Thursday night I spent lolling on the kitchen floor, hugged by darkness and flickering candles and the eerie notes of Portishead, mulling over my life in the German countryside. The singleness, the slowness, the wonder of it. If I had the choice to stay or go, which would it be?
Coming upon my one year anniversary here means I'm nearly halfway through my contract. Time to let thoughts seep in, and decide where life may lead me next. My journal pages fill. I wonder if I should limit myself. But I don't.
On my bookshelf, I picked up Love Begins in Winter, a book I ran into in a tiny bookstore in small town somewhere that I can no longer remember. I started rereading it. It's almost hard to breathe when I take in the words. I feel so much; I want to share it with everyone but I know reading is a personal experience and I what I feel might not be the same as another. But still. I'm haunted by his words, the way they reach into my soul and squeeze and waken. Tears from dried eyes fall, and I feel that this book is talking to me.
From Love Begins in Winter by Simon Van Booy:
"The very best and the very worst of life comes from our ability to love strangers."
"And she sensed that every she had every touched- whether deeply over the years or for only a brief moment in a crowded elevator - might somehow be the story of her whole life."
"It's true the people we meet shape us. But the people we don't meet shape us also, often more because we have imagined them so vividly.
There are people we yearn for but never seem to meet. Every adult yearns for some stranger, but it is really childhood we miss. We are yearning for that which has been stolen from us by what we have become."
"Love is like life - but starts before and continues after - we arrive and depart in the middle."
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