Wendland · Northern Germany
Some creations arrive quietly. Not as ideas, but as a presence that lingers — patient, steady, waiting to be met.
The book came to me like that. Not as something to write, but as something to sit beside. A companion that gathered fragments of a life lived between places: river light from the North, salt air from the South, the softness of the Wendland, and all the roads in between.
Here in the Wendland — with its crooked houses, wild gardens, and a certain refusal to follow straight lines — I began to understand the nature of this work. Nothing here rushes to become something else. Things grow slowly, often invisibly, shaped more by seasons than by plans.
And so the book followed that same rhythm.
I never felt like I was writing it.
It felt more like breathing with it.
A sentence arriving while walking.
A memory settling into the body before finding words.
A moment that asked not to be explained, but simply held.
This book is not built from chapters.
It is woven from threads — of grief, of beauty, of movement, of stillness.
Slow Travel Soul Travel lives inside it — not as a concept, but as a way of listening.
Maybe the book is a vessel for remembering.
A place where what once moved through us can land gently, and stay.