Something Strange and Wonderful (Missing New Zealand)

I have said a couple of times before that in my mind, my life exists in two parts: before New Zealand and after New Zealand. Before I went to live in Auckland for a year when I was fifteen I felt out of place constantly, I felt uneasy about everything I liked, and said, and did, like it wasn’t cool enough or good enough; enough for whom, I don’t know. Maybe for myself, maybe for everyone around me. I was insecure down to the core.
New Zealand was a bit of a magical place for me. I met all those wonderful, strange people who took me in and made me understand that I had a place in this world, and that I had the right to fight for it. I came home transformed, and not only for the better. But I had got to a place where I felt safe. Happy even. And with that in you, you can master most anything.

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With the arrival of autumn, I have caught myself going longingly through the memories, catching my breath at the sight of a particular leaf in the wind or listening to the same old song again. I miss New Zealand. I miss it now more than I did in those past couple of years. I miss the sound of the kettle in the kitchen, a sound so uniquely ist own. I miss the glow on the pavement after the rain. I miss that one coffee shop that sold giant hot chocolates and banana muffins that tasted like drops of heaven. Sometimes I find that I miss the scenery, the sea and the beaches and the forests and the mountains.
Most, I think, I miss myself. I miss this version of me that embraced change, whose heart bumped fast at the prospect of anything new. The me that trusted her fate blindly.

Everything has changed now, too. I’m in a new appartment. I have two flatmates. I don’t live with my mum any more. A year from now I’ll have my bachelor’s degree. I can feel the change creeping up on me. And I so desperately cling to the memory of a time when this would not have scared me.

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I sometimes wish my kettle sounded just like the one Bill and Barbara had, and I sometimes wish the rain tasted like it did in Auckland on a gloomy monday morning, and I sometimes wish the coffee shops I visit sold the same cheap hot chocolate I was once so used to.

I’m in a good place. I have two wonderful and strange boys who keep me company, who compliment my baking, and who sometimes make me hot chocolate. And when I cycle to uni in the morning, the sun sometimes throws her golden light upon the roofs of the houses. And when I go shopping on a thursday night, there are musicians and jugglers and chestnut vendors lining the streets. And I am filled with a sense of home and belonging.
I just sometimes wish I had that former self of mine to accompany me.

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Maybe it’s a question of bravery. Maybe it’s not really about who I am or where my life is headed, maybe these things are secondary. Maybe all I need is to be brave enough to believe that something strange and wonderful is about to happen.

Tea Time

Hello Reader!

The past few weeks I have been incredibly busy with uni assignments and my new job. It‘s all been going great, but as always there‘s just not enough time – this has absolutely nothing to do with my baking cakes instead of studying *cough* (butitwassodelicious!) and reading supernatural romance novels (I think the genre speaks for itself, really). *cough*

Today was the longest day of the week in every aspect. It started at 9 am and ended at 6 pm, I had to switch between universities at lunch time, eating my sandwich on the train from Fribourg to Bern, then spent my one hour break doing some homework. That, and my bycicle broke just when the rain and the sleet started pouring, so my lunch break was shortened by a visit to the mechanic‘s and the walk to uni. I came home wet all over and poured myself a cup of tea, and I realised that I would really like to write about tea tonight.

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Isn‘t it funny how something so small can make us see everything in perspective. How wrapping our hands around a hot mug can make us feel safe when just hours before we were feeling stressed and maybe a little bit lost, a little bit squished between the expectations of others. And isn‘t it strange that tea doesn‘t make things better at all but it makes it all bearable. And I see the little rings left on the cover of a favourite book, much like a long gone kiss, and I remember a thought, maybe that the clouds were moving very fast that day or maybe that my favourite hoodie was still in the wash, and that‘s a good thing to think about, because as long as I can worry about my hoodie and clouds, life can not weigh that heavily on my shoulders. And isn‘t it wonderful to think that it‘s something so ordinary that can make us feel settled and mend our broken heart strings?

On saturday I sat with Anna and Valentina in a darkend bedroom on the carpet, and we ate chocolate cake out of the tin. And I felt so whole. Eating cake out of a tin with a spoon is like drinking tea. It also feels a bit forbidden, it feels like the child in you is very very happy. I think that‘s what we call giddy.

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I don’t think he knows about second breakfast!

There‘s something about your old bedroom, the one you grew up in. The bedroom where you can hide under the covers to be safe from the monsters underneath your bed and where you can lie on the floor and listen to that old song over and over again, that little kingdom whose door you can slam when things don‘t go your way, where everything is yours and everything is you, the books and the CDs and the teddy bear that you hold tight at night when you‘re feeling sad or happy or both. That‘s what I feel sometimes when I change into that hoodie they only had in XXL, even though I‘m an S, with the bear ears and the bow, and when I hold that steaming mug and look down on an empty paper that is waiting to be filled with a brilliant essay on Renaissance Florence. I think we sometimes underestimate just how good it is to be warm. Nothing more.

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Lots of love!
xxx

P.S. Listen to La Pluie by ZAZ!