mama...

... there is a fly in my soup...

quant a moi...

"Dim wings will close over our conniving brains no matter what and so we lose ourselves most happily in tasks that partake of the eternal. And once we realize that nothing really does, anything can -- pulling weeds, picking apples, putting children to bed."

Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay's Dance

... i have found, for a moment, a long, warm, sunny, lazy, fruity, summery moment, peace and joy in this truth.

midsummer

the time when seeds planted in the early spring come to fruition:

marc got himself a fancy new job
isabelle got herself some snazy new shoes (only to be worn at special moments on special days...)
we signed the contract for the farm
and antoine stood up

light

this is an ode to my babyphone. or rather to one particular ex-piece (ex because deceased) of my ex-babyphone (ex because not been used as such for years due to a) the waves not being good for babies and b) being able (unsurprisingly) to hear the babies just fine without any electronic equipment).

the night-light though... that little piece of magic. it has been with me since the very first days of isabelle's life, when i discovered that although it did not provide enough light to change a nappy in the dead of night (especially if the hands doing the changing were inexperienced, the temperature in the bedroom sub-polar and the brain commanding the hands dead), it did give off just the right amount of light for reading in bed without waking up the baby.

i am one of those people who cannot go to sleep without having read something. whether it's the user manual of my toilet brush or a treatise on ancient greek metre, it matters not at all. as long as i read something. so the night-light has been a saviour, and i have dragged it with me to every single overnight address we have been to in the last four and a half years.

when antoine came along, and isabelle began her slow migration to the other room, as one baby body replaced another, my faithful night-light remained. until the fateful day .... when antoine learnt to turn over, and discovered my secret.

that boy knows treasure when he sees it. for a brief but passionate moment, he adored the night-light...

...and drooled over it. to death. i know one is not allowed to cry over a piece of electronic equipment, and yet that is just what i did. so much more than a few wires, this little white box had been my main-stay, my muse, my pacifier, my sanity.

now it was gone. and i disconsolate. then, a while ago, staying with a friend at the beach-house, i heard her say she might take a candle to bed... to read.

oh, i know how dangerous it is. especially with the mosquito-net hanging over us. but i am ever so careful. and aware. and in love. with the soft candle-light drawing gentle shadow plays on my son's sleeping face. with the flame in the glass, dancing to the rhythms of the night-time breeze. with the sun-like rays of light on the wooden boards of our bedroom; with the scent of beeswax mixed with that of sun-bleached sheets and mama-milk. and blowing out the candle, every night, the smell of smoke my last memory.

Marseillan

...and what have they been up to?

hanging up the wash...

teaching herself to write and read...

... and shining on us.

from the berm

i used to live here. thought i'd pay a visit. maybe stay for a while.

they say it takes a year for the world to return to normal after a baby, but really, it never does, does it, the returning world is a different world altogether. i needed these days away from the computer. to re-evaluate. thought of changing this blog to a different format: more art, less self-absorption. but that sounded (and was) prissy. thought of quitting altogether. because living the moment seemed more important than recording it.

and life was there, a difficult phase, much insecurity, on many personal fronts.

feeling a bit hoarse now, but also aware that i've been missing this space. and aware of the value of rowing with the oars you have. these here are my oars.

so what have i been up to? mostly, stealing wild flowers from the many berms along dutch roads.

cat tails

I.
our cats are having a fight. it happens at least once a year and the scenario is always the same: the black cat (known for her adventurous spirit and generally grumpy disposition) comes home smelling funny. the tortoise cat (known for her extreme stupidity, lovely disposition and utter unwillingness to venture outside) does not recognize the smell and assumes this is some foreign cat trying to invade the kingdom. Big fight (with blood-chilling screaming chases through the house in the dead of night) as the tortoise attempts to remove the intruder.

a few days go by. the black cat's smell returns to normal. the tortoise, delighted to see (or rather sniff) her long-lost friend, makes overtures. to no avail. 'yeah right!' seems to say the black, 'like i'm likely to trust YOU again...'.

why does this remind me of people's fights?

II.
Isabelle wanted to know why the cats were having a fight. i explained.

- ... but Likkepot (tortoise) can see it's Minou (black), can't she?
- yes, but Minou smells different. with people, the eyes are more important than the nose, so if a man comes in who smells like Papa but doesn't look like Papa, you will think it's not Papa, and if a man comes in who looks like Papa but smells different, you will think it is Papa, right?
- yes...
- well, with cats, it's the other way around, the nose is more important than the eyes, so if it doesn't smell like someone you know, it's not someone you know...
- ... oh, so she doesn't know it's Minou?
- no.

... and that got me thinking, about this 'knowing' business. why do i so easily assume that the cats are wrong and i am right? why would my reality be more real than theirs? when i was pregnant with Isabelle, i thought Marc smelled funny. i didn't want to lie down next to him, and generally avoided being within smelling distance (not easy if you share a bed, a 40 square metres house and an unborn child). i assumed it was still Marc though. but what if it wasn't, not really. what if changes in smell indicated changes in other things, things that influence how someone behaves or responds, and who they are?

(and what if it was time to quit these philosophical feline musings and get my sorry ass into bed????)

letter

lieve juf van ballet,

ik heb een heel mooi potje versierd
waar wij blauwe druifjes in gaan planten
en als de blauwe druifjes uitgebloeid zijn
kun je het potje gebruiken om je spullen in te bewaren

liefs, Isabelle

PS niet vergeten om het iedere dag water te geven anders gaan ze allemaal dood

(dear miss from ballet,
i decorated a very pretty little pot
in which we are going to plant blue flowers
and when the blue flowers finish flowering
you can use the little pot to keep stuff in

kisses, Isabelle

PS don't forget to water it every day or they will all die)

aaaaah!

this week, the postman brought this. so good. so very very good.

so i was sitting on the bed this afternoon, embroidering flowers on Isabelle's princess coat (yes, that would be the one that might actually be finished not much longer than a year after i started on it), with Antoine playing with my left foot, and Isabelle reading to herself. and then... 'mama, can i embroider too?'

the tooth and the fairy

you can't see it, hidden as it is by a most delicious little tongue, and guarded on both sides by 'mess-with-me-if-you-dare' cheeks, but it's there. sharp as a sable. white as the dawn. the end of the toothless grin. step 1 in the breaking of my mamma heart.

on a lighter note, i got married this week. to a fairy.
with princess feet.
the wedding was attended by many, most of them wearing fake fur. beautiful wooden cakes were served. the master of ceremony was drooling and leering from behind the bars of his cage.
the bride was delightful. the music classic.

... and the big news is...

... that we are sort of somehow in the process of very probably buying this:
... which happens to be located kind of here... and from which you can look out on to this:

belated Ostara footage

close

sometimes, antoine ends up on somebody else's lap. at dinner, for instance, when it's my turn to eat. i look across the table at him, and every time, it's a jolt: 'is that what he looks like???'. me, i know the shape of his ear. i know that little bit on the left side of his right cheek. i know the way his eye-brows slant. i know how his eyelashes grow out of their lids. i know the toes. the big one. the little one. i know the shape of each of his nails.

but i don't know what he looks like.

and then i remember, it was like that with isabelle too. in fact ... that's what a baby is, at least for this here mama, the essential definition of babyhood: a permanent close-up.

peter and the wolf: the cat

soft spot

she fell and ripped her tights. i offered to mend them (with a heart, a flower, a bird, a princess...). she said she would think about it. then came back to say she'd changed her mind about the mending... because she discovered that right there, where the hole is, there is a very very very soft spot of skin. and if i fix the tights, she says, she won't be able to feel the very very very soft spot anymore.

a few times a day, she walks up to me:
'mama, do you want to feel my soft spot?'
'yes, darling, i do'
'...soft, he!'
'yes, my sweet, very soft... you have no idea how soft...'

shenpa

(there is something i am simply dying to share with you, but i can't, because it's not quite sure yet, and exhilarating, and it might get jinxed if i spread it around too early, but i can't write another word without at least mentioning it in passing, so filled am i with IT. so, probably big news soon!)

i have been listening to Pema Chodron's series of teachings on 'Getting Unstuck', which i warmly advise to anyone interested in buddhism. she spends some time discussing the Tibetan word shenpa, which is usually translated into English as attachment. yes, that one. and attachment, in me head, is in turn closely related to detachment, because i've always figured much of this buddhism business is about getting detached from one's attachments. which, to be honest, i've been having some problems with, because the thing is: i don't actually want to be detached. in fact, much of my life's work of late has been about re-attaching and re-connecting: to my mate, to my children, to my friends, to my family, to my intuition, to the rest of the universe. and it's good work.

on the other hand, i know buddhism is also all about connecting, so i figured i wasn't really getting it, the whole attachment/detachment thing...

...until shenpa came along.

now shenpa is something i have no judgment about (partially because it's a foreign word, and the only thing i really know about it is that it's NOT to be translated as attachment) (partially because its very foreignness completely blocks my automatic 'good/bad' evaluation machine) (partially because it sounds funny, as in giggly funny, and giggly doesn't go with judgmental).

shenpa is also something i don't feel the urge to classify/analyse/trace back to its origins. and that is such a relief (not to mention massive savings of time and energy).

the way i see it, shenpa simply includes all the times when my response to a situation is not based on the reality of that situation but on something else ('i don't dare to do this': shenpa. 'what will they think?': shenpa. 'why doesn't she like me?': shenpa. 'if only he/she/they could see me now!': shenpa. 'why can't i have that?: shenpa. 'careful, sweetie! you might fall/break/die/disappear/spill some milk': shenpa. father issues: shenpa. mother issues: shenpa. melancholy: shenpa. falling-in-love: shenpa. gypsy music: shenpa. insomnia: shenpa. apathy: shenpa. the basic insecurity: shenpa. the underlying deep yearning: shenpa).

shenpa is pre-verbal, it's almost pre-emotional, it's visceral. it's the tightening, the closing, the escaping. you can't stop it. but you can accept it. and let go.

so i have much much shenpa. and the thought just makes me smirk.

good things

- making brownies with Isabelle. we used this recipe: excellent, except we had to halve the sugar (had to because we ran out, and just as well, as they would have been inedible otherwise);
- a walk on the beach;
- waking up from an excellent afternoon nap and enjoying this view:
- discovering a great new-to-me writer;
- hanging the wash to dry in the sun;
- Small Magazine (where have you been all my life????);
- the prospect of spending some days away, visiting lovely friends.

wishing you a nice weekend!

local witch (by Marc and his holga)

8 march

to all our women, on this day, a wish of lovingkindness:

may we be happy

may we be safe

may we be healthy

may we be peaceful

... and may we be strong enough and gentle enough to carry our horses ...