I am preparing to leave Aachen and resume my normal life in Muscat. It was odd to be taken out of my comfort zone and just placed here for three weeks. Not on holiday, but also not too much work. It took me ages to ground myself, and I'm so ready to leave now. But I have had many enrichening experiences, time to think and be with myself, and I have a feeling I'll be back.
Today I went out with my friend Simon and his parents; it was a kind of idyllic day and I'm so glad I spent my last Sunday with them. Simon is a good friend I got to know in Muscat and I met his parents in Rashid's desert camp. It was a night of so much laughter, an instant connection, even a kind of recognition, a good understanding. So, it was wonderful to see them again. The weather could not have been more perfect. They live in the countryside just outside Aachen, their house surrounded by fields, on the border with Belgium.
They took me to a monastry nearby where we went into the beautiful church, walked in the lovely park, saw the water mill and enjoyed a hearty vegetable broth with bread made there, and a dark beer brewed there too. The place had a certain tranquility and we were easy together, like old friends. I was happy, because my German flowed relatively well, I was worrying about that before. The church bells followed me today wherever I went, it was really special.
They took me to a viewpoint where one can look over the so- called 'Valley of God', it is green and picturesque and I could have sat in that place all afternoon. There on the hill was an old bunker from the war, a reminder that the place has not always been so quiet and pristine. Simon mentioned that there was a war cemetery nearby. I had never visited one before, and recently having scrutinised very closely the loved one's pictures of Normany, I really wanted to go.
It is called Henri-Chapelle and we got there in the late afternoon. The path leading to the entrance is flanked with pink and red roses in large beds. As one walks in, you have no idea of the sight that awaits- 7000 + white crosses and Stars of David laid with absolute military precision in the most immaculately manicured lawn. There had clearly been some gathering today, as there were wreathes and many of the graves had fresh flowers.
I have to say it was truly a noteworthy place, a dignified place. I felt honoured to visit there and pay homage to these soldiers. We walked quietly and admired everything, and as we walked out, the church bells were once again ringing across the green valley and the sun was dipping behind the wispy clouds, causing the whole sky to burst into a most deep pink. It was a moment of deep knowing that I am in the right place at the right time.
My visit to Bonn last Friday is so fresh in my mind. We visited 'Haus der Geschichte'', the history museum there- it covers the post-war years up to the present. I kept finding myself with tears flowing uncontolled down my cheeks; it was not a conscious crying, it was some kind of deep reaction to the knowledge of fellow humans enduring so much pain. I have never really properly thought about how it must have been to come back after 6 years of excrutiating war, and find your whole life in ruin, your home in rubble. So many people lost their homes, lost touch with their families and it must have been truly devastating. The resilience and stamina of the human spirit is truly amazing.
In my opinion, sometimes death is not the worst option.
As most of you know, I have had my share of grief, and as I stood in the cemetery today, I remembered this poem by Henry van Dyke called "Ode to Immortality" that has brought me great comfort through the years. It is an image which I love.
I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, 'There she is gone!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
'There! She is gone! ' ,
there are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout :
'There! She comes!'
- and that is Dying.
Today I went out with my friend Simon and his parents; it was a kind of idyllic day and I'm so glad I spent my last Sunday with them. Simon is a good friend I got to know in Muscat and I met his parents in Rashid's desert camp. It was a night of so much laughter, an instant connection, even a kind of recognition, a good understanding. So, it was wonderful to see them again. The weather could not have been more perfect. They live in the countryside just outside Aachen, their house surrounded by fields, on the border with Belgium.
They took me to a monastry nearby where we went into the beautiful church, walked in the lovely park, saw the water mill and enjoyed a hearty vegetable broth with bread made there, and a dark beer brewed there too. The place had a certain tranquility and we were easy together, like old friends. I was happy, because my German flowed relatively well, I was worrying about that before. The church bells followed me today wherever I went, it was really special.
They took me to a viewpoint where one can look over the so- called 'Valley of God', it is green and picturesque and I could have sat in that place all afternoon. There on the hill was an old bunker from the war, a reminder that the place has not always been so quiet and pristine. Simon mentioned that there was a war cemetery nearby. I had never visited one before, and recently having scrutinised very closely the loved one's pictures of Normany, I really wanted to go.
It is called Henri-Chapelle and we got there in the late afternoon. The path leading to the entrance is flanked with pink and red roses in large beds. As one walks in, you have no idea of the sight that awaits- 7000 + white crosses and Stars of David laid with absolute military precision in the most immaculately manicured lawn. There had clearly been some gathering today, as there were wreathes and many of the graves had fresh flowers.
I have to say it was truly a noteworthy place, a dignified place. I felt honoured to visit there and pay homage to these soldiers. We walked quietly and admired everything, and as we walked out, the church bells were once again ringing across the green valley and the sun was dipping behind the wispy clouds, causing the whole sky to burst into a most deep pink. It was a moment of deep knowing that I am in the right place at the right time.
My visit to Bonn last Friday is so fresh in my mind. We visited 'Haus der Geschichte'', the history museum there- it covers the post-war years up to the present. I kept finding myself with tears flowing uncontolled down my cheeks; it was not a conscious crying, it was some kind of deep reaction to the knowledge of fellow humans enduring so much pain. I have never really properly thought about how it must have been to come back after 6 years of excrutiating war, and find your whole life in ruin, your home in rubble. So many people lost their homes, lost touch with their families and it must have been truly devastating. The resilience and stamina of the human spirit is truly amazing.
In my opinion, sometimes death is not the worst option.
As most of you know, I have had my share of grief, and as I stood in the cemetery today, I remembered this poem by Henry van Dyke called "Ode to Immortality" that has brought me great comfort through the years. It is an image which I love.
I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, 'There she is gone!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
'There! She is gone! ' ,
there are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout :
'There! She comes!'
- and that is Dying.
