19 April 2015

They are men and women like us – our brothers - and sisters (my addition) - seeking a better life, starving, persecuted, wounded, exploited, victims of war.

I never thought I would quote the pope of all people but desperate news ask for desperate measures.
As I was sleeping in the early hours of this morning, as the first chords of a magnificent dawn chorus was just beginning, as the lilac prepared to open its first blossoms of the year, 700 people drowned in the Mediterranean Sea. They were adrift on an overcrowded vessel few would actually classify as such, never mind declare seaworthy, and tried to alert the attention of a real ship nearby. Seemingly, this caused the vessel to capsize and the latest news are that at least 700 bodies are still in the water.

These are the people we are allowing to die in the Mediterranean: teenage orphans of several (!) civil wars, pregnant women without family, young and old, labourers and academics, sons and daughters.
Nobody - and I dare you - is making this journey just for fun, to steal our wealth or to cheat on welfare systems.
Forget the fact that this society wouldn’t work without migrants, that nobody else will pick your vegetables and make your latte and get up at 4am to clean your office. Forget the massive tax contribution made by migrants to the Treasury. This is not about economics. Far too often, even the positive takes on migration are driven by numbers and finance, by “What can they do for us?”. This is about two things: compassion and responsibility.
There are half a million people in Libya waiting to make the crossing. Libya is chaos. Libya is at war. Syria is at war. Sudan is at war. Eritrea is a cruel dictatorship. And so on. I know, African/Middle Eastern problems etc. but wait and think for a minute, it's not that simple.

Not all migration is caused by the west, of course. But let’s have a real conversation about the part that is. Let’s have a real conversation about our ageing demographic and the massive skills shortage here, what it means for overstretched public services if we let migrants in (we’d need to raise money to meet increased demand, and the clearest and fairest way is a rise in taxes on the rich), the ethics of taking the cream of the crop from poor countries. Migration is a complex subject.

We may discuss this another time. Meanwhile, what are going to do?
... let’s not be cowards and pretend the migrants will stop coming. Because they won’t. This will never stop.

Let's remember this:

We can recognise the human right to migration. We can recognise that we are ourselves, all of us, doubly migrants. We are migrants historically: our ancestors came from somewhere else, and originated, long ago, in the same spot in Africa. And we are migrants personally: life is the experience of moving through time, of abandoning each present moment for the next, of temporal migration.

spring

Today was sunny and warm. Not hot yet, just mild.
Today I got mad with R because he took the car to get six bottles of wine from the shop which is about 2 km away. On a sunny day with three shipshape bicycles incl. panniers and baskets just waiting to be used.
Then I thought it must be a man thing and I apologised.
But before that we shared a grumpy lunch. Cheese on toast and coffee.
Today, I sat in the sun and read the paper while he worked in the garden. On and on. So I got up and washed the greenhouse. Inside and out, scrubbing and rinsing.
By the time I was done, he was still working.
When the sun had moved around the house and I packed up to go inside, he started to cut the lawn.
Then he cooked dinner. Fish curry. It was delicious.
Tonight, I started on our tax returns and when I went to get a folder from his study, he was asleep at his desk.
Tomorrow I will bake him a rhubarb crumble. Fresh rhubarb from the garden.

This and always.

13 April 2015

Thank you, Sheila Kitzinger

 
She was an inspiration. Thanks to her, I looked forward to labour, immensely, yes I did. I felt confident and strong.  My English was still pretty poor at the time when I discovered her name and her books and pamphlets, by chance, out there in the deepest catholic Dublin of the early 1980s, because Kitzingen is a small Franconian town not too far from where I grew up.

I met her in 1984 queueing at the entrance to the First International Feminist Bookfair in London, a big crowd of young women, all the feminist punk of the 1980s, the diagonal fringe, single earring, torn T-shirt, Doc Martens, flowery skirt, bangles and scarves, when this jolly tea lady started to push her way through, shouting, sorry love, I have to man a stall. Oops, I should say, woman a stall, yes?
Laughter all around. And later, we shared a cup of tea and talked and she listened to my birth story and told me to write about it and send it to such and such a place and I did and they published it and Dr. P. who had been there at the home birth of my girl phoned me and thanked me and that's how I found out that this gentle quiet obstetrician had a subscription to a feminist magazine.



06 April 2015

Almost finished packing for a short trip, just a week, to the coast. Against his usual reservations (beaches are very very boring compared to mountains) R decided I need sea air to help my lungs and in a flash, we had it booked, this being easter holidays for both of us.
Theoretically, all is well. He cleaned the car and has already dismantled and stored the bicycles in the back, the tyres have been checked and the tank is full.
Yet, in reality, I feel sort of awful with another bout of the gastritis and whatever, shakes and shivers and itches and nausea and why on earth not just crawl into bed and stay there for ever?
Well, he says, a change is as good as a rest. And having spent all his childhood right by the boring sea and never really being attracted to it, what with some of the most glorious mountains just behind you, he is surprisingly cheerful.
So I am packing porridge oats and rusks and herb tea and a hot water bottle and all my glorious medicines and one extra pair of warm woolly socks for each of us.
A last check of the weather forecast, cloudy, windy, not much sun.
Faced with her husband's retirement, which involved lots of golf and gardening, and too much energy on her part, my mother in law decided to become an artist, a painter. She joined a club and produced a variety of seminal works at a furious rate. She concentrated on copying favourite views and family photographs. Sometimes, she combined the two. Of course, we all encouraged her and she would invite us for viewings in the dining room, vol au vents, sherry and all. 
When we got married, she decided to change one of her surprisingly good pictures, originally a view of the beach at Seapoint or maybe Killiney. To mark the occasion, she inserted two little stick figures, walking hand in hand into the oncoming tide or maybe out to the outgoing tide. We called it the tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum picture and for the last 25 years it has been lovingly preserved in a black plastic bag somewhere in the basement.
Anyway, here we go, off to the seaside.

28 March 2015

I suppose that if I wanted to I could write something smart alecky about the stuff that's been happening in my lungs. About last week's tests and the results and plan A and plan B. About the way the lung doctor got off his chair and walked around his desk and took my hand in both of his. It's funny how this happens quite a lot. In the early post-diagnosis days, it made me feel better. I thought it was a weird form of respect, of team work, compassion even. Now I am not so sure. Now I find it embarrassing. Tedious even. Now I know that my first question should not be, how bad?, but instead, how many patients with this disease have you treated so far? But I haven't reached that level of sophistication yet. I will have another go next time. This time, I almost wept when he said, I think we can prevent further damage. This is plan A and if it doesn't work, we try plan B.

I could write something about how angry I am and how I get mad at everything and how I pick on R and how I explode at the slightest bit of imagined criticism,  all the time knowing deep in my bones and cells that this is not the way to do it. 

Instead I want to write about arrogance. Arrogance and ignorance or maybe it's one and the same. Arrogance to mask ignorance.
I want to write about the arrogance of knowing. To think that we could actually know our bodies or worse, what is good for them or what is wrong with them.

I used to be so full of that shit. I have been told I had a hard time with the childhood illnesses and that I was not the sturdiest of my mother's three kids. I don't remember. What I do remember is feeling strong and healthy as a child, teenager and later when I was at uni. Especially during those years of sex and drugs and rock and roll, stacks of unwashed dishes, sleeping in a room with ashtrays overflowing, long before the muesli revolution. We walked like hippy kings and queens on this earth, our healthy bodies at our command.
Don't get me wrong,  I cherish all the memories.

The first crack appeared when I took this one step further into believing that a mother knows best while I thought all was well when my baby was seriously ill, oh arrogant ignorance. Believe me, I have been slowly climbing down from my moral high horse ever since. And yet, it is so easy and pleasant to feel arrogant about health. To think that we know our bodies and like a child before Xmas we want to believe that health comes with cranberries or kale or ginger or turmeric, "fresh" coconut water flown in from Sri Lanka, with yoga and seven hours of sleep and pure bottled water from Fiji or the French volcanic springs. The one magic ingredient, the one magic change in our sloppy life style and all will be well.

OK this is not fair. I admit that for a long time I, too, have been a tad fanatic about a healthy diet (ask my child) and regional organic produce. I still am. But whatever, my health is slipping through my fingers. My arrogant well educated well informed fingers and all I can do is pretend that I am in charge.






25 March 2015



 (from this book)

I should be on the phone. At least. I should call two friends, one after the other. I got up in the middle of the night and put a pink post-it on my desk: call U, call A.
U is losing the ground beneath her feet with her partner falling deeper and deeper into the Alzheimer tunnel,  A has received yet another no-thank-you letter from a promising - we all thought so! - job offer and time as well as unemployment benefits are running out.
And I am sitting here searching for words and the right kind of energy and feeling to surface. But my hands are cold, the multitude of ailings hissing and kicking inside my body. Somewhere people are starving, suffering, dying, planes crash and bombs explode. Our planet is covered in festering wounds and my hands are cold and the phone is so far away right now.


23 March 2015

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

Patrick's day has come and gone and for an entire week this household was very busy and noisy. There was a short moment late Saturday night when I escaped to the upstairs bathroom to take a deep breath and my face in the mirror showed me this smile that was etched so deeply into my exhausted lines, I am still working on getting it off. Three days later.
Of course, I could go all what-has-become-of-me and this used to be a household with noise and music and banging doors and phone calls and pets and certainly more that two quiet persons going about their quiet little businesses.
I could, but I won't.
Instead, a little bit of Ireland. Here we have Philip King talking with a faint trace of a Cork accent and the lovely South County Dublin way of aspirating the consonants, especially the w.  It sounds gorgeous to my ears and it takes me about 10 mins to get back into it but considering the fact that I became bilingual in South County Dublin, this is my English.



Anyway, Philip is something of a very distant cousin by marriage to R. That whole six degrees of separation thing is a party game in Ireland. Not that he would know a thing about me.
And while he meanders on in this talk, showing off a bit and getting sidetracked, he nevertheless brings three gifts: a poem, music and a spectacular view.

First, the poem:

The Given Note

On the most westerly Blasket
In a dry-stone hut
He got this air out of the night.

Strange noises were heard
By others who followed, bits of a tune
Coming in on loud weather

Though nothing like melody.
He blamed their fingers and ear
As unpractised, their fiddling easy

For he had gone alone into the island
And brought back the whole thing.
The house throbbed like his full violin.

So whether he calls it spirit music
Or not, I don't care. He took it
Out of wind off mid-Atlantic.

Still he maintains, from nowhere.
It comes off the bow gravely,
Rephrases itself into the air.

Seamus Heaney


Next, the music or Port na bPúcaí (Spirit Music):



And finally, the view:

(I copied it from here.)

So many years ago, with our baby asleep with grandparents, we walked all the way up through the heather to look out over the Blasket Islands, on a mild summer's evening just before sunset when the air was still and we could hear the waves all the way down on the Atlantic.

17 March 2015

We aren’t on this Earth to improve endlessly, forever approaching infinite perfection but never quite getting there. We are here to notice the enormity and beauty of everything around us, and to notice each other – to notice how flawed we all are, and feel connected anyway.


Heather Havrilesky

14 March 2015



Remembering when I first watched this movie and the time I asked my teenage daughter to watch it with me many years later and knowing that she loves it and that she got the message, too.

12 March 2015

spring

Cold, yes. A touch of frost at night, yes. But, oh, the blue sky and the birds. The racket they make, mating and nesting and breeding. Cranes and geese and have you ever watched a pair of noisy magpies making a nest? Messy doesn't come close.
It's the best time.

What We Need Is Here

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here. 



Wendell Berry

06 March 2015

Working my way through a translation on malnutrition in elderly patients I wander into the kitchen in the utterly vain hope of finding a box of cadbury roses in one of the cupboards. But of course, we don't stock that kind of trans fat sugar decadence. No cookies, not even old crumbs, we are so fucking healthy in this household.  I cut a slice of (organic) whole wheat bread and spread a thin layer of home made (low sugar) loganberry jam on it. That will have to do.
The world is a better place again. We are so good, this kitchen is almost holy. Sigh and bloody sigh.

Some days we have this conversation:

Me: When (or depending on mood: if) I die before you, do you think you'll have another relationship?
R: You're not dying, stop talking rubbish.
Me: Seriously, can you imagine living here with another woman?
R: Shut up and eat.
Me: Or maybe a man?
R: For crying out loud, would you stop this!
Me: I hate the thought of you being here all alone, watching tv all by yourself and there's the laundry and the cleaning and the shopping and ...
R: Come on, I don't watch tv and well, I can tell you one thing, when you're dead, there will be far less shopping and laundry.
Me: See, you admit it. I could die before you and then what? Will you look for another partner?
R: Maybe. Come on, eat. 
Me: So you will!
R: Alright then: what about you, will you get yourself another man if I die before you?
Me: No. Of course not. Never.
R: Want some more of this broccoli? No? I'll finish it then.

I finish my slice of bread, which, in fact, tastes quite delicious. Still, I would very much like some unobtrusive person to come into the room now with bowl of, say, chocolate ice cream.


 


04 March 2015

Sometimes when I lie awake and need to calm my mind I make up lists. Memory lists, like my daughter's first shoes, starting with the pair of tiny warm sheepskin booties R made, next the soft red leather slippers from our Dutch friends, traditionally used as inlays for wooden clogs and passed on through generations and friends (see below), she learned to walk in these, followed by the first pair of solid booties (blue) and on through her first years up to the yellow sandals (with a good grip as we reassured S when she walked up the hills of West Cork one summer). These sandals were the only thing stolen from us in paradise and it happened while we were still living in the hotel among the wealthy tourists. We marvelled at the thought that somewhere deep in the rain forest a child was now walking in yellow Birkenstock sandals. It was a good thought. Still is.

So the mind wanders.
I try and match my child's face at the time to the shoes and I fail and of course, I worry. When she calls the next day, I move real close to the screen and count - once again - all the beautiful freckles on her adult face. 

The Nso people of Cameroon, I read recently, do not allow a close mother-child relationship. Childcare is the communal responsibility of the entire village. To avoid eye contact, mothers blow into their baby's faces. They have to work in the fields, they cannot afford time for cuddling and singing. 
I see it here, too. Only our fields are offices and that puff of breath, we call it education.



28 February 2015

the gum battle, part 1

Rinsing every 4 hours, i.e. elaborate rinsing with a variety of sophisticated gadgets. It's a tad complicated and as for my taste buds, meh. I hope I don't have to do this for ever. When R comes back from his conference trip tonight, he'll think I set up a dentist's surgery.
After every rinsing episode I listen to this song. I would have a smoke but I gave up cigarettes approx. 35 years ago. Would mask that chlorine taste. And I could lean against my door frame, tap the floor in my cowboy boots and look cool and in control. (That's 15 o's in one sentence.)



27 February 2015

a bit over 5 years

I remember the day I got the diagnosis. I remember the phone call, you have autoimmune vasculitis. Come back tomorrow and we set out a treatment plan. Gosh, I was so happy. It has a name! I am real! I will live!

All giddy, I called R at work and he took the next day off from work and after the appointment, we took the slow road home through the foggy winter wonderland along the river. We stopped for lunch somewhere fancy and laughed and he was all calm when I cried a bit.

I remember when the doctors explained the medicines and the side effects and what I needed to look out for and what I must avoid (trivial stuff like no grapefruit, no alcohol, no ibuprofen, no aspirin . . .) and so on.  Oh, never mind, I thought. What's a bit of hair loss, weight gain, moon face, nausea, maybe liver damage, possibly gastritis and a lot of other stuff with complicated Latin names like gingivitis and stomatitis - compared to lung and/or kidney failure or death? You couldn't possibly argue with that.

Luckily, I am still waiting for the hair loss and the weight gain or the moon face. I have more or less accepted that bitchy gastritis and I let my GP worry about the liver values going up and down. But there are nights when I lie awake and consider my future life stretching ahead for years and years with painfully inflamed gums, always the taste of blood and the feeling of my mouth being on fire. And that, I admit, is the worst. At night anyway.

And now for some soppy music from the boy from Monkstown, a place that once was home:

25 February 2015

letting things fall apart, letting the world come as it is 
Pema Chödrön

Cycling for 40 mins home in the dark, first the forest, no moon, not a sound, just heavy rain, then down the hill and into the city, icy drops on my face and the obnoxious swishing noises from my not-anymore-waterproof gear, the drivers who come too close in their fat cars, who forget to indicate, who try and push me off the road. Note: try, not succeed because I roar at them, cursing and hissing I move through the evening traffic. At home I peel off the muddy layers trying to find my solid self underneath and fail, shaking and weeping and tired, my gums shot to pieces, at least I hope it's just the gums - she said to wait for it to calm down, maybe a week. If not, we'll try and save that tooth, promise, she said. Don't ask me how I slept, don't ask about the gastritis pains at 4 am. At least I got to hear the blackbirds before sunrise. My sister calls to discuss possible procedures re our father. Wishful thinking. I want to put down the phone. We cannot lock him in, he is convinced he does not have osteoporosis. Yesterday, he said to me, sod the tests, ignorant young doctors, what do they know.

Most of all, I want to be rid of that tooth ache or whatever it is. As for the rest, I can handle it. I think. Maybe.



24 February 2015

Whoa, I survived a week of tooth ache and a dentist visit and I still have all of my miserably few teeth! Glory days. 
While I sat in the waiting room I actually managed to calm down a visibly shaking woman. A lot of very fake bravura on my part met sheer desperation on hers. I felt almost strong and courageous after that and sat on my hands for the most time after she left. Just in case she came running back to me.

I am watching and re-watching Wolf Hall and not only because I try to follow the plot - I mean I can't, all these dukes and counts and earls and who must get married to whom and what has the church got to say about it. I am waiting for the next beheading, I think there is another one coming. I haven't read the books anyway. Historical novels are not my thing, but I have read and loved all the other books by Hilary Mantel (esp. her biography).
No, I am really watching Mark Rylance playing Thomas Cromwell, because he looks and talks a lot like a friend I had a long time ago. The kind of friend who knows what you need before you realise it yourself, who smuggles you into the staff canteen at the children's hospital after midnight because you have not eaten for the last 24 hrs since your baby was admitted with meningitis, who turns up unasked in a miraculously borrowed car during a downpour ready to drop you at the station in time - and without so much as a drop on you and so on. That was then. 
But he is also quite a bit like Thomas Cromwell, scheming, getting his way, always his way regardless. And at times my trust meant nothing.
We spoke on the phone a few years ago, after a friend had died, we spoke for a good long while and it felt almost right again. I know he has been asking about me, he knows I have been asking about him. He is getting on and one day someone will call with the news and I will board that plane back to Ireland. Maybe.
Anyway, Wolf Hall is splendid. 



19 February 2015

from a wonderful man

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life.
On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.
Oliver Sacks on learning he has terminal cancer

15 February 2015





As hard as I try, I cannot imagine what my mother may have been like as girl. Here she is maybe five or six years old. We used to love it when she told us stories of her childhood adventures, the horses, the house with the lion sculptures in the park, wild games with her grandfather, running away from her nanny. How many of these were really only tall stories, embellished over time? Does it matter?

This morning I looked into the mirror and yes, she looked back at me again. Some days, I don't mind that much. Today, for an instant, I also saw my old woman self, a mix of myself and my mother and my sister, a strange new woman with a somewhat incredulous look.

I wonder when I will start feeling old. Of course, my body often feels old but only because of the connotations between illness and old age that have settled inside my brain without permission. No, I mean feeling old and resigned about it.

For some years my mother had a thing about haircuts and how they take away years. So she had her hair cut really short and would wear my brother's jeans. 
I don't go for any of that but I wonder whether she ever felt old when she looked into the mirror. And what about her mother? My grandmothers. I start to feel dizzy.


12 February 2015

Lot's of oh dears fuck this. Back at work, that's the good thing. Whereas cycling in the cold air, uphill etc. through the windy forest, was probably unwise considering the feeling of someone sandpapering my bronchioles - thoroughly - since I got back.

Snowdrops and crocus are up but that won't do. I want spring. Now.
Too early, yes I know. 

My father's bruised back has turned out be a lumbar fracture requiring surgery. He tried his best to act haughty and superior during his week in hospital but his voice sounded like that of a lost child. Today, of course, all this has passed as he lectured me over the phone on the future plans which basically involve him learning to walk unaided again. He is most confident that this will be achieved by mid March as he has tickets booked for operas and whatnots. His female friends here and there may get impatient. And no, no walking aid. Certainly not.
I want to admire his resilience and his arrogance. He could just as easily pack it in, like the next best 86 year old with mobility issues, read the papers, get meals-on-wheels and watch tv.  That would be the easy option for us, I know.
I remember my granny just before she died (a few weeks before her 103rd birthday). When I phoned her she used to confuse me with one of her daughters-in-law. Once I tried to correct her but she cut me short. That girl is too young to make phone calls, she said. Stop pretending.
That was twenty years ago, and I don't remember now whether she told me over the phone or someone else who then called me, but one day she decided that this was her last walk, that from now on she will stay indoors. She went to bed and died that night.
My father was her youngest, an unwanted afterthought. There was never much love between them or between him and his father, but he was dearly loved by his siblings, who all died in their early 50s. So those two, mother and son, had to battle it out for long years all alone. Sometimes, this makes me so sad, other times it explains a lot. But mostly it's just a confusing mess.
I know that I try to push my idea of family onto him. He fights it mostly. But as long as I come with a cake or some other treats, he'll open the door.








08 February 2015

Thanks to Robert, I spent most of last night with John Martyn. This is nothing new because John  Martyn features highly in this household. You could say that his music has been the soundtrack of my life with R, right from the very early hours. There was one particularly frantic dash across London in the summer of 1979 to hmv records where I spent most of my money on any and all of his albums before racing back to Victoria Station with seconds to spare before the boat train left.

So I watched the bbc documentary and of course he comes across first as a rite messer - the loudmouth, the wild one, the drugs and the drink. It's all there. But also there is the sadness, the quiet genius, the minute glimpses of deep loneliness and honesty. I read somewhere that he referred to himself as not a folksie, but a funksie. Whatever, his music made my life better in so many ways.



05 February 2015

You can deal with whatever life brings you even if you find yourself between a rock and a hard place.

Too long for a bumper sticker.

04 February 2015

Your word for today is: ninguid, adj.
† ninguid, adj.
[‘ Snowy; covered in snow.’]
Forms:  ningid,   ninguid
Etymology: <  post-classical Latin ninguidus (also ningidus) snowy, covered in snow (late 4th cent.) <  classical Latin ninguis snow (cognate with snow n.1) + -idus -id suffix1.
 Obs. rare—0.
  Snowy; covered in snow.
1656  T. Blount GlossographiaNingid or Ninguid, where much Snow is.

03 February 2015

don't be afraid of the light that shines within you

Today, I remembered that once again I forgot all about Imbolc - and it's the most positive day of the year! When the light comes back!! Celebrate!!!


Instead, I gathered my wits and my miserable little bits of energy in a tight bundle and took the train down the magic river valley, all grey nothingness with the odd snow covered north-facing slope. In a feeble attempt to limit exposure to yet another load of infectious agents I opted for first class. No, that's an outright lie, because when I booked the ticket online, weeks ago, I fell for the upgrade spiel and clicked on the magic button, maybe secretly guided by some deeper knowledge of this prolonged bronchitis encounter, who knows. 

Well, first class with all its legroom, fancy antimacassars and free coffee is boring and very very silent. Surrounded by blasé people who probably think that eye contact is spreading diseases I occasionally had to fight the urge to unplug my headphones and share this amazing podcast. Just to prove that I was not listening to some rubbishy pop or whatever they all thought I was doing. It almost felt as if my mother sat across from me. Almost. Actually, she would have enjoyed that podcast.

My lovely doctor was ill today, so I was seen by her boss who is an eminent authority on autoimmune vasculitis in this neck of the woods. Thanks to my lowly statutory health insurance status I usually never come near her. Which is just as well. She greeted me with Do you always have such dark rings under your eyes? My mother would have walked right out of the room, but I stayed, obviously, and got the full treatment incl. throat and nose swabs (yes, they do hurt). 

I must have looked a fright after that because the taxi driver offered me a lozenge and when I asked whether he had seen any sunlight, he turned of the main road, switched off the meter and showed me the view over the hills with a tiny bit of sun hiding behind the clouds. Then he told me all about hockey and how he used to play it when he was a boy in Pakistan and how people foolishly think cricket is superior. I almost asked him to come back with me to my first class compartment, we would have a great conversation.

Once again, I am waiting for results while pretending to enjoy my fabulous life. No, no, seriously: spring is on its way, all will be well.

27 January 2015

This picture is a fake, my father never learnt to play a musical instrument. He is posing with his brother's violin. He doesn't sing either, he sometimes grumbles along way out of tune. On Sunday mornings we would find him sitting downstairs, playing his records, symphonies mostly, Schubert, Haydn and Beethoven, while going through his notes and science journals and from time to time, he would stab the air with his pen, conducting his imaginary orchestra.

The window behind him is where he now has his bedroom. It used to be my grandfather's study before the war. After the war and after the American army had moved out - they stayed in the house for four years - my grandparents moved upstairs and the ground floor was turned into an apartment. My father moved into it soon after he left my mother, when he sneaked away with his car load of stuff while she was recuperating from yet another nervous breakdown somewhere on the coast. Apparently, she arrived home to find half of everything gone. My sister told me that he left because of the blood. My father faints at the sight of blood. I have seen this happen a number of times, he keels over like a felled tree. Bang and out. When my mother cut her wrists, he called my sister and hid in the car, she told me. And about the buckets and the sheets and the stains in the bedroom. The off-white carpet. 

I was on the other side of the equator at the time. The last time I had seen both of my parents together, maybe two years earlier, they could not stop fighting and so I took my little girl and together we walked down the street. It was a hot evening and we waited around the corner barefoot until they stopped shouting. I packed my stuff later that night and told my father that it was time for him to get out, too. He just shook his head.

Last week when I called him on his birthday, he was still in bed. I could hear in his voice how he immediately regretted telling me that. Too late. I coaxed it out of him, how he slipped on the last step down to the garden, how he crawled to his car and pulled himself up and drove to the meeting with his Swedish friends and only noticed the pain when he got home. My father is a scientist and to him, the body is a set of plumbing works with chemical interactions and a slightly complicated set of nuts and bolts to hold it all together. Nothing to get worked up about as long as there is no visible blood. 
This week, he calls to inform me that yes, he has seen a doctor this morning but only to have his own diagnosis confirmed. A couple of bruises, so what. The way we all get so worked up about nothing. Tsk. Tsk.

26 January 2015

Really, I should know by now how to handle this. The usual waiting and observing, patiently, gently and with a positive mindset. In theory.
Actually, I am so much better at it. I think I am. I try to. Many people have suffered from a nasty cough and a touch of bronchitis with chest pain and all that exhaustion. Just because I have this autoimmune shit doesn't mean that it's something else. 
Ok, thinking back I can count the times I had anything as heavy as this on the fingers of one hand but obviously, I mean immune suppression, just use your brain, silly woman. 
Well yes, I do realise that this disease likes to dig into the lungs but hell, not my lungs. I am just slowly recovering from a nasty bout of bronchitis. So there.

Oh, and that snow from yesterday? Gone. Washed away by the rain. And the wind will carry me.

24 January 2015

It started to snow just after breakfast. Quite a lot, really. But by tomorrow afternoon it will be gone. I am certain. Occasionally, I look outside and it's still there, unfortunately. Seriously, 24 hours, not a minute longer. I am telling you.
Meanwhile, twelve amaryllis are budding and flowering indoors. Take that, winter, you brute, you!



19 January 2015

Memory is like a dog that lies down where it pleases.

Cees Nooteboom
This is day five of antibiotics and rest and where is the fucking recovery? Shush! Of course it's happening, only in such tiny steps that you need to put on your magnifying glasses to see it. What did you expect?!

Easy does it. I should know. Champing at the bits is a waste of precious energy.


17 January 2015

auris interna

Tinnitus: January, thin rain becoming ice

Now footsteps on shingle. Make of it what you will. Sea-birds roost
on the breakwaters, accustomed, of course, to twilight.
The spirit-lamp in that house on the headland could easily fall
and spill
and the fire burn all night. Some time later, a subtle ghost,
yourself in memory perhaps, might well set foot
up there amid clinker and smoke, the whole place silent and still
except you bring in the tic of cooling timbers, and then the birds
in flight.
*
Now chains through gravel. Make of it what you will.
David Harsent 
(from today's Guardian)

Some of them are mine, too. At night, the fairy flies by my right ear tinkling her bells, a mean fairy granting no wishes. On most days, in my left ear, a steady wind is blowing through a vast field of swishing dry sugar cane in central Mauritius while I am leaning my head out off the window, seasick and cold so far below the equator. But most of all, the hum, deep and low, that old river barge slowly passing through my left ear, forever and ever. There is no harmony, no rhythm, no pleasure in it. And no surprise any longer. To be at the mercy of such tiny events inside the minute magic spirals of my damaged inner ears, even that had to become part of my life. Mostly now, tedious, boring. So what.

 

15 January 2015

Bear with me, I am coming out of the fog. My head throbbing, my voice like Rod Stewart's after a full concert, and the coughing, well I think it sounds pretty damn impressive. I tried to do this nicely, thyme tea with honey, plenty of rest and fluids, but no, the lab report was nasty and so plan B or rather antibiotics for five days. We shall see. My intestines will have a fabulous time.

Imagine a very unhappy teenager in a small grey town in Northern England sometime in the early 1970s, she doesn't understand most of what people are saying, she has been kicked out of school because she refuses to wear the ridiculous uniform, especially not that awful bowler hat. Her host family doesn't know and so she walks around town, spends hours in Woolworths when it rains, sampling the blue nail varnish and the glitter hair spray. She wants to feel so very much aloof and haughty and cool but really she is scared and lonely. With her last money, she walks into a hairdresser's and points to the Rod Stewart poster. Hair with attitude. She needs that now.

Happy 70th birthday Rod Stewart, you wear it well.



13 January 2015

. . . contemplate how human beings a century from now will view those of us who lived in the era when climate change was recognized, and yet there was so much more that we could have done. They may feel utter contempt for us. They may regard us as the crew who squandered their inheritance, like drunkards gambling away a family fortune that, in this case, is everyone’s everywhere and everything. I’m talking, of course, about the natural world itself when it was in good working order. They will see us as people who fiddled while everything burned.

Many people believe that personal acts in private life are what matters in this crisis. They are good things, but not the key thing. It’s great to bicycle rather than drive, eat plants instead of animals, and put solar panels on your roof, but such gestures can also offer a false sense that you’re not part of the problem.
You are not just a consumer. You are a citizen of this Earth and your responsibility is not private but public, not individual but social. If you are a resident of a country that is a major carbon emitter, as is nearly everyone in the English-speaking world, you are part of the system, and nothing less than systemic change will save us.

Rebecca Solnit

11 January 2015

new word of the day

uhtceare : Old English noun meaning pre-dawn anxiety or lying awake before dawn and worrying.

10 January 2015

Together we will punish the killer. Our punishment will be more generosity, more tolerance and more democracy.

(Fabian Strang, mayor of Oslo after the 2011 Norway attacks.)

If you share my belief that an open society, a democratic open society is the only alternative to any murderous ideology, you must accept how vulnerable an open society is - simply because it is open and messy and multi cultural and mixed and complicated. Let us remain open, diverse and generous, let us refuse to polarise, to dish out blame or separate the world into us and them, let us stay subversive, irrational and above all, gentle.

07 January 2015

remember this

I wake with a sore throat and all the other aches and pains, my companions. It rained all night and the frost is gone, for now. Earlier, I think I did hear a bird call, just once before sunrise. Before breakfast, the it service man calls and accepts coffee but cannot solve the mysterious wifi problems. Because, so he says, this wave of gadgets and clouds with their blue teeth and constant additions and updates and whatnots, it's too fast and too much for mere humans to cope with. He switches a couple of sockets around like a priest performing a secret ritual. We agree that at least the sun has come up.

Once upon a time we lived in paradise and climbed the Nid d'Aigle mountain on a new year's day, up and up the narrow track, through thick humid forest with the odd voodoo doll on a stick or a fish head dangling from a branch, hissing insects, slipping on damp rocks until we finally reach Belle Vue where the skies open and the sun is so brilliant it takes your breath away.

Some mornings, this memory is all I need.

02 January 2015

Cycling through the dark forest after work. I am the only person on this planet. The cold wind finds a tiny spot somewhere below my scarf into my zipped up parka crawling along my chest. The tyres make loud swishing noises when I hit unseen puddles. The clouds open up and the moon shines on me and me alone. Here I go, my hands are freezing, chronic gastritis gnawing away at my stomach, something painful going on between my bladder and my inflamed intestines, cold tears running from my eyes to my ears, my hands are freezing inside the latest thermal gloves, I am 57 years old. I am racing through the dark silent forest with the moon shining on me and me alone. I am a miracle. I am the only person on this planet.


01 January 2015






The sudden snow has thankfully disappeared for a while - I love long term weather apps - and there has been only a tiny touch of frost. I can handle that.
We drove through the cold sunny valley mostly in silence, looking, occasionally pointing out a view.
I am starting this new year in a low mood. Or maybe not. It's life, it's complicated, is it really? The nagging regrets, what have I ever done to deserve this and so on. Oh, the injustice, the outrage, the self pity. 
How could life take away so much from me? My health, my happiness and so on. 

While at the same time I am fully aware, i.e not really that stupid (she hopes), to realise that life has done nothing wrong, has taken nothing from me. Life just goes on, changes and meanders like that godawful river we are unable to step into twice or whatever.

No, the mood is not really low, I take that back. The mood is moody. I start the morning with a talk to my inner teenager about patience and enthusiasm and compassion and soon enough, this eventually turns into a trial run of stepping back and observing and letting things be. Whatever it takes to hold back the deluge. 
A trial run, mind you. Let's wait and see. No promises.

-->
All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better. What if they are a little coarse, and. you may get your coat soiled or torn? What if you do fail, and get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice? Up again; you shall never be so afraid of a tumble.

Ralph Waldo Emerson


31 December 2014

2015

Only this I know


This I must admit: how one becomes two
is something I haven't understood at all.
How anything ever happens or one becomes what one is,
how anything stays in a certain way, what we mean
by words like body, soul, mind: I don't fathom,
but I shall always observe the universe
quietly, without words.

How can I
even for an instant understand the beginning, the end,
the meaning, the theory - of something outside of which
I can never go? Only this I know -
that this thing is beautiful, great, terrifying,
various, unknowable, my mind's ravisher.

This I know, that knowing nothing, unawares,
the current of the cosmos's awareness flows towards you.

~Rabindranath Tagore

30 December 2014

books

I used to read a lot more. Blame the internet and of course, newspapers and journals don't count.

The 5 best of 2014 were:

the Kent Haruf novels,
the Mary Lawson novels,
The Granta Book of Irish Short Stories,
Wolfgang Herrndorf in German and English (surprise!)
re-reading Marilynne Robinson.

The complete list is here.

29 December 2014

We each need to make peace with our own memories. We have all done things that make us flinch.

Lama Surya Das

22 December 2014

sailing

For a long time I thought that 1993 was my bad year, the year the carpet was pulled from under my feet. And in so many ways it was just that, the year of loss and picking up the pieces. That gigantic chaotic mix of juggling too many things, finding my bearings in a country I had never wanted to return to, my child silent and shy, my man working long days, the waves of hatred and xenophobia after the end of the cold war, the year my workplace was attacked, burnt down by racist thugs, cleaning up the smoldering mess and ending up in hospital, nothing too serious but if you want another child, maybe better to go for this surgery. Walking into it like a fool and waking up barren. Sorry, mixed messages, oh shit, you never signed for this one. Checking out, barely able to walk, on christmas eve, while the river burst its banks. Flood of the century, they called it on tv. Devastating, the reports read, massive damage claims expected.

Sometimes, I think it was really nothing compared to so much that has happened since, that it was in fact a lesson that has helped me cope and be grown up about life and all that stuff about getting the wind knocked out of your sails and the crack appearing - for the light to get in.

Memory is a wicked thing. There are days when I play my memory games that I am almost blinded by the golden light of how wonderful we were, the three of us forever walking into warm oceans, glorious sunsets,  magical fortress gates, all the warm kitchens we sat in and laughed and cried and talked and comforted each other as a family, as a couple. Oh, all that love and trust and how we seemingly take it for granted to be there for each other - always.

But looking back over my adult life as a woman, a mother, a wife, there are so many scars and some of them have been itching and oozing for so many years that most of the time now, I barely take notice.

We get knocked about, all of us, and not just by life itself but at times we do it to each other, we lash out, we hurt, we blame and we betray. The things we want from life, the things we feel we deserve, we need, we desire. Sometimes a compromise is just not good enough when we want something, when we think we need something so badly, so urgently. After all, we also know how to forgive. We lick our wounds and anyway, in the end things have always worked out well, eventually, haven't they?

We don't grow up and put away childish things. It is far more complicated. We each read a different instruction manual.

18 December 2014

Once again, I have too many holidays left to continue working. It's absurd, I know. But there are apparently nine working days stacked up that I am entitled to not work before the end of the year and even if I wanted to, the paperwork alone would be bizarre. Being a public service employee is like living on another planet.
And because R is already on holidays, we have plenty of time now to argue about who should cook or do the laundry or should we invite people for dinner and when and who should cook then and so on.
Plus, we sleep in longer and longer every morning and mess around doing nothing most of the day and sometimes talk about all the stuff we could do and before you know it, it's dark and time to argue about who should cook dinner. 

So it was with great effort that I went into town and while I did spend a good two to three hours walking around the xmas markets with all the cute and crafty things and the tourists and the mulled wine and waffles smells, pretending to shop - I bought one tiny box of fancy gingerbread cookies for a friend - and a half hour in a crowded cafe reading the papers, I felt out of place, completely and utterly. There was nothing, nothing, nothing that enticed me one bit. In an effort, I looked through an entire display of fancy bed sheets, pure organic cotton in myriad shapes and colours, and all I could think was, who needs this stuff?  I walked past a stall selling about 45 types of French nougat and almost ran when this nice woman offered me samples. Ok, I don't like nougat but still.
On my way home, I briefly stopped at my favourite bookshop but I never even locked the bicycle. A lost day for consumerism at least as far as I am concerned. 



16 December 2014

Tonight I went to an anti-neonazi rally in my city. I know the numbers are small and luckily, here the joyful crowd of all ages clapping and singing for an open society by far outnumbered the brown thugs, but I find it scary. Not just because I feel that people are being conned, that some clever Pied Piper(s) are playing with a general ignorance and unfounded fears, that nasty mix of xenophobia and manipulation, but also because at the same time, thousand more could only think of Xmas shopping and how the rally was messing up the parking and public transport situation.
There was a time when I could shrug this off, light a candle and trust that we all share a common decency etc. Tonight I just feel low. 

But still:
As we walked back to where we had locked our bicycles, I overheard a policeman explaining what was going on to a confused tourist: If you walk over there, you'll find a crowd of right wing people demonstrating. They are allowed to do this and we must protect their right of expression. If you walk over here, however, you will find people representing the open-minded, multicultural German society. 

12 December 2014

11 December 2014

Sheltering from rain today in a cosy cafe, I read that while there is a noted increase in specific types of depression during the winter months in the northern hemisphere, no significant evidence has been documented - as yet - that this is due to the gray and foggy weather. In fact, it's all due to lack of exercise and too many hours hiding under the covers in a warm bed.

I also read that for the next 16 days, the number of sunshine hours will be almost nil. 

I read that the number of people fleeing war and persecution, hunger and poverty today is higher than what it was after WWII. I also read about how European governments intend to criminalise refugees entering our wealthy countries with the aid of traffickers. To be so desperate as to pay someone to get out of hell will bring you straight into prison here.

Then I start to read some of the links on my news feed in relation to Human Rights Day (yesterday). 

This is difficult, I know what to expect but still. 

There is a president in tears and another former president praising patriotic acts of interrogation. 


Next, I open a link to a huge document, 400+ pages. I try to concentrate on the lingo and I fail. It's a descent into the inner circle of hell, carefully detailing a mix of ruthlessness and incompetence, about what happens when a person is forced to remain standing with his hands tied above him and not allowed to sleep for 59 hrs, how after 17 rounds of waterboarding, another person had to be resuscitated for further rounds as interrogations were as yet incomplete. I begin to feel nauseous when I read that on day five, the agents asked for permission to stop interrogations as it was too upsetting for them to continue. Permission was denied. 

I stop reading and order another cafe au lait. My father always criticised me for reacting with too much emotion and that it would do nobody any good.