imbolc

As of yesterday, we are looking into the possibility of spring and beyond, the bigger picture of seasons and the cycle of growth and harvest and rest, using the Gaelic seasonal festivals  for orientation. Now that R has been liberated from the restrictions of a school calendar.

Accordingly, Imbolc is the gateway to our year ahead.  The feast day marking the beginning of the light. Which called for sowing of seeds of the following: two varieties each of capsicum (peppers) and tomatoes, sturdy broccoli, cauliflower, two types of basil and Tibetan gentian. They appear dormant snug inside tiny peat pots in the heated cold frames on the big window sill, but we know, they are busily stretching and growing and expanding as of this minute (!!) and on and on and on.
And this is only the beginning. There are many small bags of ordered and collected and exchanged seeds waiting patiently on R's desk. The man has a plan.

This winter has been exceptionally mild, the two almond trees on the west wall are about to flower.
Today, alas, it started to snow.

In a complete turnaround from last year, when I was on sick leave most of the time and could not take holidays, I am now portioning out my accumulated holiday allowance to be sick. It feels very secretive and only I know that I am cheating.
I try to pretend and make a show of coping. Yesterday, after a short visit to the whole food store and the library, I slept for the next couple of hours and when R woke me up, I continued pretending some more.
Mostly, I try to not listen to the hissing voices inside my head reprimanding me, demanding that I face reality and all that other weird shit. Ah! Not now. It seems I have lost any sense of what feels healthy or unwell, I just plow on, crawl through the day and hope for the best, for the next morning. I am so used to it, being well would come as a real surprise now. Admittedly, this latest level of weight loss and exhaustion is new but for now, I have decided to ignore it couldn't give a shit.

We spent last weekend in Franconia, celebrating my father's 89th birthday. He was in top form, everybody arrived on time at the inn, a medieval building once home to the minnesinger (poet) Wolfram von Eschenbach, who wrote the original Parzival (Perceval) story (forget all about Wagner). Of course, this is strictly for tourists, we Franconians just accept it as our birthright, all that medieval history everywhere. We let it shine briefly, just enough to feel somewhat superior and then we ignore it.

As we sat along the tables under the fat wooden beams, eating a proper Franconian Sunday lunch, my father looked proudly around his clan, most of whom are sharing his surname, the youngest barely six weeks old, all on the right track, or so he believes. We played it well.

Franconia did not disappoint (see below). It never does - even on a grey cold January weekend. On the way home, I curled myself into a ball of deep exhaustion, while R drove us home through fog and rain, disobeying the speed limits as usual.

This is what defeat looks like, thankfully. The river showed me my place and when I arrived back home after a mere half hour, my knees were buckling under me and my conscience kicked in.

On a good day, I can cycle on and on until that castle ruin on the other side is a long way behind me. (In my fitandhealthy life, I cycled all the way to almost Switzerland.)
But it has been a while.

So yes, I am miserably unwell but what else is new. Keeping fingers crossed that it's just a bug or a virus simmering below the surface. Even cancelled the all important meeting with the big boss on Friday. Exhaustion is my middle name. Consequently, this post is all over the place.

But otherwise life is good enough, seriously. We got the first (hopefully of many) bunch of daffs.

The dawn chorus is swelling, mostly blackbirds. The ladybirds that have been hibernating inside the house are getting restless. They make these tiny sliding noises when they crash against the window panes. Don't worry, they are tough.


I have been reading, as always, and this here stuck in my head:

I’d like to teach my daughter to protect herself. I’d like to teach her not to be thankful for the leering eyes of a man on the street, or the groping hands of a man at a bar. I’ll teach her that she is the ruler of her body, and I’d like to imagine a world where she can go to the grocery store at night and not walk fast to her car with her keys poised like a weapon.

Because I tried, I swear I tried. I wanted her world to be so much safer.  I wanted her to grow up feeling free and welcome and fearless almost everywhere. I want all women to feel free and fearless and I think every single person I know wants the same and yet, I have failed. For a while I thought if I encourage her sense of fearlessness that surely will do the trick. But before I knew it, she learned that "N O spells no" in kindergarten - and we pretended it's a funny game, enrolled her in self-defense training not once but thrice and arranged for safe passwords, secret codes and pretend phone calls while walking home from the night bus. Mothers should not have to buy pepper spray for their daughters or warn them about the safe way to dress because men cannot help it or whatever shitty backlash comes next.

Meanwhile, listen to the fabulous NZ Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, who is pregnant with her first child and will show the world that work and motherhood are not incompatible.

it's terribly important not to be too gloomy

The fabulous Mary Beard speaking.



At around 6:30 am after a night when I exhausted myself on the battlegrounds of gastritis I realised that I really don't have to go to work at all today, I can just call in sick and if they hold it against me, so be it.  Which of course is paranoia on my part because labour protection etc. Also, as my clever daughter pointed out to me, complaints about my work in general solely based on my age is a rights violation (that's called ageism, mum, don't let them get away with it).
So, I am staying home because I am old and sick or maybe because I am sick and old. Take your pick.
Or rather, because I feel like shit and just want to potter about a bit, watch/listen to Mary Beard, not brush my greying hair, read my book with a hot water bottle placed on my bloated tummy.
And: no apologies.

The river is receding, the birds are very busy courting and getting things ready in the hedge for their spring marriages. Even the sun came out for a (very) short while.

Halfway through February. The open bedroom window. Birdsong since well before daybreak. Gorgeous birdsong. Now, after I watched R cycle off to work, with his energy and purpose like a sparkling cloud surrounding him (or maybe it was just his shiny red anorak), I am back in bed waiting for my day to find purpose and for my body to gather energy.
I could occupy myself. I could distract myself. I could make a plan, write down all the little tasks and schedules that are waiting somewhere for attention (or not). And in time, I will do all of these. Because that's what will get me through the day. 

But right now I am trying to not remember process what two experts told me yesterday after they had banged their little hammers onto my knees and ran their needles along my legs. Namely, that nerve cells do not regrow. That unlike all other cells in our bodies, nerve cells when damaged are kaput for ever. That muscles need nerve cells in order to function. And that while muscles can be tricked into activity even when nerve cell damage has occurred, extensive damage can also imply permanent paralysis.

Theoretically speaking, I am fucked.

But hey.
It's only one foot and most of the leg attached to it. Actually, one of the experts was quite enthusiastic about cycling, could be possible, he nodded, probably easier than walking. Eventually. 

So here is the plan: In time, slowly, slowly, I am going to get those muscles, hell, all and any of my muscles, into tip top shape, I swear it, here and now.

(As of today, I am on sickness benefits, i.e. my salary is paid the working masses.)

This bit of music, simply for the name of the band:  

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.

cycling in the forest after a week of rain

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.

A week of carefully adjusting my spirit level, balancing the bubble in my head to a point of near stillness. Checking my hearing much much too often, very noise sensitive. Gently rubbing in camphor and arnica ointment into the bands of steel that once were my neck muscles. Battling waves of nausea , and occasionally an edge of panic, just a hint, really. Every morning waking up full of hope and best intentions and every night before sleep savouring the surprise of having made it through the day somehow in one piece.

Against every rule I haven't told the experts anything. For the moment. We'll see.

The garden has exploded, a sea of lilac, aquilegia, wisteria, rhododendrums, azalea, fuchsia, geraniums on all window sills.

Life really is good, I am so very lucky. 

 

the days of rhubarb crumble

The lilac is at it again, winking at me through a sudden hail shower this afternoon, the black currant bushes are full of promise, the transplanted walnut tree is showing the teeniest bits of life after we had given up all hope, and we moved the figs outside as the weather radar is predicting a warm front by midweek, coming up from Africa.

I have been editing the most gruesome manuscripts, there are dreadful infections out there, twisting and turning the immune response and my heart was aching when I got to the list of side effects of one of the treatment trials. I carefully replaced all "subjects" with "individuals". I have never worked with these authors before and they are fairly young, so I'll push my case.

I had to drop the idea with the choir, rehearsals were great fun, but on most days every time I went away from them in a haze of vertigo and exhaustion. My days of singing and clapping and silly dance steps in a group of jolly women (and one man) are over. It was fun, we did the Timewarp and Blame It On the Boogie. Ah well, that was that.

We decided not to go to the Bob Dylan concert, open air, near us later in July. Not for 95 Euro p.p. standing somewhere way back and beyond. You don't want to know how much they are asking for standing a bit closer, but not much, to the stage and seating costs about as much as a week's holiday in Sicily. We may join the crowds sitting down for a picnic by the river trying to catch the sound from a distance - provided they won't close off most of the area. Obviously, there's costs involved and I am not begrudging anybody a decent profit after covering costs, but why are tickets for the big shots so expensive? Are they all broke like Leonard Cohen? I must be naïve or maybe I am a bit thick. There are people who think I am mad and that I will be missing a life changing event. Yes, there are.

 

Walking through the garden and naming the plants coming up right now is like opening a book of fairy tales:

Männertreu (men's fidelity)   blue lobelia
Löwenzahn (lion's tooth)    dandelion (from the French dent de lion)
Vergißmeinnicht     forget me not
Storchenschnabel (stork's beak)   pelargonium
Tausendschön (a thousand beauties)   daisy
Gänseblümchen (little geese flower)    daisy
Märzenbecher (March's cup)    spring snowflake
Wiesenschaum (meadow foam)    lady's smock
Buschwindröschen  (little bushy windy rose) anemone
Küchenschelle (kitchen bell)   pulsatilla
Rittersporn (knight's spur)  delphinium

               

And my mother would have been able to spot many more (plus she would have reeled off the Latin names just like that). She had no time for children's books or  silly nursery rhymes, but by naming a flower here and a weed there, she could kick start my imagination any time.

yesterday evening's cycle home from work

I'm on holidays, since yesterday as I had some leave left over from last year which my employer insists must be taken before end of March or else. My annual holiday allowance is perverse, 35 working days plus ten public holidays. Such riches, if I could I would distribute some of it to the needy masses, but instead I have to fill out complicated applications which need two signatures and an extra form specifying my cover plan and as much as I try I usually get something wrong with my figures or I have to wait until some of my colleagues with school children had their turn etc. There is someone working in the administration whose sole job it is to double check these forms and send stern emails to all of us who get it wrong.

Anyway, I have been told to take six days now or else. And add to this Good Friday and Easter Monday and two weekends, this comes up to probably 12 days but I wouldn't bet on it.

Which is all very well.

So I have this delightful image in the back of my head of me curled up on my sofa with the cat and a fresh pot of tea, reading my way through the stack of unread books. Someone recently told me that I was only inches away from a kindle. Actually, he said millimeters, we are in metric land, but it translates poorly. I get the benefits, especially if I were to travel for months etc. but I like second hand books and second hand bookshops and libraries. Although, libraries make me kind of dizzy what with bending my head to the right reading the spines of English books and bending to the left for the spines of German books. And then there's the smell. Books smell good. And didn't I only last week find a voucher for two coffees from the Artistas Restaurant and Bar in Lagos, Portugal, in a second hand copy of a Northern Ireland thriller. It is a bit smudged, the voucher, but maybe one day I will find myself in Lagos, Portugal, thirsting for coffee.

Instead, there is the prospect of setting out to the Sauerland mountains, pushing our bicycles to a small rock circle high up in a forest which marks the spring of the river Ruhr and then spending the next couple of days cycling along it until it meets the Rhine. Weather permitting, i.e. anything except rainstorms, sleet or snow. Or sloth. And it's a thrilling prospect. I am nervous and excited. It's a short little run really, compared to the cycle tours in my previous life, but We Shall See.

Glorious sudden spring has mutated into a freakish summer - we know it won't stay like this and at times it's hard to realise that this is April for godssake. There is this smell of hot dry tree bark which reminds me always of endless hot summers and insect bites.

The air is full of yellow dust covering the world inside and outside with a sticky layer. Brings me back to the Golden Desert in Rajasthan, only there it was fine sand, this here is pollen and it stings and sticks. We cough up yellow cake and our nostrils are dry and eyes hurt from it. The river is very low. The five drops of rain the night before last did nothing.

Yesterday the tall red haired guy from the bicycle shop without a second thought gave me a free loan of one of these snazzy e-bikes and so I have been cycling uphill, really steeply uphill for the first time since Sept. 09 and I sat on my bench up in the forest and felt pretty normal for a short while. I can have it until Tuesday morning which should give me enough time to get rid of the feeling that I am cheating. 

And there is this over eager woodpecker which - as I've read -  is normally a shy and wary bird but this one has an unusually loud call, a VERY noisy and loud series of 10-20 'klü' sounds which get slightly faster towards the end and fall slightly in pitch, but not in volume. He starts at 5:30 am and is busy with it throughout daylight hours. I think he is lovesick, looking for a mate, but maybe just defending his realm. But lovesick explains it to me better.

last Thursday

A very still and mild morning on the Mosel river just short of the Luxemburg border. The air was full of those tiny insects you see around fly fishers. Not a sound and not a ripple on the water's surface.

lilac season

It is a total surprise every spring, again and again. Almost unbelievable that only two weeks ago we were counting every teensy crocus and daffodil and now the garden is a sea of flowers and after dark this incredible smell from the lilacs, almost too good to be true. I feel like pinching myself.

spring

an explosion of colours in the garden
the soapy smell of the flowering pear trees
the riot of birdsong with the almost obnoxious woodpecker's call
a jug with a fat bunch of lady's smock on my table reminds me of picking flowers on my way home from school half a life time ago

cherry blossom trees

On my way to work these days I take a small detour down a rather awkward narrow side street where oncoming traffic calls for skilled manouvers. But because this street is lined with cherry trees on both sides which are now in full bloom ranging from frothy white to the deepest pink I inch my way through it as often as possible.

A friend lives here with her husband and their three now almost grown sons. Her and his parents came from Greece during the time of the military junta. 

I remember the days after her second boy was born. She had asked her husband to take pictures of her during labour standing upright and fully naked and together we searched these pictures for any signs of how hard her body was at work. And all we could see was a beautiful strong woman with a touch of urgent madness in her eyes.

Some years ago her husband asked me to translate several German documents and articles into English for a business friend of his in Greece. He insisted that a contract was drawn up. It was a lot of work and there were many calls to and from Greece before all were happy with the outcome. But I was never paid. There followed lengthy explanations of various reasons for the delay, stories about bank drafts gone astray and commissions not approved and so on with promises of delicious Greek dinners, barrels of fresh olives, case loads of wine once the money had come through.

It never came through. It didn't matter, really. Maybe I should have offered to do this for free. So what, no hard feelings, I told them. Come on, I don't need this money. We are friends.

But no. When I meet her now, always by accident, we hug and laugh and quickly exchange the latest news about our children and our health and so on and then she tells me how her husband has just last week spoken to his business friend and that he can now guarantee that the payment will come next week, next month the latest. And I tell her that this is all water under the bridge and let's forget it. And so we laugh again and we promise each other to meet soon for the Greek dinner before we say good bye because we must dash. 

And when I occasionally see her husband in town he quickly changes to the other side or turns his head as he passes me.

sing-a-long Italian pop - sticky sweet

più bella cosa non c'è
più bella cosa di te
unica come sei
immensa quando vuoi
grazie di esistere...

(Eros Ramazzotti, live in Rome 2004)

birds

The crane are coming back. I watch their big V-shaped formations flying noisily in from the south west and we hear them at night, too.
In the mornings before sunrise a single voice of a blackbird comes through the open bedroom window waking me for a short instance just to hear it and wonder and drift back into sleep.
No more tooth ache in the last 48 hours after the dentist and the immunologist decided to cut out MTX for two weeks to give my gums a chance to heal. Endless pots of chamomile and sage tea for rinsing and soothing.

Last year at this time I was falling through space like Major Tom. And the world was covered in snow.