat. Was it a memory of a time I was in that particular spot, but not alone? Or was it the people I saw, walking along together and me biking home to an empty house that struck a sore spot? I don’t know.

Knocked under water, I scramble again for the surface, breathe, and find the rhythm.

But somehow, I feel so weak, tired from the effort of not drowning. From time to time, something bad or frustrating happens and it hits me harder than I think it should. Be it a minor bike accident, a bike stolen, a failed driving test, mishaps with the car, an uncomfortable misunderstanding with an acquaintance or saying goodbye. These are not unendurable grievances, but they have me reduced to a sobbing mess or a nervous wreck. Until I regain my breath, my rhythm, in an inexplicable process of leaning in and letting it hurt*, allowing my brokenness to be witnessed, and submitting to being lifted and placed back on my feet.

Now is a beast of a time, but it is my only option; my Now, my contender.

Your Now may look different.

A refugee asked me a few weeks ago why I always look sad. I told him a bit about it, the trial of transition. He said to me, “If you are sad, what should we be?” I could not think of any words strong enough to answer. I understand why he said it, and he has every right. I have not lost family members to the brutality of war or seen my house demolished by a bomb or fled from my homeland. I cannot claim to understand, even slightly, what that is like. Our grief is of a different kind. I cannot compare mine to his or to yours. You could say that some sorrows are greater or more unthinkable than others, but in the end, they are, and that’s painful enough. Sorrows that are, matter.

So I feel them. I am gripped again and again by the missing feeling. Missing the people, places, and simplicity of times not Now. At the same time, these things give me strength. I close my eyes and remember and am somehow refreshed, recharged, reminded that this Now will not last forever and also that even this Now is not without its beauty, without its purpose. For it is not the sun that causes us to grow; but it is the rain that will strengthen our souls*. And rain glimmers with beauty, if we will see it. So I try to open my eyes, relearn how to see, taking in every smile bestowed upon me, savoring every sip of tea on my ‘balcony’, entering into every story my students tell me, delighting in the colors and clouds of the sky, and losing myself in the turning of the bike wheels. And walking in the forest. Ah, the forest; that is possibly the most healing of all. I go to my Father carrying with me my pain, out of the perfect rows of vines, into the quiet, mysterious mess of forest and say “Do you see me? Do you see these sorrows?” He doesn’t just see them, he feels them. He doesn’t take them away from me either, but he lifts the weight and replaces it with peace. And I am not alone. And I am not frantic. I am calm and quiet.

I am learning to float, in this way, above the waves, not escaping the sea, but not drowning, either… facing the infinite sky. Breathing. And being. The endless blue sky makes me think of forever. I am told that eternity is only forty-five minutes away, or even closer. Forty-five minutes is not so long. And what is my Now when measured next to Eternity?

Sometimes I wonder if just floating is scapegoating, avoiding the fight and the work it takes to ‘adjust’ and ‘arrive’, especially in this world of productivity, speed, and other tiring things… but what if I am not capable of more at the moment? What if this is all I’ve got? Maybe someday, I will find the earth under my feet and send down some roots, but for now, I will float and gaze at the infinite blue sky. 

*Adapted from song lyrics – credits to Sleeping at Last, All Sons and Daughters, and the Oh Hellos