The Hoover dam is impressive. I admired the enormous yet elegant structure as I walked around it. But the overflow structures astonished me the most. To each side of the dam, a huge pool of concrete is ready to catch excess water in case of a flood. And at the end of the pool, a gigantic spillway leads the excess water through a massive concrete pipe all the way down to the other side of the dam. The spillways are key to avoid water slopping over the top of the dam and causing uncontrolled devastation. The mind works somewhat like a dam. It regulates the events that happen all around us to a manageable stream of emotions, allowing for a calm and to a certain extent predictable everyday life. And just like the dam, the mind needs spillways to protect itself from a breakdown when everything is too much. Going for a walk. Taking a deep breath. Meditating. All of those can gulp a load of sorrows and release pressure from the mind.

I shivered as I imagined masses of water falling into the deep dark void of the spillway

Some love Christmas, some dislike it. But beyond the celebrations and consumerism, one thing is unique to this time of the year. For many in the western world, the days between the 24th of December and the 1st of January are some sort of limbo where time stops. It is almost as if life was on hold. Paperwork, projects, contracts, you name it. All the allegedly important things have to wait until the next year, which seems so far yet is so close. And as a result, we finally have time to do all those things that are never urgent enough to make it into any regular day of the year. That art project that is stuck in a box since forever. That photo album that desperately needs some care before the memories fade forever. That long hug that we always postpone because there is always something more “important”. All that cannot be bought with money and cannot be put below a Christmas tree, but makes all the downsides of this time of the year worth it.

Clearly, this year we were holding the instructions of the Christmas tree upside down

I wish I knew the magic words. They are different for every situation and one needs a lot of experience to find them. But when one does, they can change everything. They can change how a human being perceives a situation, which means that they can change reality. Those words can stop a downward spiral of negative emotions and lead to a spark of hope towards a recovery, even if slow and tedious. Depression, sadness, hopelessness. When I meet a person who suffers from such feelings, I wish I knew the magic words that would relieve them. Yet it is so difficult to find them. It requires knowing the person better than they know themselves. But when it works, often by chance, it is the most rewarding feeling that I have ever known. The slightest smile, the comfort of not being left alone, the safety of a compassionate hug. I wish I had the talent to find the words that induce such hopeful feelings in a human who suffers.

A sign of hope under a dense blanket of clouds on the Lustrafjord in Norway

I dislike the word toxic. So popular yet so unfair. It reduces anyone to a single dimension. A label that trashes a human in one go. Dislike someone? Call him or her toxic and win every argument instantly. Humans have misbehaved socially for as long as one can remember yet it was never so easy to judge them. Those misbehaviors are undoubtedly wrong and society needs more education to get rid of them, but the toxic label leaves no room for any learning or insight. It is the easy way, which fits very well our throw-away society. Trash it and get a new one, without spending any thought on the impact this label may have. While nobody needs to bear with someone who has not learnt to respect others, society breaks more and more the less compassionate we become. Compassion is to toxic behavior the same than recycling is to toxic substances. Everyone deserves at least a chance for recycling. And the toxic label is the exact opposite of that.

A place saved from being forever toxic: the core of Reactor Block 6 at Greifswald

I vaguely remembered a few scenes of Starship Troopers. I probably saw parts of it on TV, but never the whole movie. I finally watched it the other day. At some point, the main character is in a military camp. The movie makes fun of all the military stereotypes, and even includes a so-called washout lane. It is an exit for the ones who give up and go back home, ashamed of not being good enough. Of being weak. Of being a failure. Beyond the satire, the concept gave me an unexpected warm-hearted feeling. We should all have the right to fail. To go home. To withdraw to a safe place. I am fortunate to have a life where the chance of physical danger is low. Still, I crave for the idea of a washout lane. Too often, the military camp is not our environment or the people who surround us, but our own mind. That is great news because it means that it is in our hands to reshape that camp to a garden that allows us to learn and flourish, without the need for a safety exit.

Life should not require one of these

The theory sounds wonderful. Traveling overnight. Board a train, bus, or plane in the late evening and arrive fresh and renewed on the next morning to the destination. I fall for this every single time. And apparently, I am not the only one. I thought I would be almost alone on that train departing at half past three in the morning, but I barely could find a seat. Families. Elderly people. Hugging couples. The station was as busy as any other time of the day. Finally I found a spot among crying babies, sleep-masked travellers, and yoginis on the impossible quest to find the right sleeping posture on a train seat. I managed to catch some rest with the expected interruptions every few minutes, entirely unaware that I would enjoy a week-long stiff neck as a bonus. But no matter how many overnight trains, buses, or planes I take, for some inexplicable reason I still do not feel the motivation to get a neck pillow. Nor to give up on the delusion of restful overnight trips.

As early as 10:30 in the morning, I arrived "fresh and renewed" in the city of love

I love the rain. Finally a break. A true relief. Now I can stay at home without feeling guilty. The sun is out, how come you’re not enjoying it? In a region where summer means an endless sequence of sticky days and heavy thunderstorms, sun on a weekend day is like a lottery jackpot. You should go out. You must go out! On that one day where one could finally sleep long and get all the urgent house work done, that damn blue sky and unbearable bright sun feed my remorse. All these people going on hikes and crowding the outdoor seats of the restaurants make me feel even more guilty. You are missing out on the summer! The problem is that the summer is too nice here. It is warm enough to enjoy the great outdoors yet not hot enough for a heatstroke. The pressure to enjoy that is enormous. Rain is the only way out. And when will it rain again? On the exact same moment that I am done with the housework and I get on the bike to go somewhere.

In summer nights, I light this candle that magically stops time while I sit on the balcony

I try to sleep about eight hours every day because I dislike feeling tired, but I have to admit that the dreamy, headache-prone state after a short night also comes with some advantages. The mind is too tired to think. Most importantly, it is too tired to overthink. Anxiety costs energy. If one barely has enough energy to move, anxiety becomes an unaffordable luxury. Too tired to worry. Too tired to consider all possible outcomes. Too tired to make one's own life more difficult than it needs to be. And, unfortunately, too tired to fully enjoy the benefits of that state. Lack of sleep is certainly not the way to get there, but it offers a preview of a life without all the self-imposed stress. I believe meditation can help to get there in a more sustainable way. Lately, my meditation practice is at a minimum. On many days, it is just one minute. But that one minute feels like a tremendous relief. Almost everything can wait for one minute. That one minute is mine, and only mine, to truly do nothing.

I should learn from this cat. It stayed in that pot all day doing nothing, and no problem.

So far, I am lucky to never have had a bad experience on a plane. I like flying. I like the views out of the window. I like realizing that I am safely sitting thousands of meters above the ground. But what I like the most is flight mode. Not just on the phone, but also in the sense of disconnection. No tasks. No to-do lists. Nothing. It all has to wait because I am literally crammed into an airplane seat and anything other than reading a book or watching a movie is just not feasible. For the duration of the flight, life is on pause. And that is wonderful. Down on the ground, I fall back to a priority-based existence like I guess most of us. A life in which something needs to be top priority among all other urgent tasks to ever be done.

Rain pours on Munich in the background after take off from runway 26L

First times get all the attention. First time swimming. First time riding a bike. First time flying. A mix of excitement and fear for a new experience. But we almost never notice last times. The last time hiking a beautiful scenery. The last time talking to a friend. The last time hugging a loved one. Most last times are sad as they mark the end to a phase. The phase may have been better or worse, but it has shaped our life. So did my little appartment in Munich, which I had to vacate due to personal needs of the owner. As I emptied the 40 m2 that had been my home for almost six years, I remembered the feeling when I first moved in. It was a time of excitement for a new start full of opportunities. I had tons of plans and ideas of all the things I wanted to do. Everything seemed possible.

I passed the door so often, yet I had never actually looked at it

As I looked back one last time to the empty appartment, I realised how little of all of that I had actually done. I left behind the place that had stood for all my aspirations. Minimalism. Zero waste. Meditation. Design. All those things. I closed the door, walked down the stairs for the last time, and thanked that place for the dreams it helped make a reality.