For the past few days I’ve been furiously scribbling into a makeshift journal, not feeling the slightest inclination to share the experiences of the heart in this log. Before I left Madrid, a friend asked me: will you still publish your log while you’re in Berlin? I don’t know, I’ll feel it when I’m there, I answered.

This is what I feel: my log is for inner and outer work. Love is not work. However, one can work with love:

And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart,
even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection,
even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy,
even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead
are standing about you and watching.

—Khalil Gibran, On Work