Kira Keller

A glass vintage German teapot with green tea and two cups sat between us.
“You said you were ignoring your needs—what kind of needs?” I asked.
“To… what are my needs? To bond, to feel secure, to have inner balance. I didn’t know what my desires were, because I was always with friends, family, boys, and… yeah.” Her voice was gravelly dry, raspy, burnt.

“How do you define bonding?”
“My last relationship was when I was 25, and the older men afterward were only with me for a short time. I thought bonding would come, but in the end, they all left. When I reflect on it now, I see there was a mismatch with some of them—I was with them just so I wouldn’t be alone. But in recent years I realized that’s the wrong way to build a relationship. I was completely absorbed in the need for a man.”

“Would you change anything about your past?”
“I’d look more into myself when I meet someone—be clearer, slower with my words and decisions. Take time to understand if I really feel good with someone, to get to know their personality.”

I picked up the teapot and poured the tea. “What are red flags for you when meeting a man?”
“Racism. Intolerance. Men who try to control you or influence your opinions. Men who are cold, who don’t care.” She took a sip.

“Do you have any regrets?”
“I had a lot in the past. But now—no. I don’t rush into things anymore.”
“What is rushing, to you?”
“When I’m fast, I’m not really with myself. But now, I follow my belly—or my mind. In the past, I went into the industrial sector because it paid well, but I didn’t follow my inner needs, my passion.”

“What is your passion?”
“I like working with my hands. I love listening to music, sitting in the sun with a book. And I love being with people, taking care of them. So now I’ve started studying to become a youth educator. I want to work with children in group homes, and I feel really good about that decision.”
“How did you come to that idea?”
“It was a long journey. I went to a clinic and realized I wanted to care for people, to be there for them. I want to give back to society—not like my old job, where money just shifted between rich people.”

“What have you received from society that you want to give back?”
“When you see children growing up in poor areas or with neglectful parents—if no one supports them, it’s unlikely they’ll help make the world better.”
“How do you want to support them?”
“By being very mindful and careful with them. By giving them the feeling of being seen. By bringing them joy.”
“And how would you like others to support you?”
“I want to be cared for, to be seen. To feel safe.”

“What does safety mean to you?”
“It means: just stay with me. Be a friend.”

Maybe I was focused on something else. Maybe I still carried a trace of dissent about her words—children who are “unlikely to make the world better” because of their background. Or maybe I was distracted by the birdsong and the sunlight outside.
Because just stay with me. Be a friend—those would be the words I’d choose for her tattoo, if we made it today.

“What is inner balance?”
“I did a lot of therapy. I slowed down—stayed home more, started exercising, meditating. I began to enjoy simple things I never noticed before. You won’t feel balanced if you’re always out partying, sleeping too little, drinking too much. I used to be hectic, always on the run. I never went straight home after work—I’d meet friends. The only thing I did alone at home was sleep.”

“What was the reason for your depression?”
“I think it started before I was even born. My father left my mother when she was pregnant. But the recent depression came when I stopped using drugs and finally had to face myself. That’s when I realized—I feel nothing. Before that, I was always around people, never really thinking about myself.”

“How come you didn’t think about yourself while with others?”
“Because I talked a lot without reflecting on my feelings. I didn’t connect what I said to how I felt. Same at work. Same everywhere.”

“And how is it now?”
“Now I give myself time. I write. I listen to myself. I try to do what I need.”

“How do you meditate?”
“I do body scans in the evening. When I feel nervous and can’t sleep, it grounds me.”

I was trying to figure out what the “self” is to her. But she seemed to drift away from the topic, and I sensed she was bored. Still, I didn’t let it go. I wanted her to understand me.
“The reason I asked about the self, is because you said when you meet someone, you look at yourself. But I think maybe you’re looking at your feelings. Are you your feelings—or are you the one observing them?”
“Ouph.”
The silence that followed was almost uncomfortable—and I knew I had caused it.

“What’s your dream?”
“To have a loving home, a boyfriend, kids. To grow. I don’t like staying at the same level.”
“Can you stay at one level?”
“No.”
“I mean, is it even possible?”
“No.”
“So whether you want it or not, staying at one level is impossible.”
“Yeah. It’s impossible.”

I suddenly felt a pang of guilt—how unpleasant I might be for her. These questions were not about her story anymore, they were about me—my need to dissect words, concepts, definitions, beliefs. Not about compassion. Not about listening.

We fell into silence. The birdsong grew louder in my mind. I wanted to go outside and do nothing—to be the birdsong, to be the warmth of the sun.

“What happens when you’re alone?”
“It depends. Sometimes I enjoy doing the things I like.”

I stood up and walked to the window. She chuckled. I returned and asked her a few more questions—useless ones. Maybe not useless in themselves, but useless for this. They didn’t help us reconnect. They didn’t spark her desire to talk. They didn’t belong in the space between us anymore.

“Do you remember your dream from last night?”
“No, I slept like a stone.” She laughed.

I stood again, walked to the bed, and lay back.
I’m not going to come up with anything by asking more questions, I thought.
Leaning on my elbows, I rose halfway to look out the window: green grass, dandelions, the oak tree.

She laughed.

*The oak tree in the garden