I have a hard time these days putting into words what I see, hear, feel and think. Some days I am busy with radio work. Some days I go on walks with our puppy. Some days I can't stop crying while I watch a stupid movie with a talking dog.

Labor day weekend, a weekend of record heat and smoke-filled skies from fires in Southern California, I sat in Los Angeles' Marina looking out on the water with a cold drink next to me. Suddenly I thought: "How can we pretend that everything's ok?"

Later at home, I wrote this poem:

May 25, 2020. Memorial Day. 6 PM in Los Angeles. We decide to prepare the tenderloin, sweet potatoes and brussels sprouts first, go to the beach for sunset, have a dinner and movie night at home. I start peeling potatoes while my husband marinates meat for the grill.

2000 miles northeast it's 8 PM. The sun has set. There is still a glow of light. The air is warm. An employee of the Cup Foods store, corner of 38th street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis, Missouri calls the police. A man, he says, used a fake 20 dollar note to buy a pack of cigarettes. Eight minutes later a squad car arrives. 

6:20 PM Los Angeles. While I pour olive oil over the veggies, add fresh rosemary and lemon juice, 17 year old Darnella Frazier pushes the video button on her smartphone.

What I am longing for the most these days is the ocean.

The beaches are closed in California, so I know I will not be able to put my feet into the Pacific for a while. I wanted to find out whether I would at least be able to feel the ocean breeze.

So I took my bike to see.

First surprise: the bike path behind our house is still open.

     Two sheets of white paper lie in front of me. One is covered in bold and vivid lines, green and golden. To me they look like arches, minarets, sails and ships and stars. Next to it, on straight black lines, I see familiar German words. Unruly, shaky letters which look like they want to fly away. It is a letter from my mother, a belated Christmas greeting.

     I received both papers on the same day, the first one from a poet in 'Tehrangeles', a part of Los Angeles where many families live who came to the U.S. from Iran. That morning I walked into the poet's shop as a reporter looking for reactions to escalating tension in the Middle East. He said there was not enough time to talk and make sense of anything, as he was with a student to teach her calligraphy. He then handed me the paper with green and golden lines. "I wrote this poem about news coming from Iran, the demonstrators that were shot," he said. "It is for you."

My last trip through Germany was intense. There was the weather: October, cold and rainy mostly. Then there were my parents: fragile, sick, needing help. For a while I was sure, we would not make it to my nephew's wedding, a seven hour car ride up north. But we did! We celebrated through the night, our hearts full of love and gratitude. Then we drove back to my parents' house. The next day I spent ten hours on trains to Berlin and arrived just in time for the annual weltreporter meeting. "The vanishing world" was our main event, discussing the future of foreign correspondents. Nothing lighthearted and not a lot uplifting here ;-) Three days later I was back on a train to see my parents once again before my flight home to LA. A vacation it was not. 

Back at home I sat at my desk looking at familiar houses across the street, birds in the bushes, and cats on the prowl. I started writing. My memories from this trip boiled down into a story-dream.

Turbulences

     "Hang up your coats, enjoy the ride," says the conductress. "Here we go." I hang onto my armrest. I focus on the fields of harvested corn race by. I unwrap my liverwurst-pickle-sandwich and take a big bite. Then I delete thoughts, plans and memories with one blink of my left eye. Fog moves in. Layers of future, past and present.

     "Hopelessness is the path to presence," a message pops up on my screen. Mind readers are hiding on my wrist.