Nine months later

It has been about nine months since my last entry. I've been reminded constantly to write something, anything, to express some signs of life. I do regret the time I spent away, despite that I did often think about this blog. The urge to write and share as before never dimmed. I'm not sure how to explain it exactly. My fingers were often rendered silent, wordless, the moment I got to this part, though my heart brimmed over with things to say.

I'm not sure how many of you, my Dear Readers, are still around after this long silence. (I would understand if you drifted away.) But, from where we left off, here's what happened:

I continue to live in Europe. I continue to be enchanted with it. The Belgians, those wonderful folks, gave me residency. In 2009, I spent the spring in dearly beloved Paris, the summer in Zürich, and the beginnings of the autumn in Düsseldorf. Throughout those months, I lived out of a suitcase.

I still don't have a permanent job; I am a part-time consultant.

In the fall last year, I moved in with F. We are in Berlin, the city we currently call home. We adore this new home so very much.

I've become rather good at German, thanks to daily and rigorous lessons. I am on the brink of getting classified as an "independent speaker," something that I remind myself when I am actually out and about and have to deal with real German people in real German exchanges, so thoroughly unlike my grammar books, unlike my listening guides. I tell myself over and over I am independent, and miraculously I do understand - and am understood. With every interaction in German overcome and survived, I cannot help but smile to myself. Independent, indeed.

I have been doing a bit of traveling. Last week, F and I celebrated four years since that first time we held hands in Petra. We did so by holding hands in Prague.

I have become a rather decent cook. And, as evidenced by the survival of the beautiful roses on our windowsill, no longer am I the bane of plants.

I am doing well and, on most days, quite happy.

I'm not sure what else seems essential to add here. (Of course, Dear Reader, you can always ask.)

Even when I was younger, I saw myself as a writer. My self-conception has always involved a love for the written word. I'd like to think I am only half-bad at it, perhaps even not too shabby. For a long time, this blog was that space where I could freely express myself, in my own terms. The more I wrote, the more I realized there was so much to share and to give. But I've come to accept I am unfortunately not the committed sort, the kind of person to whom my admiration goes, like the many bloggers whom I cherish.

I do wish I could write every single day. I know that nothing stops me from doing so, except perhaps for the principle I hold dear, that I should write honestly. So when I type these honest words, I see on the screen my feelings and my truths and hence have to confront them.

I shied away from this blog for a long time because it was not always sunny and sweet, and this cloud lingered for quite a while. I was reluctant to see the words that illustrated disappointments, heartaches, restlessness - and yet I could not spin false happy tales. Instead, I fled and lived my wordless life for the last nine months. (I tell you, it has not been easy.)

I would love to try to revive this journal. It does feel like the time to write again, to tell a story, to share an experience. It is time to be honest, and time to come home.