“This being human is a guest house.” – Rumi
First thought: it’s steeper than I imagined. So very like me to underestimate a mountain. A year ago, maybe two, some friends and I tackled the Appalachian mountains, just a leisurely 21-mile trek. By journey’s end, we were soaked and miserable.
But the Black Forest is more beautiful than the Appalachian mountains, and today’s hike will only stretch one or two miles (cannot really figure out kilometers yet). But the trees splay their gnarly fingers from black soil. The view stretches below, a city in miniature.
A fluffy corgi bounds toward me, its tongue flapping in the wind. Told you I smelled magic here.
I reach the crest of the mountain and climb next a look-out tower where I have a brief conversation with two girls from Michigan. The bird’s nest is a rickety structure, and I fear falling. Though it’s breath-taking, to tower so high, to look down and see birds gliding far beneath your feet. To feel something entirely transcendent.
But I begin my decent: getting dark and the altitude is making me feel sick.
On the way down, you notice the alternative routes rogue teens have tread. On the rocks, graffiti symbolism evoking death. At the path’s entrance, a witch misleading whomever dare enter the woods.
The locals have put their various special touches upon these paths to ensure they are especially creepy.
Back in the hostel now, chowing down on a few wurste. The Black Forest Hostel is a pleasant place, very homey, including a kitchen, a pool table, and cozy living quarters (which you share with 20 strangers).
On the second floor hangs a wooden plaque, painted with the following poem by Rumi:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-Rumi, The Guest House-
Day 2: Mostly worked on fiction and went eventually to a poetry slam. The poetry slam occurred at the Rang Teng Teng, and I had the pleasure to speak with other Americans, some of whom bought me free drinks. Always wonderful to meet poets abroad.
Day 3, 8:05am
I sit above Freiburg, a monstrous buzz rising from the buildings far below.
This city is no landscape painting, cannot be captured like a photograph now or now or now or now. The city breathes, changing with each instance. The city grows, its limbs spiraling up mountainsides. You can never define this city but by its smallest moments.
So true also for the human, for we are not portraits. We change each moment. We grow. Identity is too fluid to pin down, an ever-changing magic word you cannot pronounce correctly. Each second is a deliberate reality, a conscious memorial of now, now, now. We may not be still, somewhere a small hum emanating always from our chests. Hear that? This is a song that never repeats the same notes, melody wild as dandelions, formless as campfire smoke.