age

at the age of 13 i suddenly became very unhappy with my looks (what an unusual story... i can just see you shifting to the edge of your seat in anticipation...). right there and then i decided i was too fat, too short, too long-nosed, too heavy-bosomed, too wide-thighed, too curly-haired and too generally bloody wrong. this impression persisted all the way through my teens and my twenties, despite (or possibly aided by) the hours and energy i spent trying to change and/or forget this regrettable state of affairs. Nor did I get much help from that most infamous threesome of devils (diet, fashion, and booze).

 then, on the cusp of my fourth decade, I became a mother. And for a few years, I did not have any time, energy or inclination to look at myself in the mirror, let alone consider what I saw there. And so it was not until sometime later in my thirties that my attention was drawn to a most remarkable transformation (one which had apparently been occurring quietly and steadily while I wasn't looking). One day, I happened to glance in a mirror on my way out of the door, and was shocked to catch sight of a strikingly beautiful woman (I know this is all sounding very Andersenian swan-ducky now, and yet another original episode to this fascinating tale, but bear with me, the ending is not so happy as in Andersen). There she was, in my mirror, this slim, fine-legged, round-hipped, beautifully-bosomed, cheeky-nosed, gorgeously curly-haired nymph. And she was smiling. This discovery of my own beauty (a combination I suspect of maturation, loss of baby-fat, a growing sense of compassion and declining eye-sight on the part of the observer) (i.e. me) left me breathless with delight. Followed a few years in which I could simply not get enough of mirrors (and self-portraits) (and portraits by adoring men) (or professional photographers) (or anybody really), of trying on new clothes, and writing secret odes to my feet (really pretty feet) and perfectly-shaped ears. Blah blah blah. Seriously, it was REALLY NICE....

 and it lasted for a while. Until one day... (oh those original paragraph introductions... can you tell i'm a writing instructor). Until one day, the next wave of major life transformation hit (affair, blah blah, divorce, blah blah, pregnancy, blah blah, self-employment, blah blah, too many kids, blah blah, too little sleep, blah blah, teeth falling out, blah blah, hair falling out, blah blah, and... more blah blah), and in the aftermath i once again had neither time nor strength to lift my eyes towards any mirror. Besides, I already knew I was beautiful. Right? so things went on, as they do, fast-forward, fast-forward, all the way to this week: I went to the hairdresser. For the first time in years. And the thing about the hairdresser is that, no matter what else happens there, you are going to have to sit for an hour (or more) in front of a huge (GIGANTIC) mirror filled completely with you (and the busy hairdresser). So I did that, and came out in tears. In the hairdresser's chair in front of me, sat a greyish older woman, with a distinctly lined face set in a mask of permanent dissatisfaction, flabby skin hanging off in various places, deep dark blue rings under her spark-less eyes, a face sharp like the beak of a crow, and very VERY little hair. The new me.

And i know i'm supposed to think that this is silly, because beauty is how you feel, not how you look, blah blah, and ageing is a beautiful thing, blah blah, and probably most of it is just me being tired, blah blah, and oh my god there are actual real problems out there in the big big world, and even in my tiny tiny world, that should instantaneously bring this so-called tragedy to its real (and ant-like) proportions, but... ... but i don't care that it's petty and small-minded, or that it lacks perspective. I don't care that nobody cares about this but me. I am weeping for youth and beauty lost, I am weeping for missing like crazy the beautiful nymph who used to live in my mirror, and I am stabbed with envy every single time I look, with a green-yellow heart, at the ever more stunning nymph growing out right from under my (newly flabby) chin.

real flamenco boys

you know who i really miss?

i miss me. i forgot to look in the mirror for so long, now i don't dare. something tells me, from sly half-glances over my shoulder, over a child's head, putting on my coat, rushing to the door, that the woman in the mirror is no longer someone i know. you go away long enough, people change. their face, their voice. you stop writing long enough, the ink dries up, the paper yellows. i am scared. what if it grates? what if i have turned into someone i don't know. or like. it's deeply unsettling, this shyness in facing myself. and so i go out of my way to avoid any encounter. no journal by my bed. no blog. hours spent on internet, reading other people's stuff. no batteries in my camera. no money for blank notebooks. no ladder to reach the high shelf where the poetry is stored. no proper light-bulb in the closet. how long have i been tiptoeing around like this, hiding from myself?

i keep saying it's a good life, this new life, and it probably is. but i miss me. and it makes me wonder, how can a life of mine be real good, if i'm not in it?

Toini in the world

I. "Mama, weet jij waarom Sinterklaas een wit paard heeft?" "Nee, waarom?" "Nou, duizenden jaren geleden waren witte paarden alléén voor rijke mensen, en Sinterklaas was rijk omdat hij een bisschop was, dus kocht hij een witte paard..." "Oh." "Ja, gelukkig maar, want nu zou hij het niet meer kunnen betalen, hij is nu niet meer rijk, nu moet hij voor die hele fabriek betalen..."

II. "Mama, waarom bouwen ze van die grote hekken overal?" "Dat komt omdat de Amerikaanse President op bezoek komt." A long silence. "Is die man zó gevaarlijk, dan?"

III. "Mama, geloof jij in God?" "Ja." "Ik niet. Maar.... er zijn wel andere dingen waar ik in geloof..." "Zoals wat?" "Nou, sommigen mensen zeggen dat als het regent, dat het God is die huilt, dat geloof ik wel. Jij ook?" "Nee, dat geloof ik niet." "Dat is gek!"

IV. "Mama, weet je wie ik het lekkerst vind ruiken?" "Nee, wie dan?" "Tomas, boven op zijn hoofd. Ik vind het zo lekker om hem daar kusjes te geven, maar hij vind het vaak niet leuk, en dan roept hij nee, en dan stop ik." "Oh." "Ja... maar weet je waarom ik het toch blijf proberen?" "Nee, waarom?" "Omdat Tomas nog géén 'ja' kan zeggen..."

Two!

Toini's joke

'- Waarom bromt een bromvlieg als hij bromt?
- Omdat zijn vleugeltjes snurken.'

he says it's a joke. i think it's poetry.

home-made roman

he made it himself (with the help of the local larger carpenter), and painted it by copying the design of his playmobil roman shield. he is ready to conquer the hood.

his glossary, lovingly captured by her

De woorden van Tomas 

"ongo" - ja, en, goed              

tam - daar, kom 

pashishi - keokkeloere tijdmashine 

kloea - koekkeloere 

pie - piertje 

moffel - moffel 

alie - arie 

tako - traktor 

moent - mond 

panie - mevrouw, meneer 

wauw - groot 

mana - klein 

op, ma - niet meer, weg 

loefa - sloffen 

pjapa - muts 

pjaap - piraat 

pjama - pyama

... and the ones she forgot:

klaan - boob

goenen - shoes

één - more

groot - big

toma - Tomas

tafu - table/chair

ala - Babcia Ala

laba - Isabelle

tono - Toini

fini - finger

bovu - upstairs/downstairs

bini - upstairs/downstairs

buj - swing

grum - pig

mu - cow

lent

40 day-plan - swim in the sea - screenless nights - bow in front of my man - listen - allow madness

lady gaga in her younger wilder years

maiden voyage

on sunday i gave the first in a series of philosophical dialogues, the title of which was 'esoteric mysticism'.

it was a wonderful experience, a perfect maiden voyage in my life as a tiny-scale philosopher, with a small but committed audience, and a fascinating discussion at the end.

 a discussion which of course got me thinking again (incorrigible, i know). and since the audience has gone home by now, and the next dialogue is only next month, and the new topic has nothing (or very little) to do with mysticism of any kind (it's about children) (hmmm... maybe not entirely unrelated). anyway, i digress. here i am, on tuesday morning, with ideas that are sort of related to the discussion we had, and i want a place to put them, for myself and for whoever else. so here they are.

 the discussion we had after the talk got me thinking... about 'thinking' itself, actually. something one of my wise friends said (it always is), although i don't remember who or what, led me to this idea that until this moment i had deeply misunderstood the nature of thinking as a human biological process.

and here is how: to me the biological processes in the human being/body can be roughly organised along a continuum of agency. for instance, lifting up a cup of tea, tying my shoelaces or typing on this computer are processes of my organism which i would consider to be highly agentive, meaning i do it because i have consciously decided to do it, and if i don't want to do it, then i won't. on the other end of the continuum, there is all these neurotransmitters going through my system, sending information one way or another, there is my kidneys doing their kidney thing, my blood cells travelling through my veins, and a million other things going on right now in which i have absolutely no agency whatsoever. i cannot stop them except by stopping my entire organism (i.e. dying), nor can i get them going again once they stop simply by deciding to. in fact, i am never aware of them, and even visualising them in my mind does not lead to me experiencing them in any real way. 

and then of course there are all the in-betweens, such as the heart-beat, which i can be aware of, observe quite consciously, and even influence in the short-term, but only indirectly (by going for a run).

or, slightly more agentive, there is breathing, which i can actually consciously stop for a quite a while, or modify more directly (by doing breathing exercises). still, though, if i stop breathing for too long, my breathing will start again whether i like it or not, and if i should happen to 'forget' to breathe, no worries, my breathing will take care of itself.

now 'thinking' is of course also just a biological process of the human organism. i say of course, although since i was raised in this particular modern western society, with its centuries-old tradition of defining the human self as a highly abstracted thinking entity living (and often imprisoned) in the body, this is not actually terribly 'of-coursish'.

 moreover, another result of this culture that is mine is that even if i go so far as to admit that thinking is not fundamentally different from the other examples named here, when asked to place it along the agency continuum, i would be tempted to say it was most like lifting a cup of tea or typing on the computer. because we do think we are the agents of our thoughts, don't we? we take Mr Descartes' famous words to heart: thinking is clearly something we 'do'. and more than that, it is also something we take responsibility for. in fact, in many religious traditions thoughts can be sinful. and sin by definition involves the highest degree of agency.

 so i am the agent of my thinking. really??? in the face of the evidence, really???

for one thing, as any meditation student would gladly tell me, and as i can confirm for myself anytime i have ten seconds to waste, i cannot stop thinking. ever. not even (perhaps especially not) if i work very hard at it. not even if i use all the powers of my mind. i cannot stop thinking if i want to, nor do i stop thinking when unconscious (welcome to the world of dreams). surely, the fact that thinking continues in the absence of my conscious mind should have been something of a clue....

then there is the fact that the contents of my thoughts are completely and totally out of my control. how many times have i not been told (by myself and by others) to think happy thoughts, to not stress out, not worry, not fear, not dwell on disaster. you'd think, if this was actually within people's power, that nobody would ever have another anxious stressful thought as long as they lived....

hmmmm..... so, having considered the evidence seriously, here is my new tentative conclusion: apparently, in terms of agency, thinking is closest to heart beating. i can influence my thinking, but only indirectly (through meditation, a brisk walk, etc.), and without real control over the actual effect. i cannot stop thinking for the life of me, and it (the thinking) will only stop when the rest of me does too. amazingly, it turns out i have more control over my breathing than over my thoughts.

this also means i have no responsibility in the traditional sense for what i think. in fact, it means i am more 'being thought' than that i 'think' at all.

in this context, what is truly amazing is how much of my attention goes to this particular uncontrollable process of my biology, as opposed to how much attention i pay to all the other, equally important and equally uncontrollable processes. and here is that cultural bias again, together with the deep misunderstanding. if thinking really is like the heart-beat, then it simply does not deserve to have this much of my attention diverted towards it day after day after day.

which brings me to the question Sam asked on sunday: what would the world be like if just for one week i applied the same amount of attention i habitually dedicate to thinking to my breath? aaaah! so that's what all the buddhist/mindfulness teachers are going on about. meditation in every-day life. i think i am starting to get it now. and i'm willing to give it a try.

but what do you guys think? ;-)

one moment here... the next gone

it is not easy to keep the heart open. not when there is so much darkness around. and so much grief. walking in the woods, all the leaves fallen now, so i see: the tree that grew all bent, right from the start, from the roots up, so that another tree could grow straight. the mother birch, her severed arm a sore stump, from which dangles her dead branch daughter. the skull hiding in the heart of the fruit. so much heartache everywhere. and the task to not harden, to not turn away from it, not even (particularly not) into the grin-and-bear it mode, the 'look on the bright side', the 'here too there is beauty', the 'this too shall pass'. instead to allow it to come in, in all its wretchedness, and to cry and cry and cry some more, washing the paper cuts, and the deeper wounds, washing them clean so they can stay open a little longer.

i want to read the Snow Queen. there is something in there that i need. who knows a nice version?

epiphanies

i had a parenting epiphany last week, and for days now i've been working on various drafts of a wonderful witty wise (and very long) post about it. it's not working. i go to bed at 8 pm (that's in 4 min.). i wake up at 5 am. at no time am i without children. not in the day, not in the night. i nurse approximately 14 out of every 24 hours. i also run a business. and have a social life (of sorts). oh, and i homeschool. the thing is, i'm not complaining. at all. i love my life with passion. i love the mess and the glory and the pain and the stumbling and the learning, and all, all, all of it. but long blog posts (especially if wonderful witty and wise) are just not the thing for me right now. so i'll keep it real short (only another two minutes to go), and hope you get the gist of it.

it went something like this: if you think your baby (toddler, child, teenager, etc.) is robbing you of something essential (sleep, food, adult company, solitude, freedom, etc.), think again. you were given 1000 golden coins, the baby (toddler, child, teenager, etc.) only needs about 50 of them. if you take good care of the 950 left, you'll gladly be giving away what is needed (and hardly feel the pinch). if, however, you have self-care habits equivalent to systematically squandering your wealth left and right, and as a result you are already dirt poor, then yes, it hurts, but don't blame the baby (toddler, etc.). instead thank him or her for the wake-up call. and start taking good care of your wealth/self. 

how to put this into practice: make a list of things you feel your children have taken away from you. Pick the top three. How can you give these back to yourself (without taking anything away from your children)? start right now. 

i'm off to bed now. because my baby is not robbing me of my sleep. 

a walk in the woods with friends

photographs courtesy of Sharon Midcap

what i love about november

so here i am, wandering around thinking about letting go (as befits this particular moon). what is it that i need to let go of right now in order to be ready for the winter ahead? meanwhile, all around me, on every branch, every washing line, every leaf the answer shines, trembles, and slides towards me. in november, the world is covered in tears. and now i remember, the answer is the same every year. what i need to let flow in november, are my tears.

and here is some crying help (for those who, like me, need help): one, two, three

and then there are our two new boys

the oldest...

 

... and the youngest...

 

... both of whom are to blame for the lack of activity around here (more on blame later). the youngest one suckles my time, as much of it as he can get his greedy little mouth on, straight from the nipple into the round universe of his belly. late evening musings, early morning surges of inspiration, quiet afternoon meditations and dead-of-night epiphanies all seem to be swallowed with equal delight, never making it to a piece of paper, let alone a computer screen.

 but i can also blame the other one, my best friend, my soul mate, long searched for in the corners of the visible and invisible world, found at last, almost lost again, and now here, with me, father to my son, sharing my home and my life. i can talk to him now, every hour of every day. and everything i say he wants to hear. so why would i write?

was all this writing born of the necessity of saying that which nobody wanted to hear? is writing nothing but the blind search for an audience. and now that the audience has been found, no more words?

i don't know. we'll see...

catching up

we have a lot of catching up to do, you and i. i will skip the apologies for disappearing, reappearing, repeat. and as i am slowly stretching my muscles into this space once again, bring you some recent goodness from our home. there were bats and cats. both black.

to record or not to record

Tomas (20 march 2012)