Small-time Prophets

I am sure she would object to the term “prophet,” or rather she would laugh at me and say, “You are so funny, sweetie!” As if! She really is that, or at least one of them: a small-time prophet.

Leading a quiet life, by example. No big words, no crowds of followers, no fame to be gained. They just do it, because they know it’s the right thing to do. Many of them are mothers. And if they survive the hardships of childbirth and financial dependency, of sleep deprivation and subjugation of some degree or other without much complaint, it is so because they see the bigger picture.

And that’s what it’s ultimately about. The big picture! Of course, you know that it’s not about winning a war, founding the next multinational cooperation, or even becoming head principal. But what are you doing about it?

Well step one would be to adopt the golden rule and to live by it - without any ifs or buts. And believe me, children are good at holding you to it.

It takes a lot of work, most of all on yourself. And over the years, I have seen these women outgrow their partners and consequently being punished by them. A sad thing, but often inevitable in the world we still live in.

Luckily, most of my friends live in societies that embrace at least some basic principles of human (i.e., women’s) rights, so they weren’t burnt or mutilated for having become more self-reliant and independently happy over the years.

But a good life, and most certainly a deserved one, it is not. After having been deserted, betrayed and disparaged like other more notable ones before them, their lives are filled with daily hurdles. But as true captains of their souls, they manage.

Now, that’s an example to follow: Self-reliance and moral rectitude in the face of average human baseness. It’s all that matters.

The good news: These women are everywhere and those smart enough in this world will silently follow their example. Yes, I mean you guys!

She Said...

Some of the more obvious problems with organized religion is that, for one, the big three and most of the others all have male deities reigning over the lofty heavens. From Allah to Zarathustra, there is not that much gender variety (if we neglect, for a moment, the bare- bellied sidekicks of Shiva et al.).

But beyond that, the great prophets, those claiming to carry on the divine message on earth, were all male - or so we are told. Of course, we know better, but then that’s probably not something to be discussed over turkey and stuffings.

The backlash against women who have tried to impact this world with their thoughts has always been horrendous and continues to be so even today. Death and defamation hit them faster than they would have imagined. And so today, Mary Magdalene remains in the memory of the religious mob nothing but a lucky whore. Her teachings tossed into the Red Sea (...or was it the Black?).

Men are capable of that kind of thing. Nothing new.

And when some women bloggers in Germany today are told by investigators to tone down their messages and make their posts less ‘provocative’ to the sensitive ears of male supremacist, or else to expect their wrath in the shape of profanities and death threats, then it is nothing other than that:

Un-called for male posturing.

Just look at the world on the eve of 2011: Over-population, warfare, religious strive, sexual exploitation, torture, totalitarianism, nuclear proliferation, and melting poles...Not so great, guys! But thanks for flushing toilets and penicillin anyway!

He Shall Wipe Away All Tears

Without a construct of eternity or rebirth of some kind, of power beyond our limited means, without a benign entity welcoming us and our loved ones into its bottomless pool of love and forgiveness, death is the end of all and the source of all fear.

That is unless we seek to accept our existence on earth with humility and understand our deaths as mere molecular events in a greater picture that we will never grasp.

Pulling ahead!

In a way this is a very special Christmas for us this year. And so, as Matt is clanking away with a hammer on our US mega size turkey roasting tray to make it fit into a UK sized oven, we smile and toast for we have safely landed. Funny to think that it all started three years ago with us sawing apart our king sized bed at 2am one wintery morning on the day of our move to be able to move it up the narrow staircase of our new English home. Merry Christmas to all and everyone!

103

Three days of being out with one hundered and three is the best that has happened to me in a while.

Of Things to Come

Jules took the news of his best buddy’s mom dying, as a five-year old would. With extreme poise. Death to him is like a vague other-world, one that adults move around in that is infinitely less interesting than his own universe, which is inhabited by gnomes, talking ants and himself among other cool creatures. And to make us all feel better about his friend’s grim lot in life, he added, “When Ricky’s mom dies, she will come back as a little boy to play with him.” When I told J. that, she said that Ricky had come up with a very similar account of things to come, and that she was looking forward to it.

Winter Once More

This winter is like all winters
      Soon come and gone
    A succession of days lulled
      By the shadow of time

   Days drifting barely noticed
      Through the twilight
   Of our awareness at times
      Leaving silence in their wake

    Sameness, the never changing
      Fragrance of all days
    Left behind in a moment
      To behold once more

Dale of Sorrows

My head hurts from hours of silence. Of not crying.
The children have all seen it before, the swollen eyes, the quivering chin.
The days, maybe hours, while J. is still alive.

Out of this World

We had done it again. We had gone and wasted another perfectly good day at IKEA, impulse buying, ordering, and eating way too many meatballs with cranberry sauce. It was once again quite a journey. So much so, in fact, that Julian later on, while bending over a world map in the kitchen, looked up at me and asked, “Where is Ikealand actually?” I knew then, that we had overdone it this time.

Check!

Behold our great contribution to the xmas fair. I scrubbed off twenty labels, Lea cut ten rosemary sprigs and stuffed them into the bottles, Zoe cut out ten turtle doves. I say, it is done! Ten bottles of Extra Virgin olive oil. Let the fair begin...I'll be back later!

1918

On this cold November day, my great grandmother Johanna Unger looked at her little daughter Magdalena, whom she had given birth to just a few hours ago, as she opened her dark eyes. An armistice had just been signed a fortnight ago and spirits were high.

Patchwork

Over the past decades, family structures have become looser than ever before - at least in the Western world.

And at some point, the term “patchwork family” was coined to describe adults and children living together in relationships extending beyond those of the original biological family - usually after that family ceased to exist.

With a history of wars, famine, poverty and disease, the human family has always been under stress. A significant number of children has always been reared by other than their biological parents. Relatives, the state, and strangers often had to step in when plan A didn’t work out.

A reality that can shape a life forever.

Yet, there are quite a few voices who like to downplay the effects this can have on a child. Patchwork is in, it seems.

Patchwork embellishes the harsh and often intangible realities of childhood in the 21st century.

Of course, I distance myself from those who decry the decline of the “traditional family” blaming it on eroding (Christian) values and the “onslaught of feminism”, but I nevertheless wonder how healthy patchwork really is - and also, how unavoidable it is.

By definition, patchwork is created from the left-overs of a carefully designed and crafted original. It describes a more or less haphazardly stitched together pattern made up from the remnants of whatever it was that fell apart. And patchwork families are often exactly that: stitched together parts of the original families that were worn down by heavy use.

Which begs the questions, who is wearing out the families of the 21st centuries? Why are the pressures such that the seams rip even though there are no devastating wars, famines or pandemics?

Or to be more concrete:

Why do families over night have to adapt to the demands of the so-called global economy? Why does a regular work week in a decently salaried position amounts to fifty hours and more? Why, I ask, have real wages not increased since the 1970s, thereby making it often unaffordable to raise a family of four on one income only?

You know the answer. Someone is skimming off the cream while the masses watch and the patchwork is growing.

Jules knows this:

Gravity is green and flat and it sticks.

Do it yourself

For a while there I was baffled. As much as I scoured the aisles of leading grocery stores, I couldn’t find it. Store clerks looked at me quizzically when I inquired into the possibility of locating it on one of the shelves. Alone and a bit forlorn, I ambled between long rows of chutney, delicatessen, canned fruit and pickled everything. But nothing. I couldn’t find
any apple sauce.

In the land of orange marmalade, lemon curd, and mint sauce it seemed hard to believe that such an ordinary item as crushed, canned apples couldn’t be found. Especially, since it appears on every pub’s autumn menu, preferably in combination with pork.

It took me three years to figure out why...

The south of England virtually bursts with apple trees. Everyone has at least one in their back yard. On our way to school there are two houses with wheelbarrows parked outside the gate, filled to the brim with cooking apples to give away. All I have been eating at my friend’s home for the past month is bowls of delicious apple sauce with scrumptious vanilla sauce.

So, there you go...there simply is not enough profit margin in apple sauce, when people whip it up in a matter of minutes...all organic and free trade!

November

On cold branches lingers
the light of my memories

In dark heavy clouds rests
the beauty of your promise

Zero

I have been wondering about what it is that makes fashion so appealing. It would be so much easier to just wear the same old three shirts over and over, and not to worry about the length of skirts, jackets and heels as the seasons go by. Think about all the money that one could safe, and the time!! All those hours wasted in figuring what's in, where to get it, and how to get away with it. Surely purple lipstick is a tough one and long is bad if you are short? Take those low cut jeans, for instance. They were a real pain, I thought, and yet everyone in the last years did their best to stuff their private parts into them (but only just!). But what's that thing about size zero. That's gotta make 99% of women absolutely miserable. A) Who fits into a pair of jeans that their ten year old grew out of several months ago? B) Who likes to lie about fitting into them, and C) Who thinks looking like a victim of starvation is anything else but pathological, unless you really can't help it in which case - go ahead and grab a pair.
But I don't think they had you in mind, when they came up with the design.

Too Many

Gotta Produce
Gotta Make more
Gotta get that new one out

Hit the market
Hit the target
Hit that growth rate and be proud

More is better and better will win
‘Cause more is more and more is in

Gotta feed them
Gotta dress them
Gotta get them into school

Get them ready
Get them going
Get them the right tool

More is better and better will win
‘Cause more is more and more is in

Gotta compete
Gotta be sharp
Gotta make the difference

Not to lose out
Not to go under
Not to let go when the going gets tougher

More is better
Better will win
‘Cause more is more and more is in

Gotta check
Gotta see
Gotta go for the best deal

Too many people
Too many for one job
No need to give just ask for more

Witch Friend?

As we entered the kitchen, there were thick clouds of purple and green smoke suspended at mid level and a slight but undeniable sulphureous stench permeated the air as Peta pulled the third creation of the day from the oven - a dark blue cake. The other slightly more striking variations in aforementioned hues of purple and green were cooling on the countertop next to a bowl of orange icing waiting for its deployment.

Peta tends to be generous with the icing and it is fun watching her sloshing it on, while uttering little mournful sighs and hisses and an occasional curse. All this was fine and rather to be expected, after all it was the night before H’ween and she was trying out a new recipe, but then she turned to us and cheerfully said, “Almost there, why don’t you grab a plate. You are the first ones to try it.”

And for a moment I wondered, whether our friendship had suffered any indiscernible and yet irreparable damage over the past months. Whether we should maybe sit down and talk...and whether that dark spot at the tip of her nose was really a wart and not just a dollop of stray icing.

But already Julian’s little finger dove into the icing at full speed and vanished into his mouth before I could thwart its swift movement. And I knew I would have to follow suit. No turning back now. After all I had gotten us into this mess.

Well done, Gretel, we will GLOW for years to come!

Is that possibly Clerodendrum Trichotomum, dear?

I never cared much about where and how I fit into Costa Rican society. It was quite clear that we didn’t, even though we seemingly were an integral part of what makes up Costa Rica in this day and age: foreigners looking for a slice of paradise.

Costa Rica is teaming with gold diggers (it’s main gold is real estate), tax and winter refugees, hippies and wannabes, small-time crooks, and a lot of other colorful characters.

We weren’t colorful - not in that way - and we weren’t Costa Rican, although by the time we left, we had a pretty good idea about what that was. We simply were enjoying a time out, a moment in our lives to figure out what exactly it was that we wanted. A little breathing space. Every one should get one.

Raising a family, it is easy to get stuck with mortgages, credit cards, suburban life and bad coffee. And we knew, we didn’t want that.

But we also didn’t want country clubs, Latin American sprawl and one hundred percent hinterland, which altogether to us were ten times worse than all the bugs fluttering and scampering about combined.

Now, however, that we have found what we want, we are faced with a new challenge:
How to fit in.

When faced with seed catalogues, chutney jars and garden shows, I am quite perplexed. I love the beauty of the English landscape, I absolutely adore the seemingly effortless charm of an English garden and nothing is quite as exquisite as a visit to a manor house, be it in Chelsey or Cheshire, where the good life seems to be enshrined forever.

BUT how is one ever going to be all that, unless you are born that way?

Really

Thinking about it, all idealism came to a grinding halt sometime in the 1920s, when Communism turned totalitarian, Fascism entered the living rooms, and the world economies were begging for war fuel. The cynical decades that followed where but a reckoning with human nature. We are after all nothing but the pinnacle of the primate world. Whether we make it to Mars, or turn our garbage into drinking water, we are nothing more than a species concerned with survival. It remains to be seen, who is the fittest.

"Can you get in trouble for that?"

...is what Zoë wondered after she had scanned through my last post. And she is probably right. If anyone actually read my little bits and bites, I would probably receive a lot of hate mail from the Christian Right, including the PR office of Mr. Ratzinger, as well as everyone up and down the Islamic hierarchy...don’t know whether I have offended any Buddhist, Hindu, Taoist....or Jewish person yet, anyway the Mullahs would be up in arms and so would any cookie baking mother, doting husband, and in general people with nothing better to do in life.

So, it’s a good thing Blogspot readers don’t seem to be too aware of this little corner of free speech.

Actually, thinking about it, womazzle was at some point on a black list, I was told by a faithful reader, because when quoting Jules in one of my posts, there was some indecent lingo. I think that’s because I used a word referring to a male appendage used in reproductive efforts. So, yes, I am bad !

Anyway, I like where I am. I do not care enough about this world to climb onto a soap box and holler my wisdom into the noise of traffic or infomercials. Otherwise, I would have done so years ago. I have made my peace with life. No need to struggle much beyond pound cakes and recycling schedules. What I say and write and share with others is just that...me. No need to convert humanity.

Living the good life in one of the most beautiful places left on this planet, I am truly grateful. It is just a shame, not everyone is that fortunate.

For Others

Correct me if I am wrong, but I see some patterns develop in families around midlife, even if at first glance there aren't any visible cracks.

This is how I think it works: Boy meets girl, girl likes boy. Kiss, marriage, baby carriage, the whole works, and suddenly that degree can wait, the job wasn’t really that fulfilling, the hours don’t work out, boy earns more, child care is hard to get by... And all of this is probably true. Sadly so.

What follows is a silent contract, the promise that both sides will fulfill their share in the family enterprise, that they both will keep to their part of the labor contract, because from now on they will inhabit separate work spheres, worlds which will rarely meet.

That requires a lot of trust, maybe even naiveté. Because what will ensue is a sort of schism, a gaping abyss which will prove more and more difficult to bridge as the years pass by and misgivings, spoken or unspoken, will be stock piled behind a façade of good will and determination.

And unfortunately, the big picture doesn’t help either. Because as girl redefines her role in life as one devoted to the well-being of the family, and foremost her offspring, boy defines himself through success measured in power and recognition. And while his position in life will receive bolstering through social bonuses in the shape and form of titles, networks, pensions, and bank accounts, girl will live in the shadow of that plentiful tree and - once again - naively consider half of all this hers.

If she has any wits at all, she may have signed a marital contract, insisted on life insurance, and a separate bank account. But most likely, that sentimental streak in her, that little voice that has told her since she was little that she is special, a princess really, and that nothing bad will happen to her, has silenced all worries and lulled her in a cotton cloud of denial.

As the years go by and the parent evenings, stomach flues and birthday parties start grinding her down, as she realizes that children love their dads just as much as their moms even though they do not help with the homework, pick up the dirty socks, and feed the hamster, they may get a little disgruntled at wiping down toilet seats in the evening, emptying dishwashers in the morning and checking the mail for coupons.

And suddenly, while she is standing there in the kitchen, flipping cheese sandwiches on the griddle, and sunflower oil starts to dot the flabby landscape of her worn out sweater, girl doesn’t look quite that appetizing any more.

Surely, there must be something more to life. In Zoe’s class 6 out of 23 children are raised by their mothers alone. The dads have moved on to greener, lusher grounds. Why get stuck in misery? That’s for others.

Baaah!

Goodie Goodie, ‘half-term’ is just around the corner when school ‘breaks up’ and we get a chance to come up for air from between stacks of cookie sheets and mixing bowls.

However, in light of my rapidly waning enthusiasm for 'special events', I have called off our family trip to Wales since it is not my intention to spend these few precious days messing around with five sets of muddy rain gear in the mournful twilight of late afternoon down poors at the foot of a bleak mountain next to a sheep.

Not so Blissful !

By now, I have figured out a way to produce eight gingerbread houses for the school’s advent fair; and I shrewdly shifted from baking ten bags of cookies to instead preparing ten bottles of flavored oil. That and the raffle for classes K, 2, and 7...and I am way ahead of the game.

Well done, mom. Well done.

In addition, I dutifully put my name down on several rotas for flipping burgers, clean up etc., AND I managed to go to all parents’ evenings as well as one-on-one consultations. I now know everything about my children, including their attitude to ring time and spelt pancakes.

And even though an episode of bronchitis has dragged us all down these past weeks, everyone seems to be upbeat. Instead of being bullied, Zoe now has turned to bullying behavior herself, Lea is successfully conjugating the verb ‘to be’ in her native language, and Julian is no longer crying in afternoon club.

In fact, on my walk back from school this morning, I felt as proud as a parade of prancing peacocks. I had made it through the first weeks of formal schooling, and that, all things considered, relatively unscathed.

After all, there was only one minor run in with the Kindergarten teacher about head lice followed by a talk with the principal about the Kindergarten teacher, and a visit to the school nurse to improve communication with parents on the same issue, which consequently triggered emails of surprising content and a round of fruitful mediation.

And just as I sat down to have breakfast after the early morning school run, the sun light sprinkling the ivory petals of a bunch lilies...,you guessed it...the phone rang and I am informed that class 2 has, indeed, nits.

Oh well, maybe they are going to pass on my memo after all. It is admittedly a rather outstanding piece of prose, rendered in a beautiful albeit somewhat wistful voice. One of my best, really. Here it is, so you know what I have been up to these past weeks:

If, while checking your child’s hair, you find tiny yellowish grains stuck to the hair shafts, it means there are adult lice around. These tiny kernels are so-called NITS and they are the eggs of the head louse.

Sometimes nits are mistaken for dandruff or sand, but unlike dandruff or sand, they are stuck to the hair and can only be removed by sliding them carefully down the hair shaft, one by one.

You will most likely never see a louse scrambling through your child’s hair, because they are good at hiding, but if there are nits there are lice!

Also, importantly, if you find any, please tell everyone, you have been with in the past week, that they need to check as well!! Someone probably does not know they have them, and that’s how you got it.

.....

Try to be thorough, because if a single louse survives, the cycle will start all over again ....

A Lot Less Fun

All this time has past and yet all that happened is that Zoe started school. But mind you, school is not what it used to be. Or at least how I remember it. It is no longer a place to send children to be looked after and edified while parents stay in their own separate realm.

The cute little school we found is really great and I generally do like the teachers and their funky approach to education, but how many talks on child development and education can one fit into a five-day week? Don't they ever sleep?

Whereas my parents would never have dreamt of setting foot into my school more than twice a year, parents today are expected to be on call anytime. They are there at drop off, back again at pick up, they host social coffee mornings (ugh!), hold workshops, organize fundraisers, help with school events, they sow, knit, hammer, paint, and bake....

In the first three weeks of my school ordeal, I have been called in to five meetings, I have been named class contact, and consequently written up contact lists, telephone trees, welcome letters, and lice memos, as well as prepared a list of items to prepare in anticipation of the Christmas Fair in November.

Like a giant behemoth the school body and its various swirling long necked heads have gobbled me up like a lemon cup cake. Nothing but a frilly paper cup left behind blowing languidly in the wind.

I am exhausted and bewildered. Why are parents expected to morph into backstage gophers? And, even more astonishing, why do most parents (i.e. mothers) comply? Is it hormones? Or maybe one-up-wo/man-ship? Or is it the fear of being left behind in the dust? Is it complacency, maybe the lack of better things to do? As for myself, I will have to change something - soon, or I am not going to make it to Halloween.

The funny thing is that all along while I was homeschooling, people asked me how I did it, how I survived with not a minute to myself. Easy, folks, easy - and a lot more fun!

Isolated Ideals

We have taken the ferry to „the mainland“ once again. Leaving Dover is always exciting, since the spectacle of receding white cliffs above blue waters evokes passages from writers and poets as well as seafaring scoundrels and heroes alike. It was a blistery morning and the large vessel was struggling through the whitecaps of the Channel. In the end, the captain decided to take the shortest route across and continue along the coast of Normandy into the port of Calais. Again, we saw white cliffs, this time those on the coast of Northern France, which albeit somewhat less spectacular nevertheless are a powerful reminder that the principle of “splendid isolation” is indeed a British fabrication - after all, it all began as one continent. However, it is a fine concept that may be worth upholding.

Like a Bee

Jules and his little friend, Ella, came up with a plan the other day:
Julian: Are you still going to marry me, Ella?
Ella: I have to marry many, many times. Sometimes it is like that.
Julian has nothing to offer in return. He seems mildly puzzled, as
Ella carries on:
Ella: Well, you see, I don’t want to be rude to any of my friends.
So, I will have to marry one after the other.
Julian:Me too?
Ella: It’s like that: You go hop over to one, and then fly away, hop on to the
next and then fly away again, and so on and so on.
As Julian continues to be baffled by all this, Ella concludes:
Ella: Just make sure, Julian, that you are the last one I get to.

Tough Job

Although I usually maintain that doing what you love is the best guarantee that you are doing a great job, I think that there are simply some things, that are just outrageously hard - like being a parent.

At Least

I am a big believer in turning things around, problem-solving, starting over, seeing the bright side, making the best of it, moving on. But there are days, everyone has them, when it seems impossible to throw that steering wheel around and turn things away from impending pandemonium.

While on a lovely outing with some friends, I was informed that Lea’s friend might have head lice, and that she may have infected us when she stayed at our house earlier in the week.

Everyone who knows me, also knows that I never shed that lice-paranoia after the fall of 2007 when all the kids and I had them. It was hell, because I was by myself with the kids for five weeks, we had just moved from Costa Rica and I was dead-tired. Also, I had pneumonia.

To get rid of them took a lot of time and energy that I didn’t really have to spare. Subsequently, that event has turned me, and by extension the children, into full fledged nit freaks.

We never share hats, scarfs, hair brushes, towels, elastics and the like with anybody, and when we go to the movies, we wear elaborate hairdos and scarfs that cover our heads.

Yet, when my friend informed me last night, I didn’t break down in tears nor histrionic fits of alternating fury and despair. I simply informed her what to do about it. Then, I had cake.

Back home, I got my nit-kit out and went to bed, for Saturday was just around the corner and...as you may know, with me Saturdays are sacrosanct.

But, as it turns out, today was not a good day. Although we managed a surprisingly serene and light-hearted brunch with chocolate croissants, the impending razzia was upon us.

After a routine sweep-up of all the croissants morsels that didn’t make it into our digestive tracks, I got down to the real issue at hand. I stripped beds, bagged toys, vacuumed carpets, washed towels, shampooed kids, bought five nit combs and got to work.

Luckily, it was raining all day. Six hours later, and the tumble-drier still running at high-temperature, our dear neighbor dropped by to inform me, that our car window was down and that with all the rain, that may not be so good. And I thought, I was at least a little lucky with all that rain that day. Stupid me. As I returned to the kitchen a few minutes ago, all the crumbs were back including some yoghurt footprints, and the kids were hungry.

Well, at least, nobody is throwing up yet...

Ten Minutes My Ass

I never bake cookies. Except for that one mad afternoon every 6th December, when hell brakes loose and everyone runs. Christmas does that to me and usually the results are regrettable. Not because I am terrible at mixing copious amounts of butter and sugar and throwing them onto a metal sheet, but because I tend to eat the outcome. The guilt, the moans, and the raised eyebrows at my reflection in our brutal bathroom mirror are enough to keep me from any further follies during the rest of the year.

And then there is something else to consider: time. Apart from being a fat feast, baking causes unspeakable damage to one’s valuable life time. We tend to forget, because after all the recipes only call for 10 minutes for preparation and another 10 minutes for baking.
What is generously omitted is that it’s ten minutes PER tray - and unless you have a mega convection oven, that means that you will be trapped in a furnace-like room for at least four times that amount. And more if you had the insane intuition of doubling the recipe.

Then, of course, there is clean-up. Butter and sugar are notorious badies. It takes time to scrape, burrow, and wipe the nasty remnants of that kind of culinary adventure off the various surfaces. Triple that amount for every child you were crazy enough to invite to the
event.

Now you can guess, what I did today. Somebody shoot me!

Like a Jar of Candy

Friday afternoons hold the promise of happiness in the making. Like candy in a jar, weekends have a way to make me feel tingly with anticipation, wishing that I could consume them at once. And yet, the promise is almost the sweetest part. Already, when Thursday night rolls around, I feel a gentle wave of dopamine engulf my frontal lobe and for a moment I am eight years old and life is truly good.

Growing up, summer was just that. A seemingly endless row of Fridays with Sunday night light-years away. I loved the gentle pulse of the days as they glided by. The air laden with whispers from summers past. Leaves rustling, sparrows whistling, the lingering heat of a summer day still in the air. I no longer live anywhere near where I used to spend my childhood summers, but I carry the essence of those serene months with me.

Funny, though, that when we lived in Costa Rica, I struggled with the reality of an endless summer. It actually annoyed me. Just like an all-you-can-eat deal, everything soon tasted the same. Gone was the exhilaration of the first bees buzzing through my room and bouncing off the windows, the first morning warm enough to put on a sleeveless dress, the suddenly long days, and short, balmy nights.

And in a way, the further away from the equator one ventures, the more intense summer tends to get. It is the all consuming feeling of being alive again, after a time of reclusive hibernation, that seems to resurface like a whale out of the depth of the sea.

I make it a point, these days, to spend at least part of the summer as far North as possible, without having gnats and other blood suckers get the best of me.

Psychotic

Compulsive, bi-polar, paranoid, neurotic, manic and obsessive are handy terms to describe the behavior of people around us we don’t really like.

Sometimes, they are also used to describe tendencies in our own behavior. I have a friend who insists that she is “completely anal-retentive” and from the way her eyes gleam, when she says it, I know she takes considerable pride in it. After all, her house is immaculately tidy - always - and mine is not.

Another favorite term is co-dependent. I never quite understood what the co- stands for, like as if you are not really dependent, just kinda, but less than the one who really is. Dependent on what anyway?

As far as I understand, however, co-dependency describes a whole array of behaviors which all have one aspect in common: they are too much of one thing. People are categorized as co-dependent, because they are either too nice, or too withdrawn, too forgetful, or even too perfect. Pleasers, pouters, ranters, and perfectionists they all display sub-optimal behavioral patterns, that were adopted somewhere along the way, usually during childhood.

It’s an interesting concept, because it tends to describe a person, who has seemingly adapted to a given situation. It refers to the copers of the world. And by doing so, it comprises of all those individuals who cannot be thrown into the one or other box together with all the other lunatics.

This, however, begs the question, who is left?

When looking into the distance...

I see a cloud
ever so lightly dusting
the sky

It seems far
never to be addressed
on any unkind terms

Instead I steady my
eyes on the matters
at hand

Prince of Hearts

I have often wondered about the choices we make in life. Especially the choice in partners. Even though in the best case it hardly can be called a rational choice, there is something that we search for and seemingly find in that one person.

Again, as so often, it is the subconscious at work. Love for the one is as much a subconscious consideration of the best odds to maintain our own gene pool, and even improve upon it, as also a gut feeling about what is good for ourselves.

However, what we think is good for ourselves has to do as much with who we are as with how we were raised and, importantly, by whom.

There are several schools of thought on this, but generally the tenor is that we pick someone who best complements who we are and who, at the same time, helps us fill the voids left by our parents.

But again this decision relies heavily on our subconscious awareness of ourselves and our needs. Few people, if any, can claim to ever really know who they are. Our emotions more often than not surprise us and make us wonder, or even uncomfortable, because they reach deep down into corners of ourselves that have been stored away - at times for a good reason.

So how do we choose someone to complement the one we don’t fully know? To answer this, it is worth taking a close look at that one.

Apart from many, hopefully, endearing qualities, there will be many quirks that have lead to the same struggles over time along the lines of why-don’t-you... So, why did you pick that one? Why didn’t you see the trouble lying ahead?

In the beauty of that answer lies the secret to who we are and where we are headed.

I am in year eighteen and I am just beginning to touch the outer fringes of the blanket that holds the basket with the sachet containing the thread that wove the blanket.

Taking it down a notch

It's not easy to scale down, just like it's not easy to forgive or to be honest, and yet it feels so good once you do it. Letting go of those residual needs for ownership, status, pride...is a marvelous thing!!

Can't buy me Bliss

As I see people hauling the contents of entire two-car garrages down to the beach shore, because they think they will need all the junk they got on sale at Walmart, I also see something else: desperation.

We tend to think that the next product will make us happy, safe, fulfilled. And yet, after pumping, schlepping, and arranging inner tubes, coolers, sun umbrellas, air mattrasses, beach chairs, canoes and paddles around them, these suburbanites rarely look happy.

Bringing it home...again

Every time Fred comes up for breathing, I shoot him down. It's not nice, but I can't help it.

This time he was bemoaning the effects of outlawing DDT in the 1970s. Decades later Malaria is on the rise, people are dying. That awful Ms Carson and her ridiculous egg shells!!

True.

Maybe Rachel and Fred should rather team up and advocate outlawing patriarchy.
In the end, if you put two and two together, that's the leading cause of death in women in underdeveloped and/or muslim countries.

Think about it, if given a choice, which woman would want to subject herself to pregnancy and childbirth in unsanitary and often unsafe circumstances?

Childbirth is the leading cause of death of women.

Good luck with that book!

It's a funny thing...

...sitting in an oversized seat at the CINEPLEX diving into my oversized bucket of popcorn w/ extra butter while balancing a transpiring super-sized diet coke cup between my thunder thighs, anticipating yet another Holiwood flic, I do not want to think this, but here it is anyway: only because we can super-size anything, from popcorn, to cars, breast, houses, bonuses...we shouldn't.

Super, super-sized, super-fast, super-latives, it has become our culture, but it is a concept in need of review.

Sigh!

It's past nine again. I am completely wiped after a day of ripping out shrubs that I planted in the place of flowers that were not to be there to begin with, while at the same time keeping Julian out of trees, reviewing French irregular verbs with Zoe and planning for Lea's first sleep over. It was the topic of the day, of course, and so while I was hauling clumps of roots around the garden, I was also going through a list of things in my mind to remember, in order not to scare Lea's new best friend away. After all, she has horses!

The obvious first one being, of course, not to use the f... word too often. The next one then trying not to launch the juice maker through the window again. Or if it can't be avoided (I hate juice makers) to at least say "Oops." And also, to plan my trip to the bathroom better in order not to emerge, as usual, like venus out of the waves - stark naked. Only Jules finds that mildly entertaining. And the list goes on.

I wonder why she is looking so much forward to the visit. Maybe it is more about me then her friend. Maybe she is getting back at me, maybe she just wants me to be NORMAL for once.

Don't go there

There are certain believes we hold to be true. They form the foundation of our identities and questioning them is tantamount to questioning the very backbone of our societies.
Only few brave minds dare go there. Even though most of it is not completely uncharted territory in this post post-modern era, it nevertheless is rough, unpredictable and inhospitable. Asking too many questions can lead to all kinds of trouble.

I remember being on the way to catch a bus in DC one hot sweltering day in August 1994 while some thoughts were roaming around in my mind when suddenly, just like that, they were gone. But what was special about that time was that I actually noticed those thoughts being erased. And to this day it chills me to remember how I stopped in my tracks, the bus came and went, and I just stared. It was a true epiphany as I realized that I was keeping myself from following the thoughts down to the next level.

I don’t remember what it was that I was thinking about, but I recall that it did produce a certain level of discomfort; and so my subconscious self-protection kicked in and turned it off, only this time luckily not fast enough to go unnoticed.

Amazing! The power of the subconscious. In fact, I am convinced that this powerful mechanism has ensured the survival of our species as we know it today. It is wide-spread and generally benefits those who make ample use of it. After all, ignorance is bliss.

The most unethical and even cruel acts are committed with the perpetrators claiming not to remember or not to be guilty of any wrong doing. And they believe it. It’s one of the truths we like to cling on to. It’s never us...it’s never what’s close to us.

No one Behind the Sofa...yet

I just finished painting my office and I am wiped. It was one of these mad projects that one should probably not attempt and definitely not when operating on a sleep-deficit the size of Indiana. But it had to be done. I had to reclaim my space or people were going to be found behind the sofa, mauled.

I also probably shouldn't be writing this...or write at all, because at all times there are other things that are probably more important: Bloody knees, verb conjugations, food burning... but then, again, those bodies come to my mind and I decide to sit down to type a few lines that connect me to who I am, who I was, who I want to be, who I will be, would be, can be, should be...

Whoever said, life is easy is a lier. I don't think anyone ever did though.

A Mother's Jeans

Have you ever browsed through a magazine at a news stand, then moved on to something else, and later wished you had bought it?

When in Germany the last time, I came across a scientific article published in a popular psychology magazine, and now I wish I had bought it. Instead I put it down, got distracted and carried on with life, to remember it only now. In the meantime, I probably saved Julian from certain death at least thirty-one times and the world from Julian at least twice as often.

It was a promising article, though. The author was presenting a study according to which human intelligence is handed down through the mother’s genes. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to find out more about the study and how the author handled the slippery subject of “intelligence.” Googling key words has gotten me nowhere so far.

But can you imagine what this could mean? All the Bachs and daVincis of the world, their mothers long forgotten, or at least little credited...

These days, the German government is enticing women who hold academic degrees to consider procreation despite the high opportunity costs of motherhood. Maybe I should give the Familienministerium a call. They seem to know something...

Screwed

It so happens that all my female friends - the one I have stuck with anyway - are great human beings: smart, kind, witty, perceptive, centered and generally fun to be around.

Moving from place to place, I have made friends with women of all kinds of background, color, nationality, religion, you name it. But apart from being smart, kind, witty, perceptive, centered and generally fun to be around, they all share another characteristic: they are all heterosexual - and, to put it bluntly, it hasn’t done them any good...or most of them anyway.

F... there are a lot of assholes out there!! And it begs the question why these smart, witty and perceptive human beings have put up with them. Conditioning, disillusionment, hormonal knock out?

The fact is, most of my friends have by now been left by at least one of their partners. They are raising children on their own, fighting for child support, coping with insufficient child care and crazy work schedules.

One was deserted when she got diagnosed with cancer in the course of her pregnancy and the guy realized that that was really too much to deal with.

The other was left for some Argentine bimbo half her age, after giving birth to a child with down syndrome.

And then there is K. who for the longest time supported her husband and two sons by working night-times for companies in India and the US, until he thought that it was time to move on.

Most, however, were left before they were introduced to the merriments of motherhood - and that was probably lucky. One because she wanted to read Western magazines and go jogging instead of sitting hour after hour huddled together with her sisters-in-kaw, another because she was too successful, and my gorgeous best friend, because her boobs were not the right size, shape...or was it the circumference...?

My aunt always says there are two sides to the story and I tell her, yes, but one of them is
usually worse than the other and it’s rarely the one cracking the misogynistic jokes. She also says that she knows women who have done exceedingly well after divorces, and I tend to tell her that she is lucky. I know of one, and I am glad for her, even though I would scarcely count her among my friends.

Through Her Eyes

Zoë and I just finished painting our garden fence. It’s absolutely beautiful and it was a shame really we couldn’t toast to the completion of this epic event by opening a couple of beer. That day will come though. It’s fun to have a tween daughter who is getting savvier by the minute, with her eyes wide open and her mind clicking and churning away.

Whenever I get stuck on a task, she usually has a way to get me going again with either a pencil, hairpin or pocket knife. And even though we still cannot agree on the conjugation of ‘venir’ (in either French or Spanish) nor the war of succession, our mornings together are a lot of fun and usually, by the time we go pick up Julian or walk Freddie, we have made peace and moved beyond irregular verbs and the reign of Edward IV.

On our walks over to the Kindergarden, the trail leads us through fields and along a narrow path through the woods. The early morning light never fails to surprise us, the way it threads its way through tree tops to settle on brambles and bluebells. Usually Zoë is the first to notice, and her enthusiasm about the little wonders that surround us fill me with
pride and happiness.

Although I had always thought that raising a daughter would be not only a privilege, but also a true bonding experience, I have come to learn that it is all that and more.

It is a chance to see the world. Again.

Life with a Smile

There is something to be said about taking things down a couple of notches, unwinding the coil a bit, and stepping back. I am trying to get to that point and although
still a few light years away from the perfect ‘omm’-state, I can report that life is beginning to look up.

J. is doing well with her last attempt at chemo and for the time being, nobody is mentioning books entitled “My Life without ME.” More and more, I have started to listen and relax. The initial outbreak of frantic problem-solving activism has given way to a more restful mind set. Life is never in our hands, not completely anyway. And although I have no flying idea in whose hands it is ultimately cradled, I am fine with the certainty that neither I nor anyone else have the ultimate say in matters of life, luck, happiness, and health. All we can do, whether as parents, doctors, policy makers, big time money makers and fellow human beings is to give it a good try.

It takes a long time to become a MENSCH. But everyday, we should try anew. It’s worthwhile. An aware and at the same time humble human - no more and no less.

Finding Ella

Julian has spent the four and one half years of his sweet life in the company of strong, compassionate women - he has been fortunate. And after I explained to him again that even if Matt would grow very old (something like 42), I would still not marry him, Julian, the little chap decided to look elsewhere. And he found Ella (4).

Julian: When I am a grown man I am going to have a house and children and I will merry you, Ella.
Ella (gulp!): Oh, well, uh...I guess girls don't have too much of a say in this...uh. But how will you find me?
Julian: I will be looking for you.
Ella: Hm. Okay, well, then maybe look at the school cantina...or maybe a pub.
Julian: I can do that. But you will have to raise your hand so I can see you.

Good News on a different Front

Finally, teachers across England are waking up. What took them so long to reclaim their classrooms? However, changing a system is always difficult when you are part of it, stuck in it so to say. I am glad we never opted in!! Anyway, here is what's going on, and I am proud of them for speaking up!



"Primary school heads will press ahead with a boycott of Sats tests for 10- and 11-year-olds next month, Britain’s biggest teaching unions confirmed today, potentially throwing league tables and assessment regimes into chaos.

The National Union of Teachers (NUT) and the National Association of Head Teachers (NAHT) confirmed after a meeting of their executives that their members would take industrial action and would not adminster national tests in maths and English.

The decision means the next government is heading for a clash with headteachers, who will be boycotting the tests on the first day of a new administration.

The tests are due to be sat by 600,000 children in their last year of primary school between May 10 and May 13.

Last Friday, headteachers in England voted overwhelmingly to boycott the tests.

The unions said Sats in their current form 'disrupt the learning process for children in Year 6 (aged 10 and 11), and are misused to compile meaningless league tables which only serve to humiliate and demean children, their teachers and their communities'. They said they supported a system of assessment that “highlights what children can do rather than focussing on failure”.

Christine Blower, general secretary of the NUT, said: 'Not only are we boycotting Sats, but we are saying to schools that this is finally the opportunity to do the exciting things you always really wanted to be doing in the classroom. We can make sure Sats week is a really brilliant week, a creative week, which is what we would want every single week of the year to be.'"

In To-do Mode

After my friend was diagnosed with cancer last year, I tried to be there for her and her son as much as I could. Together with her parents, who flew in from Japan, and her other friends, I tried to turn the summer into a series of happy diversions for the little guy while his mom went through chemo and radiation.

And although she seemed tired and overwhelmed at times, she never let on, just how serious her situation was. And all of us, I think, gladly believed her. We wanted to hold on to our delusional state as long as possible, and she was generous.

I don’t know how she did it. Now that I know the type of cancer and the stage, I am a wreck.

About six weeks ago, we had a couple of long conversations just before she had to undergo major surgery and shortly after. While we sat at her dining room table, we talked about options for treatment and I promised to dig around in recent publications and on the internet. I signed her up for the MayoClinic cancer newsletter and found a clinic near her hospital that complements the therapy with holistic treatments.

On our more realistic days, I began looking for a box to fill with objects, letters, and smells that will remind her son of her, and she ordered the book “My life without Me.” Together, we have tried to grasp the incomprehensible by managing it in a to-do format. Everything is a project, and for every problem, there is a solution.

Except there isn’t.

She has started the next round of chemotherapy, a very aggressive 41/2 month program that will leave her body weak and bald. Not a good, but alas a last chance.

Shortly before Christmas, a few weeks after her second scan which came back negative, we had toasted to her recovery.

...

J. has gone away over Easter. She is spending a few days on the sea. Tom's family will be there. I don't know whether they will talk. His mom is wonderful, but everyone is in shock. And then there is Ricky. He must not know. Life must go on. Eggs must be found and relished. He does, of course, know something. But that knowledge is feathery. Obscure and shapeless like coins at the bottom of a fountain.

I will be doing some research this coming week. I have got some ideas for treatments from preliminary research. Thanks also to you all who gave me pointers. I will be sorting through them with J. once she gets back. Her oncologist wants her to go for a second round of chemo. Five months. A last chance maybe.

HELP !!! ANYONE, PLEASE !!

My friend is dying. Her cancer has spread. She has ADENO CARCINOMA. She has done 5 courses of the chemo drug CISPLATIN, but it spread into her lower intestines. I cannot believe this is happening. She is 36 and her son just turned 4.
Please, anyone, drugs, pain killers, therapies, medical trials, alternative medicines...please pick your brains. Also, any ideas about good books on bereavement for children? Do you know of anyone else with this type of cancer...or online resources, groups, things to do? All I have been doing for the last thirty-two hours since she told me is fighting back tears and I am not doing such a great job. Actually I am probably the worst friend to have in a situation like this. But I am working on it. Please help, if you can.

You've gotta love him...

If you have a brain and a heart and if you like to make good use of them, then you should subscribe to Micheal Moore's mail list at:
maillist@michaelmoore.com.

I just love his last letter to his fellow Republican citizens about the health care reform bill which was finally past last Sunday.

And I just want to hug him (if I could...) for statements like this: "If statistics show that countries (such as France and Germany) with government-provided universal health care and nearly-free abortions are, in fact, the countries with the fewest abortions, then why on earth wouldn't the Right be the first in line to support universal health care?!! Because it isn't about 'universal health care.' It's about controlling women, period"

As it stands now, in exchange for passing health care, the Right has made sure that women in the USA cannot get a medically-insured abortion.

Sicko!!

Block it Out!

I often think about how nowadays freedom from violence and persecution is taken for granted in the Western World.  And yet, it does not take much to lose these rights.  

When Bush Jr. came to power, I saw these rights erode over the duration of a few months following 9/11.  Patriot Act I and II and subsequent Executive Orders that bypassed Congress seriously put democratic values at risk.  The public was kept in constant fear of an impending terrorist attack so that many thought, the draconian measures were necessary.  Lies and misinformation were spread about Irak's nuclear potential to justify the war.  It was awful.  

While that was a huge onslaught on our liberties, there are many areas that are less obvious where once gained progress is slowly eroding as well.  I am thinking of labor rights in Germany.  Unlike two decades ago, workers today can be laid off from one day to the next and replaced by temps. Pay can be frozen seemingly at any time (unless you earn six figure salaries), and often benefits are minimal while working hours, demands on mobility and flexibility have increased.  At the bottom of it all I see the tendency to objectify others and to treat them with less respect and empathy than they deserve.  

What is often referred to as 'evil' is nothing but the potential to dehumanize others.  There is a field in genetics which focuses on how genes can be turned on and off by environmental triggers.  Could it be that the the gene for emotional intelligence can be blocked under certain circumstances? Is competition such a trigger?

Just wondering.  

What Michael is Telling Obama

Excerpt from a Letter

(...)It worked. The Darkness ended. The vast majority of nation wept with joy on the night of the election (those who weren't weeping went out and bought a record number of guns and ammo). Unlike the last president, you didn't "win" by 537 votes in Florida (although Gore won the popular vote by a half-million), you beat McCain nationally by 9,522,083 votes! The House Democrats got a walloping 79-vote margin. The Senate Dems would caucus with a supermajority of 60 votes unheard of in over 30 years. The wars would now end. America would have universal health care. Wall Street and the banks would, at the very least, be reined in. Hardworking citizens would not be thrown out of their homes. It was supposed to be the dawning of a new age.
But the Republicans were not going to go quietly into the night. You see, instead of having just one Rahm Emanuel, they are ALL Rahm Emanuels. That's why they usually win. Unlike most Democrats, they are relentless and unstoppable. When they believe in something (which is usually themselves and the K Street job they hope to be rewarded with someday), they'll fight for it till the death. They are loyal to a fault to each other (they were never able to denounce Bush, even though they knew he was destroying the party). They dig their heels in deep no matter what. If you exiled them to a lone chunk of melting polar ice cap, they would keep insisting that it was just a normal "January thaw," even as the frigid Arctic waters rose above their God-fearing necks ("See what I mean -- this water is COLD! What 'global *warming*'?! (...)
We thought we were all done with this craziness, but we were mistaken. Like a beast that you just can't cage, the Republicans convinced not only the media, but YOU and your fellow Dems, that 59 votes was a *minority*! Precious time was lost trying to reach a "consensus" and trying to be "bipartisan."
Well, you and the Democrats have been in charge now for over a year and not one banking regulation has been reinstated. We don't have universal health care. The war in Afghanistan has escalated. And tens of thousands of Americans continue to lose their jobs and be thrown out of their homes. For most of us, it's just simply no longer good enough that Bush is gone. Woo hoo. Bush is gone. Yippee. That hasn't created one new friggin' job.
You're such a good guy, Mr. President. You came to Washington with your hand extended to the Republicans and they just chopped it off. You wanted to be respectful and they decided that they were going to say "no" to everything you suggested. Yet, you kept on saying you still believed in bipartisanship.
Well, if you really want bipartisanship, just go ahead and let the Republicans win in November. Then you'll get all the bipartisanship you want.
Let me be clear about one thing: The Democrats on Election Day 2010 are going to get an ass-whoopin' of biblical proportions if things don't change right now. And after the new Republican majority takes over, they, along with a few conservative Democrats in Congress, will get to bipartisanly impeach you for being a socialist and a citizen of Kenya. How nice to see both sides of the aisle working together again!
And the brief window we had to fix this country will be gone.
Gone.
Gone, baby, gone.

(...)

Hooked

A slow reader by nature, I put books down quickly. I love authors who chisel and scrape to make every sentence fit the sequence of thoughts. And I admire it if they can do it with seeming effortlessness. A verbacious babbler like Murakami doesn’t stand a chance with me. Recently, The Hours (Michael Cunningham) has gotten me hooked. Smart, slow flowing, melodious but bold in its insights, it has taken me on a journey into the question of identity and the ever-nagging question of normalcy that is worth every comma. But mind you...I have only gotten to page 87 so far.

8 Point 8

Fourteen years ago, a paranoid me was living and working in Santiago de Chile while finishing my Master’s Thesis on Liberation Theology. Having memorized the dates when earthquakes devastated that region in the past, I was prepared to save my floppy disks containing my research out of the rubble of any toppled building or else have them be shipped back by a survivor. The thesis comprised of six diskettes including pictures, stats, and elaborate tables. One complete set accompanied me everywhere I went from the Atacama Desert to the Falls of Iguazú and through the Andean Cordillera via boat and truck. Matt said nothing. Today he said: Oh shit!

No Way!

Watching the Olympic pair figure skating competitions, Julian grew silent. As one ice princess after the other was lifted up into the air by her studly prince and tossed away in a nerve wrecking twirl, he scorned, "No, if I were married, I would not do that!"

Pura Vida!

When in Costa Rica, you will become closely acquainted with ‘pure life’ in the form of a wide-smile, bright-eye greeting that beams across pot holes and drain pipes clogged with crumpled milk cartons.

“ Pura Vida, Senora!” my gardener used to holler from underneath a smothering vine of flesh eating plants in the back of my garden at seven o’clock in the morning, and it was the last I heard from the armed guard closing the gate after our 4x4 steam ship had heaved itself into our drive way at night.

Over the four years that we lived in Costa Rica, “Pura Vida!” became to signify stubborn serenity in the face of abject nonsense. For Christ’s sake, enjoy this while it lasts. It’s just life after all. This is it!

Costa Ricans, at least the humble majority of them, grow up to be amazing problem- solvers. They take life one minute at a time and try not to worry about the big picture, a strategy which all those whose lot in life is less fortunate may be well advised to adopt.

Being able to switch into a “pura vida” mode from time to tome is something I have worked on over these past years and I am proud to report that I have been able to perfect it to a surprising level, given that all that I had going for myself was relentless perfectionism.

I guess, being a mom which entails problem-solving 24/7 everything from torn toe nails, broken bikes to problem pets, I have turned into sort of a subcontinent myself. Just making it through the day...minute by minute while making the best of it.

It’s an art.

Pura Vida!

Yep, it's working!

Broadband is back. After long conversations that turned into intimate relationships with first Satish and then Arun, I managed to change the broadband channel from channel 1 to channel 5 and reclaim my place in cyberspace for 18.99. My knees are still hurting from the time I spent underneath my desk cajoling the router into submission. I am not a young lover anymore. Twenty years ago, with our then brand new Gateway PC, I was abel to poke and prod the harddrive for hours at a time. Ah yes, where would multi-million conglomerates be without those gentle acts of love?

Check out 'Showdown in America' !

While the kids and I like to cuddle up on the sofa and read about the Kings and Queens of England, I have started early on sowing a healthy amount of doubt about leaders and their institutions. To scrutinize and question rather than accept and trust is my guiding principle. More often than not, the truth hides behind the facts that we are presented with.

Rather than focus on a few facts and figure heads, I have tried to point to the people and ideas behind. And not last but least, those millions who throughout history have kept the engine running - or not. And more than anything else, those moments in time when the masses have decided to pull the brake, to organize and rally for a cause other than the one prescribed from above, have left an impression on me. Simply because they are rare and require people to overcome their inner demons of denial and fear and, instead, raise their voices to speak up. The abolition, women's and civil rights movements are great examples, and although in the past some have let to considerable unrest and even have ended in bloody rebellions, there is still a lot to be said about people pulling down the walls of apathy.

What is life...

...but love minus the sum of our fears?

Brrrrr

On a snowy January morning, the sight of Mouse and Rudolf is comforting. It has been awfully cold this past week and after Rudolf somehow got left behind, Mouse came to keep him company yesterday. Together they make the garden look less forlorn. I like snow - it is awfully pretty. Too bad it always comes with cold feet.

Halleluja !

No doubt it can be a whole lot of fun: Christmas, New Year - the whole twelve days. It's not an easy deed however. Expectations are high, everyone scurries around, tickets are being bought, recipes downloaded, groceries ordered, booze stocked, xmas ornaments retrieved, cookies baked, windows decorated, kids bribed...If you were to list all the extra stuff that is required to get the big ol' show on the road it would easily wrap twice around a six pack - that is if you write in very small print. Add that to an already full day, week or month, and things can easily get a bit squishy. But what a blast if it all works out, if everyone is having a ball, despite the charred apple pie, spilled wine and a couple of lost presents. After all, it's a time predestined for disaster. Missed flights, non-responsive husbands, trips to the emergency room. It's a miracle, most of us make it alive. So to all of you:
Happy New Year!!