Trying to Hold it All

Thinking of ways to preserve memory and experiences

We leave Berlin in four weeks, and I find myself in a sudden panic. I can feel the pull of our mid-December departure, as if I’m rolling down a steep hill, gradually building speed. From now on, the weeks will fly by even faster than when we first arrived, and I am desperate to slow the momentum.

The other night, while lying in bed with my kids as they fell asleep, I went cold with these thoughts: Why didn’t I write it ALL down? I should have kept better notes, and now I’ve missed it. And then this: I don’t want to go.

I have never been good at judging which container will hold all the leftovers. I’ll think, This 1L container looks right, as I dole out the remaining stew from dinner, only to realize that I could have used a dish half the size. Or I’ll take out a serving platter for something, and realize it’s much too small for the amount of food I’ve prepared. I’m not entirely sure how to overcome this, and I don’t know that it matters (please feel free to advise). But how do I find the right-sized container to hold our experiences? How can I keep them safe so that I can look back on them and remember? How do I bottle the feelings of living in this city: the way the light looks at 3 p.m., all orangey and yellow; the invigorating early morning cycle to school and Kita; the sound of the S-Bahn as it passes overhead; and the intangible Stimmung (atmosphere/vibe) that I’ve only ever felt here?

We were in Poland last weekend, visiting Jake’s family. His aunt and uncle have a beautiful home in the country, and we were treated with love, care, and lots of delicious food. Jake’s aunt has a walk-in pantry neatly organized with all her preserves for winter. Jars of pickles, relishes, beets, fruit, and jams lined the inner shelves. I admired the colours and marvelled at the time it took to prepare all of this food. And I wonder: could I preserve my memories in this way, too? Pack them in mason jars so that I can see what’s inside, and then when I miss Berlin, I can open a jar to taste and smell what it was like when we were here.

(Other than Poland, we’ve taken one other trip since we’ve been in Germany. Both times we were away, I felt that familiar “we’re away from home” feeling. But I don’t feel away from home in Berlin, even though technically we are. When we came back to Berlin from these trips, I experienced that flood of relief that comes from returning home. Interesting, right?)

The truth is, there is no container big enough to hold it all. Even if I journaled every day, or kept a detailed log, it wouldn’t be sufficient. And isn’t this true of life in general? That we can’t hold it all? Maybe we are the containers of our experiences. Our time in Berlin will live on in us. It’s certainly changed us for the better—we’ve learned new skills and discovered more about ourselves, and it’s brought us closer together as a family. I try to take comfort in this. I know this time can’t last forever.

But I also know that in mid-December, I’ll walk down the stairs from our flat for the last time, and I’ll hear the door to our building creak and then slam with heavy reluctance. And I’ll get into the cab, checking that everyone has everything, double-checking for passports, and we’ll wave to our building, saying “Danke!” and ‘Tschüss!” And I will feel shattered, but I will have to let it go.

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(More cheerful post on bicycles coming up next, promise).

Photo by Polina Tankilevitch