On Arrival


 It was like stepping out for a hike through the fog, like approaching a large bend in the road, not knowing what comes next, not knowing what awaits me. Leaving the home of my childhood felt like a freefall, a leaving behind of all things familiar. I began to mourn for them before I’d even gone, and when I’d gone there was a vacuum of sorts, the deep inhalation before holding my breath; holding my breath – waiting. Waiting for… what? For the landing? For arrival?

In my first few months here, many people asked if I had “arrived” yet, a typical German question. I was holding my breath, so I could only shake my head, no; no, and I don’t even know what that means.

It takes time, they would say, nodding their heads knowingly, all experts at the art of arrival.

I would nod my head in obligatory agreement and think, Or maybe it just isn’t possible.

I have never needed to arrive anywhere, not really. Every time my plane landed or my bus reached its destination, I was just visiting or returning, no need to battle for my arrival. I was just embraced by the warmth of familiarity or the excitement of newness. I was home or on an adventure. This was neither.


For a long time my comfort zone ended just about past my skin. Essentially everything outside of me felt exhausting. My 14 square meter sanctuary expanded that space and eventually the whole flat could be called comfort. A little exhale upon entering.

But this was not what you could call arrival. It was hiding with my companions, Homesickness and Wanderlust, my mind on the past and the future, home and adventure, claiming too tired, too shy, too different to make an effort to arrive here, now.

But consciously or subconsciously I realized I needed to fight for my arrival. My strategy echoes Nike. Just do stuff, Anna-Lena. So, I just did stuff. I emerged from my 14 square meters, mounted my two-wheeled battle horse, and went. I went and found the nearest forest and I found fields and I found flowing water. I started speaking to strangers again, and found that some of them were maybe struggling to arrive as well. I went to social gatherings I didn’t feel like going to and took part in activities I didn’t feel like taking part in.  I just went.


Discovering a farmer’s “Milch Automat”, the most enjoyable bike path to my school and a spring that pours forth beautiful water were little victories, the milestones of my arrival process.

I went and when I came back, I left my door open.








I left my door open to see and hear the comings and goings. To hear the door click closed and the key slide into the lock, footsteps down the hall, shoes being taken off, keys being hung up – the little exhale upon entering. To see them pass my door or stand in its frame for a chat. I left my door open to let them in, to share my sanctuary. And they came and rested and left. I went and came, came and went and maybe, the mere act of walking through that door hundreds, perhaps thousands of times allowed me to begin exhaling. To let go of the breath I’d been holding, to stop waiting and to start planting a garden, delighting in each new sprout.

Have I arrived yet? I don’t know, but I’m beginning to breathe normally again.


24/5/2018





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