boycott

Many years ago, my daughter had to write an extended essay on civil liberties and how seemingly small or arduous actions can influence politics. She was not amused and left it to the very last moment to start. Luckily, her mother had been active as a trade union member in the Irish boycott of SA goods while she herself was just a tiny toddler. On top of that, there is a weak and distant family link to the 19th century Irish politician Charles Stewart Parnell who basically invented, some say re-invented, the idea of an effective non-violent action - the name derives from a cruel landagent, Charles Boycott, but surely everybody knows that. Anyway, she gathered enough inspiration and wrote her essay, it's somewhere in a box in the attic I think.

Today, our local paper published a list of goods to boycott, many of the large retail shops, several local restaurants have signs on their doors telling their customers, which US goods will no longer be available, no coca or pepsi cola, no ketchup, no almonds, no Kraft sweets etc.

Click here to watch a little video from far away Australia. Does it matter if it will have any effect? See for yourself.

However grim things look, whatever the overwhelming odds you face, you will not face them alone. I will not be complicit in the tyranny of the USA. I will not buy into the tyranny of the USA. Because when this is over, one way or another, I want my name to have been recorded, in my memory if nowhere else, in the column of the names of the people who said "I will not be complicit." and not among the names of those who sneered and sniggered; or worse, who cheered the tyrant on.

eat the wild strawberry

 

 a stormy wet day in 2009, Killary Harbour, Ireland

 

 It's all dreadful, the future looks so bleak, a friend tells me. Every day another blow. And so on.

Later, I read this in Rebecca Solnit's excellent newsletter, Meditations in an Emergency

 

I think of all of this while I walk along the river and the wind is so fierce in my face that I move faster and faster. My cheeks sting from the cold and suddenly, there's the thought of my big blue mug, filled with steaming tea, in my hands. And this small thought of a pleasure awaiting me back in my warm kitchen brings on a sudden cascade of happy memories, so much so that I start to hum. These moments in my life of pure joy, the knowledge that something vague and very good is going to happen. I realise, once more, that this expectation of joy is what has directed and surprised and comforted me all my life. Looking at the river glittering grey and blue in the cold winter afternoon, the barges gliding by and the sun about to set behind a small bank of clouds and all along, I feel a sense of being safe. Despite it all. The bombardement of bleak news, the ever changing diagnosis, the daily conundrum of gaining and maintaining a semblance of health and wellbeing, the fearful future outlooks. To not let it overtake me. Not allow myself to lose It. My soul. My self.  My happiness, and how can I even think of happiness with all the horrible things going on. Do I, do we, even deserve feeling happy, feeling joy, feeling good? Whatever type of happiness the future will hold, it can only be a lesser one I think, or maybe I'm wrong and it will be a deeper one? 

The thing is, I have never been in real danger, never experienced poverty, never been unable to seek medical help. I always had access to education, have been encouraged to learn, to study, to read, to visit, to debate and speak without any restrictions. In every place I ever lived, I had access to libraries, big and small, news media, gossip, rumours, jokes, satire, critical opinions, science. And while there have been times, years in fact, when money was short, very short, my fridge has never been empty. There has always been a garden or at least access to land where I could grow food. My existence has never been at risk. Nobody in my immediate family has suffered hardship since I have been alive. All my adult life, I have experienced companionship, friendship, support, I have never been abandoned, betrayed, ridiculed, cheated, deserted. Like most of us, I have experienced loss and grief and found ways and help to cope.

Yes, I have known fear, dread, anxiety, panic.  Some times, like now, to an extent that affects my sleep, my peace of mind. My vivid imagination is a blessing and a curse. In a recent exchange somewhere on social media, I wrote: I've been panicky since Chernobyl, more or less. And yet, I am still blown by how happy I can feel.

Relax

Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth. 

Ellen Bass

 

need to get birdfood

 

Don’t Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty

of lives and whole towns destroyed or about

to be. We are not wise, and not very often

kind. And much can never be redeemed.

Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this

is its way of fighting back, that sometimes

something happens better than all the riches

or power in the world. It could be anything,

but very likely you notice it in the instant

when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.

Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid

of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Mary Oliver

 

 

Another frosty night, another cold day ahead of us. At least it's sunny. And very windy. I may have mentioned at some stage that I dislike winter. I herewith confirm this strong dislike. My lower arms are recovering from the infection but it still looks like an angry red case of scabies. The grandchild was impressed. Was there lots of blood, they asked? Tell me again Granny, did it run down to your hands?.

Various events in the near and far make me anxious. On Saturday, I visited all the party stalls at the farmer's market and pretended to read their hand-outs while I waited until the respective candidate had noticed me. I then asked each of them the same set of questions. After they had produced their helpful/empty/instructive/off-topic reply I told one of them that I think him completely unsuited for representing me in the national parliament and urged another to get her act together for goodness sakes and a third one gave me a bunch of tulips before I could even open my mouth but we agreed that a bunch of forcefully grown flowers from a Dutch greenhouse will not buy my vote. I gave the tulips to the guy from the coffee truck, as he had just passed his German language exam and can now apply for a German passport. He said he intends to vote at the next general election, not this one and I promised him that I do what I can so that he will be able to.

We have exactly one snowdrop flowering in the herb bed of all places. Thankfully, the eranthis has spread all over the place and is flowering to abandon. I am now off to get more birdfood. Also, more coffee. 

 

Resistance is not a moment, but a process.

This morning, first thing, a message from a friend, in panic mode, she tells me, everywhere I look, nothing is right anymore. I lean back and check myself for a while, try to figure out when what has been right. I think I have been in panic mode for a long time, more or less. Funny that. 

These days I often miss my father, want to call him and ask, what was it like for you? How long did it take you to look behind the facades of lies and deception? The empty promises? What was it like to just get on with life? Birthday parties and climbing trees and picking raspberries.

The past week was pretty meh thanks to (what should have been) superficial actinic keratosis treatment resulting in sepsis requiring a double dose of antibiotics. I swam around for three days with chills and fever and disorientation but hey, antibiotics do work miracles. Regretfully, they also create havoc in the digestive system. A work in progress.

Anyway, small fry compared to what's going on here, there and everywhere. And unexpectedly, in the couple of days of sepsis-induced exhaustion, I felt a strong sense of impatience. Do not render me inactive, I hissed at my ill self. We have work to do. Below is a jumble of thoughts and quotes I collected in my fever days. I still hold on to the thought that we can do our bit and that our bit is enough. Because we can do our bit with all of the others doing their bit. It may not be enough to save us individually but it is enough to show that maybe we are all worth saving. And maybe that’s enough.

The Defenders

I love the courage
of the little black ants
who when disturbed
come out of their old
fencepost as big dogs
come after a rat,
take hold of me,
shake me, and growl.

Wendell Berry

The world is held together, I think, by a million ordinary encounters that occur between the millions of people each second allows itself to hold. And the world is broken, I think, by whatever doesn’t understand or appreciate the ordinary.

Devin Kelly 

So let's concentrate on the truth. The promises of fascism are always poisoned, contagious, absurd. They cannot thrive in peace, never want to be scrutinised. For this reason alone, we must create peace - mentally, spiritually, physically - we must create peace wherever we can. We strengthen creativity, fluidity, mutual support. Why does the far right hate nature, art and beauty? Because strength, clarity, unity and imagination are a threat to them to the same extent that they help us. Why are they trying to erase history? Because those who plan to repeat the worst mistakes of history do not want us to foresee how many people will perish in the process. 

A.L.Kennedy 

We are all one. And if we don't realise that, we will learn it the hard way.

 

when you are German

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.

Anne Frank

At age 14, I went on a school exchange to the UK because my grades in English were abysmal but also because I wanted to get away from boring Germany. I ended up in an incredibly dull town on the east coast of England and had a miserable time. My English improved but not to the expected standard, also I had picked up the local accent. So it was an allround failure. (I did, however, come back with blue nail varnish and some excellent memories of a week in London.)

From day one of my time in England, I was told in no uncertain terms by the good people living there that I was a Kraut and that Germany had lost the war. Some people had a good laugh, showed me funny tv sketches, others decided to provide history lessons and occasionally, I was asked, how come the Germans allowed hitler to do what he did? What did your family do? Why did the Germans let this happen? 

I am grateful for this experience. I returned home and started to ask questions - which were not answered. Anyway, life interfered and it was not until much later, that I began to take longer and harder looks at my country's recent history.

Where to begin. There's the guilt, the shame. To face it, even when you are second and third generation. The responsibility I have felt at times is overwhelming. 

Some milestones along the road.

There is my obtaining of my maternal grandfather's files from the national archive and while there is so much that I cannot reveal or even locate, the knowledge of his involvement.

There are relatives of my parent's and grandparent's generation who are angry with me, who want me to understand that there wasn't a choice, that one had to remain silent, not attract attention, that it was all too much to cope and understand.

There was Daniel Goldhagen's book about hitler's willing executioners (2012) that sparked months of public debates and heated discussions, and not just regarding the historic German anti-semitism but the  Mitläufer (follower, hanger-on, collaborator), ordinary (?) citizens who basically did nothing, failed to rock the boat.

There was a long cold day spent in Dachau concentration camp, a short distance from where my parents met and where I was born. It was the first camp established by the nazis, used - especially in its early years - to imprison and intimidate political dissidents. The camp, which is massive, was built in the first months after hitler came to power, i.e. years before Auschwitz.

I could go on. There are days, when I am still hoping with all my heart that I will find one, just one distant relative who may have hidden someone in their basement or attic, enabled a family to escape, participated in a secret resistance group, printed leaflets, developed even the smallest form of sabotage. 

Nobody did, they all felt too exhausted, too shocked, too worried about their own family, status, well being, survival. I could call them all cowards but what do I know. The 12 years of nazi regime, the six years of war that ended it. It was never a topic of conversation in my extended family. And if the subject came up, rarely and by accident, there was often silence, people would leave the room, my mother shaking and smoking.

When you are German, to this day people from other countries feel obliged to remind you of what your parent's and grandparent's generation did. They tell you stories of how their father fought against the nazis, of how their politicians helped to end fascism in Europe. And they tell you that they would never  let anything like it happen in their own country. That it's a German curse, and that these Germans, these lazy, idiotic Germans did nothing to stop it. 

On national tv last night, yet another expert explained that in the US there surely will come a point when Trumpism has exhausted itself and people are tired of it. That much is certain, he said. I wonder at what price.

imbolc

This day means a lot to me, I often call it the most hopeful day, the day, when the light comes in. And I still do, even after watching and raging for the past three days at what has been going on in my country and what is going on elsewhere. I could list all the angry and insightful quotes and statements I have collected, the memes and the poster images and the cartoons, thank goodness for nasty cartoons. But instead, I look out over the hoar frosted garden, bright sunlight, the birds picking through the handful of nuts and seeds on the patio table, the squirrels racing across the lawn and into the hazel bush.

Before sunrise, I hear the blackbirds singing out their mating songs. And this is my song for today.

 

 

Today, I want to whisper in people's ears: Don't be afraid of change, because the current situation means a climate crisis, wars, inequality, noise, oppression, species extinction, oligarchy, lack of education, violence ... Nothing that is worth fighting to preserve. So you have nothing to lose by embarking on the adventure of improving the world. Do your best to separate the signal from the noise.

We exist together. We don’t have to do any of this alone.

Perhaps this is all we can give each other right now—the promise of support and camaraderie and love. There are things that will not get better—things that will be irrevocably lost—but then there are things, hopefully, that will: our care for each other. Our care for the land. Our involvement in our communities. Our capacity for love.

Getting better at loving, I think, means sitting with the hard stuff, not being afraid of it, not turning away. Maybe we can learn to undo the language of betterment in favor of something more honest and true: not I hope you feel better but I’m with you as things get worse.

Nandi Rose

Tomorrow is my sister's 70th birthday. She has been mad at me since forever, we are in a constant competition of who can come up with the best, veiled insult, the sharpest sarcastic remark, the nicest grandchild, the worst chronic pain and so on. We are both carrying wounds that will never heal. I know I owe my life to her. I knitted this pair of mittens for her. The pattern is from a book I found in a second hand shop ages ago, it's an old Estonian pattern. The book is full of wonderful mittens and socks in these traditinal techniques and patterns. I've copied every single one of them over the years. A long time ago, I knitted one of these mittens for a therapist I went to for a while. I carefully chose the softest wool and fretted over the pattern a good deal. She refused to accept them, something about professional standards, about not allowing client's work on her skin and so on. I dropped the mittens in a bin on the way home.

Anyway, that was a very long time ago. These here are the ones I sent to my sister.