Dear Heather,
You will probably never read this, but nonetheless I wanted to write you to let you know how much I enjoyed our little talk. It was on the train from Glasgow to Edinburgh, the falling rain outside the window reflecting my inside. I felt lonely. And there is a difference between feeling “lonely” and “alone”. As a single traveler, I chose to be alone. What I want is independence, freedom and challenge. What I don’t want however is loneliness, that deep hole where you feel completely and utterly lost and all you want to do is go home. It was when I wrote down this difference in my notebook when you started talking to me.
”Are you going to the writer’s workshop in Edinburgh as well?”
”No, I’m not. I’m just visiting.”
”Oh well, I took a shot,” you said, ” because you were writing in a notebook.”
A silence followed. The conversation could have been over, but I didn’t want it to be over. You had looked at me with warm eyes and I was curious about them.
“So, you are a writer then?” I asked, a bit shy. All I had written down that morning was nonsense and the possibility to be sitting next to a writer, a real one that is, scared and excited me at the same time.
” Oh… no, I’m not a writer.. .I mean, I love writing, but I’m not a professional. I was an English teacher before my kids were born. Now, as they get older, I discovered writing as a thing I can do for myself.”
You and I kept talking. You told me you lived just outside of Glasgow together with your four kids and your husband, who worked at a bank.
“Does he like his job?” I asked, knowing that might go too far, but also knowing that I could be the stranger you open yourself up to because you know you will never see him again.
”He hates it, actually. The job is well paid, but it is just too stressful,” you answered.
“Do you think he will quit his job anytime soon?”
“He can’t. He has four children to look after.”
We continued talking about your kids and your eyes lid up while we did.
”I love them, I do. I would have another one if the money wasn’t a problem. But every now and then I like to get away, too. Writing is my escape,” you said. “So, what about you? Are you a writer?”
I hesitated. No one had ever asked me that question before. “Yes, I think I am. Or at least I’m trying to become one with time. When I grow up I want to be a travel writer.”
“Is that the reason why you are here in Scotland?”
Indeed it was and I told you all about my plans, my fears, my hopes and dreams. And you just listened. And then I realised: As much as I was your stranger, you had also been mine. We told each other our stories - because after all, that’s what writers do, right? But as the train arrived in Edinburgh Waverley it was time to continue with our lifes.
”Well, you said, “I think you are a very brave woman.”
“Oh no, I am not,” I replied, ” but I think you are. Having born four children I think you have a lot of exciting stories to tell.”
You smiled at that and just for a split second the both of us felt the joy of seeing ourselves through the eyes of a stranger. And as we walked into the sunshine I asked you one last question.
”What’s your name anyway?”
“It’s Heather.”
“Hi Heather. My name is Gesa. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“You, too. Lovely talking to you. I wish you all the best.”
Then we shook hands and it was as much “Hello” as it was “Goodbye”…
You will probably never read this, but nonetheless I wanted to write you to let you know how much I enjoyed our little talk. It was on the train from Glasgow to Edinburgh, the falling rain outside the window reflecting my inside. I felt lonely. And there is a difference between feeling “lonely” and “alone”. As a single traveler, I chose to be alone. What I want is independence, freedom and challenge. What I don’t want however is loneliness, that deep hole where you feel completely and utterly lost and all you want to do is go home. It was when I wrote down this difference in my notebook when you started talking to me.
”Are you going to the writer’s workshop in Edinburgh as well?”
”No, I’m not. I’m just visiting.”
”Oh well, I took a shot,” you said, ” because you were writing in a notebook.”
A silence followed. The conversation could have been over, but I didn’t want it to be over. You had looked at me with warm eyes and I was curious about them.
“So, you are a writer then?” I asked, a bit shy. All I had written down that morning was nonsense and the possibility to be sitting next to a writer, a real one that is, scared and excited me at the same time.
” Oh… no, I’m not a writer.. .I mean, I love writing, but I’m not a professional. I was an English teacher before my kids were born. Now, as they get older, I discovered writing as a thing I can do for myself.”
You and I kept talking. You told me you lived just outside of Glasgow together with your four kids and your husband, who worked at a bank.
“Does he like his job?” I asked, knowing that might go too far, but also knowing that I could be the stranger you open yourself up to because you know you will never see him again.
”He hates it, actually. The job is well paid, but it is just too stressful,” you answered.
“Do you think he will quit his job anytime soon?”
“He can’t. He has four children to look after.”
We continued talking about your kids and your eyes lid up while we did.
”I love them, I do. I would have another one if the money wasn’t a problem. But every now and then I like to get away, too. Writing is my escape,” you said. “So, what about you? Are you a writer?”
I hesitated. No one had ever asked me that question before. “Yes, I think I am. Or at least I’m trying to become one with time. When I grow up I want to be a travel writer.”
“Is that the reason why you are here in Scotland?”
Indeed it was and I told you all about my plans, my fears, my hopes and dreams. And you just listened. And then I realised: As much as I was your stranger, you had also been mine. We told each other our stories - because after all, that’s what writers do, right? But as the train arrived in Edinburgh Waverley it was time to continue with our lifes.
”Well, you said, “I think you are a very brave woman.”
“Oh no, I am not,” I replied, ” but I think you are. Having born four children I think you have a lot of exciting stories to tell.”
You smiled at that and just for a split second the both of us felt the joy of seeing ourselves through the eyes of a stranger. And as we walked into the sunshine I asked you one last question.
”What’s your name anyway?”
“It’s Heather.”
“Hi Heather. My name is Gesa. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“You, too. Lovely talking to you. I wish you all the best.”
Then we shook hands and it was as much “Hello” as it was “Goodbye”…
I love stories like that… beautifully told Gesa! Heather sounds lovely x
Thank you so much, Frankie! Heather was lovely indeed… I hope to see her again one day
Sais pas pourqoi, mais cette petite histoire d’en route m’a vraiment touché. Bien racontée !
A la prochaine …
ich lese von dieser begegnung und es fühlt sich wie als wenn ich dabei gewesen wäre. Ich sehe es, wie du in den Tropfen des Regens ein Spiegel für dein Lebens suchst…ich sehe wie du dich in dieser schönen Begegung fallen lässt und empfinde jedes einzelne Wort nach das du schreibst. Es ist erst das erste mal das ich auf dein blob bin und es kommt mir vor als würde ich dich schon ewig kennen und in vielen deiner Worte finde ich mich wieder.
Inspirierend
viel glück dir
Hiba