phone
Originally uploaded by professional daydreamer

it's about life.

I long to write. Write for my life. Write, or the cynicism will catch up.

(Write, Pauline, write!)


Writing means cultivating the longing.
And the longing might be all we have to live on.


I remember, a few weeks ago, still in Germany, I stood at a platform, waiting for a train. I was to be on my way to Berlin and there were oh so many sparrows, all hopping around me. And I considered them. I considered the sparrows, and I would have loved to pick one of them up and hold him in my hands. When I was a child, we would always rescue the sparrows our cat had caught, and they were lethally hurt, but we'd pick them up anyway, chase the cat away and take care of the little bird until it flew away for one last time. (Probably, it would have been grace to just leave the bird in the mouth of the cat.)
And one time, a sparrow flew into our living room. And it refused to find the way out to the window by itself, so I picked it up, enclosed it in my childish hands and brought it outside.
It's such a strange and wonderful sensation -- a bird enclosed in your hands -- holding so much freedom, weakness and strength, all at once. A miracle.


--

I wrote a poem for Marc on my second day in RI. And then I laughed and cried myself to sleep.
And I wrote, as if my life depends on it.


in Chicago:

The sun finds its way through the leaves, making them shine in a bright green; friendly, calming, unafraid. (and providing oxygen)
Children play and scream while their parents hover over them to try to calm them, or they take about a million pictures. There is a strange mix of people, pigeons, and empty coffee cups.
The city is busier than it was during the last two days: more cars to be heard, more people filling the cafes, sidewalks and parks; and more light of the sun to yet again multiply the freckles on my skin.

The human heart can cope with a lot, but I think nothing is as difficult as the permanent tension of the heart, and right now, for me, the longing for a loved one.


--

It's a beautiful, sunny day in Rhode Island, and as soon as Marc called, I will go out and take a long, long walk.

--

"...and may He be in you, to give you the peace that makes no sense."

bird on the wire

Lately, I seem to drown in things that I need to get done, yet (despite knowing better and time management plans I constantly invent) it feel s so good to just sit down for once, alone, and to find rest and time to read, write, think and pray in solitude.
(For me, this works best in the city.)


Breathe. (and remember to do it deeply)
Sing. (and remember to do it soulfully)
Laugh. (and remember to do it loudly)
Smile. (and remember to do it honestly)
Pray. (and remember to do it constantly)
Love. (and remember to do it wholeheartedly)


I sat at my favorite café in Jena today, and I wondered why it’s seemingly always pretty empty. Maybe that’s why I love it so much – I can be calm there. Sit alone at a table with three empty chairs and write. Read. (Also, it’s the only place where I put sugar in my coffee. (fair-trade & brown))

The wind moved my hair and the pages of my moleskine, my hand didn’t only move the pen but also the shaky table; and the cloud of milk foam danced upon my coffee.



***
Wir borgen Worte und finden uns in ihnen geborgen.

(we borrow words and find ourselves secure in them. (this sentence just sounds more poetic in German))

***
I long to be as that bird on the wire, so calm and unafraid.

lovely

can you hear my heart beating to this music?

pour me a glass of wine
talk deep into the night

who knows what we'll find


(listen)

[otr -- i love them SO much]

!!!

Dear Rhode Island,

I am very thrilled to inform you that I can really visit you this summer.

I will arrive in Boston on August 5th in the afternoon, will drive down to visit you and will leave again on September 23rd from said city in Massachusetts. (I think that'll give us plenty of time for hanging out.)

I cannot wait to see you again!


Love,

~ P.

blue lips can bring forth a song (and the meek shall inherit the earth.)

It is nighttime now, and birds were still twittering as the evening slowly came to town. A careful green decorates the trees now, still discrete, but losing its timidity more and more with each passing day. (When I will return to this town, I probably will not be able to recognize the tree in front of my window -- it will have put on a new dress.)

Spring has arrived with all its force now, and the breeze gently carries my thoughts away -- right now, to France, where my love rests his head these days.
Vacation is almost over, and a car pulls to the side of the road.

Tonight, we sang and drank wine, laughed and sat silent. Four girls. A-capella. Four voices, lifting up songs to the Lord.
Blue lips, forming words and a melody.


There is a lullaby that I know from my childhood, and everytime we sing together, it has to be sung. I learned the words by heart when I was very little, by singing it again and again, so many nights before I went to bed. I had never understood them, they hardly made any sense in that old and rusty German that didn't fit my everyday language.
I rediscovered that song about half a year ago. The words hold so much meaning. They hit so deep.


Wenn dein Aug ob meinem wacht / wenn dein Trost mir frommt / weiß ich, dass auf gute Nacht / guter Morgen kommt.

Come here and I'll sing it to you.
Rest your lovely head upon a pillow, I'll sing and watch you fall asleep.



My heart is overflowing with joy. God constantly pours out blessings over us, but only lately have I been awake enough to see.


Easter is close, I will be allowed to enjoy coffee again, and I can hardly wait for the greeting on Sunday morning at church:
"The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed!"

(Der Herr ist auferstanden! Er ist wahrhaftig auferstanden!)


But before, Good Friday.
(O how happy I am to know what will come on Sunday.)



and in all of this, blue lips can bring forth a song, and the meek shall inherit the earth.

a wonderful, wonderful friend.

work in progress

They call it redemption, but it is more than merely a word;

It’s home, when you are so far from where you grew up,
and far from the places you know.

It’s the smile on your lips each time you see a sparrow,
it’s considering grace when you feel you’re not alone.

It’s the crisp morning air at a time when your friends still have yesterday, you see the sun rise over foggy fields and you know it was worth it to get up instead of turning over and sleeping another hour or two.

It’s the newness of spring and the calm of autumn storms.
It’s strangers becoming friends.

It’s pressing down the keys on a piano, and you hear a sound – you’re not deaf.

You open your mouth and find there’s still a song you can sing.

They may call it redemption, but it is more than merely a word:
It’s God’s work in progress.

one more cup of coffee

I'm studying medicine.
There is not much time to write at all, and this for sure is sad, but I am doing really well here in Jena. (actually, I just passed my first anatomy exam today! phew.)
Just now, snow is falling, I am sitting in the kitchen of our apartment (I share it with 5 other people) looking out the window-wall (seriously, there is a wall missing, or rather, the stones have been replaced by glass. it's cold, but very beautiful.) and having some coffee.

The days pass by quickly here, and just today I realized that in a month it will be Christmas. I will be in the Berlin area again, and I'll be done with almost two thirds of the semester.

I miss you, my dear friends, and I love all the fond memories I made with you (and WILL MAKE with you!) but just now I am making so many new marvelous memories, it's very amazing. I feel good about being where I am. And if that's not something I can be thankful for, I don't know what is.

Medical school is stressful, but interesting. I think I'll get through, and hopefully be a good doctor someday. :)
I already found freaking rad people here whom I can call my friends,
and I generally drink way too much coffee. :P

Life is beautiful,
and God is good.


:)

(re)new(ed)

(I wrote this the week before I moved to Jena, so it was in the end of September. I haven't really had internet since, and so I was unable to post this. However, this weekend I am home again with my family before classes really start on monday. Also, I'm 20 now. hm.)


There is a poem I wrote in January that I cannot get out of my head.
I found it again a few days ago, somewhere on my hard drive, and the time it found me first, when I simply had to scribble it down on an old train ticket, is still so vividly present.

Melancholy, at its best. Those times seem so distant, yet they are so close.

(Remember the time when you set out to photograph some boats, and that industrial monster, but when you got there, the right light was just gone. You were out of breath, but you still weren’t fast enough.
Leaves were taking off to fly in the wind, and you knew fall was there. )


I am more hopeful today, excited for the days to come,
new people,
new places;

a (re)new(ed) faith.


(and this is why art is so spiritual:
There simply is no end to the journey.
You never have your fill.)


Inspiration lays everywhere, and nowhere (you’re becoming a professional word-thief again) when all you want is to write; but writing, that always is the work of grace.

The seasons’ transitory being; the story of winter to spring and spring to summer and summer to autumn and autumn to winter (just to make place for spring again) is your story. It’s written all over your soul.

Suddenly you remember that couple, carrying a lamp across the street; you wondered if you could ever arrive, be home, no matter where you are. (in Him.)

So these days, more awake than you have been most of the time, breathing that crisp autumn air, you’re off to a fresh start again.

Maybe it will become home,
maybe it will only be another waiting room before you take off for your next adventure.

But surely, someday, your coffee will be strong enough.

on mute