Big step: I’ve just given notice on my apartment; I’m moving to England. I know, that’s not far away and not all that different. Although there’s probably a lot more that’s different from what I’m aware of now…

Moving means moving towards something or away from something. It means gaining something or letting go of something, growing into something, or freeing yourself from something that no longer feels right.

I’ve moved dozens of times, but never have both sides come together so closely as now. I want to leave Kiel, and I want to go to England—I want both equally and independently of each other.

Getting away from here…

I lived in Kiel for fourteen years. But the city is no longer home to me without my dog, Polly. It has become one of those cities that “have beautiful parts, too.” (usually the German euphemism for “If you don’t know where to find these parts, the city’s not worth going to.”)

Even my apartment is no longer home. Since returning from Iran, I could barely stand being or breathing there, let alone living. Everywhere I look, I don’t see Polly.

I wish I’d outgrown Kiel. Instead, it’s like that cozy favorite sweater that’s been washed on the wrong program. It’s become itchy, lost its comfort. You’re wearing it anyway and realize it’s shrunk, too. You can’t get it off fast enough to scratch the itchiness.

Things got better once I started packing up the flat. Since I’ve been emptying the place, being there feels better. The outside and my inside fit together again. As I read on a card once: “Grief is love that has become homeless.”

…to here.

How could I possibly describe the place I’m moving to? It’s a village in the New Forest National Park in southern England. Google pictures of it, and you’ll understand my problem: it’s hard to believe that such a beautiful region actually exists. Let alone that you can live there.

Two years ago, I went there first time, and several times since. I have tried to capture my feelings for this place.

Are you sure?!

Of course, I’m also a little nervous. Will everything work out fine? Will I earn enough money? Won’t I be lonely?

We’ll see. Deep down, I’m sure it will all be fine. I want to live in this house, which has been there since 1786. I want to care for it with my mother-in-law and my husband. I want to bring it into the future, as well as the property that belongs to it. I want to become part of its history. And I want to continue traveling and writing—and continue earning money from it. And I want to continue working with dogs—in whatever way that may be.

It doesn’t sound like a life too hard to grow into—I can’t wait for it to start.

article in German

The post Between Farewells and a New Beginning first appeared on Eva Strehler.

How is it that there is no word for a feeling that everyone knows?

How is it that there is no word for a feeling that everyone knows? For the feeling of coming to a place and knowing: this is the right place for me. This is where I want to be. This is where my soul comes to rest.

Many people have an inkling of this from being near the sea. Researchers suspect that it’s because we originated from the sea. Others feel it in Tuscany. Researchers say that’s because it reminds us of the African savannah, through which our ancestors roamed.

But what I mean is smaller and more concrete – not a landscape, but a place, a house. You arrive, you wonder, and you exhale. Then, as you breathe in, you feel it: a sense of home in a place you’ve never been before. Familiarity where there should be none, with discovery and recognition at the same time.

I have yet to find a name for it in any language. The Welsh word hiraeth probably comes closest. It describes the feeling of belonging to a place, even though you are only just getting to know it. And it has a nice additional meaning: the idea that this place knows a part of you.

In ancient Greek (and here I am venturing onto thin ice, because among my readers is an ancient Greek teacher) there is the word nostos. In addition to a deep, almost mystical longing, it can also be understood as a return home, even if you have never physically been to this place before.

I have spent the last few days in such a place: a house in the south of England, built in 1786 in a village on a small river. The flagstones in the kitchen are as old as the house; it has a fireplace, old furniture, and the front door remains unlocked. And of course, it has a garden currently in full bloom.

Again and again, I had to stop, look, and marvel. Where does this quiet and peaceful feeling come from? What triggers it? The fact that one of the most lovable women I have ever met has lived in the house for almost 60 years and that she is also my mother-in-law certainly contributes to this feeling… but it doesn’t even begin to explain it.

What is it that appeals to our souls so much? Environmental psychology calls it “place attachment” when people develop an emotional bond with special places. Although this sounds okay, it neglects the fact that such a feeling can be there from the very beginning. At least it explains: the place – its light, smells, sounds, etc. – could address precisely the needs of the person who has fallen in love with it.

There is no good word for it. ChatGPT (since we are supposed to be open to new technologies) suggests you might have a déjà-home when you come to that special soul-ground of yours. I must admit: I love these words! The propositions for my native tongue German, weren’t half as nice as these. So, quite unexpectedly, and while I’ve been translating this text, I’ve been given what I was asking for.

What I’m wondering is whether we could also feel this kind of spontaneous affection for ugly places? Or to big cities? Maybe none of that matters. The main thing is that we all find such a place, and can spend as much time there as we like.

Here’s the article in German.

The post Call it by its name – about a feeling first appeared on Eva Strehler.