Friday, July 20, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
can you feel it?
I have been stuck in this absurd wave of synchronicity for the last few days.
The number of times the universe has read my mind (and vice versa) has blown all statistics apart: friends I speak to read my thoughts and speak them out loud, or simply add to what I was thinking, without me having mentioned what it was; I am suddenly privy to other people's thoughts too; people I think of appear instantaneously (even if I haven't seen them or heard from them in a year); the books I want to read are simply being sent to me by various friends from all over the world without me having asked for them; paradigm shifts are falling on (and straight into) my head with the frequency and impact of large hail stones (yes, the weather, she seems to be rather upset too... although the lightning-quick changes from rain to sunshine are bringing along some of the most brilliant rainbows I have ever seen); and as I emerge from sleep, poems come rolling off my tongue in languages I barely speak. And not once. Or twice. Constantly.
Anyway, it turns out it's all due to this. Can you feel it too?
The number of times the universe has read my mind (and vice versa) has blown all statistics apart: friends I speak to read my thoughts and speak them out loud, or simply add to what I was thinking, without me having mentioned what it was; I am suddenly privy to other people's thoughts too; people I think of appear instantaneously (even if I haven't seen them or heard from them in a year); the books I want to read are simply being sent to me by various friends from all over the world without me having asked for them; paradigm shifts are falling on (and straight into) my head with the frequency and impact of large hail stones (yes, the weather, she seems to be rather upset too... although the lightning-quick changes from rain to sunshine are bringing along some of the most brilliant rainbows I have ever seen); and as I emerge from sleep, poems come rolling off my tongue in languages I barely speak. And not once. Or twice. Constantly.
Anyway, it turns out it's all due to this. Can you feel it too?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
lucky (second) hand
Witness this small thrifting miracle (slightly out of season, but still). I have dreamt of having one of these traditional German candle pyramids on the Christmas table ever since first laying eyes on them sometime in the 1980's (in Bern, was it? or in Innsbruck?). They are soooo lovely. And sooooo expensive! Not this one though: it was staring at me for five full days from the window of our local Emmaus thriftstore (only open on Saturday afternoon, grrrrr!), and it then patiently waited for me to show up on Saturday (I was planning to queue in front of the store until it opened but as usual only managed to get there just before closing-time), and became ours for the very reasonable sum of 3 euros. Some bits have fallen off and will have to be glued back on, and baby Jesus (a girl, obviously) looks a bit like a snowman with a top hat, but you don't hear me complaining. In fact, I smile every time I look at it.
Another piece of second-hand good luck this week: I finally managed to locate someone who is willing to sell me their entire set of Kiddybips size S. Yes, we plan to travel the cotton road with this little one! And that's one item off my humongous list ("Since it would take us a little over a year to complete this list, and since the baby is coming in about 8 weeks, I think we might have to set some priorities", said Marc philosophically). So, only 243 items to go...
Marc left today; he'll be gone ten days and I miss him already. I don't think we've ever had ten days without any contact. Although we've agreed to think very hard about each other every day at 9:30 pm. Believe it or not, this makes all the difference. When Marc told Isabelle this morning that he was going to be gone for ten days and he wouldn't be able to phone her because there'd be no phone she said: 'Sure you can, pappa, just use your hand, like I do!' She truly gets it. It only took us what? thirty odd years? to figure it out...
Monday, June 11, 2007
one more mosquito
This is one of the loveliest children's books ever, remarkable for a number of reasons. It's a series of short (some very short) stories about a little girl's (Irah) encounters with various beasties. The illustrations are exquisite, and the text is even better: it's touchingly poetic and the way in which it addresses children's emotions, in an understated indirect way, is very moving.
Then there is of course the animals Irah meets: not your regular cow, sheep, dog, chicken, lion, tiger or parrot. They are respectively: a mosquito, a worm, a butterfly, a jellyfish, a fox and an owl.
But the most remarkable thing about this book is the way in which the consciousness of the animals, and their dialogue with Irah, is portrayed. I don't think I ever noticed before the extent to which animals in children's books are anthropomorhized (that's not a even a word...) and given a secondary role. They seem to often be no more than projections of human thought, behaviour and emotion. A mirror, a reflection of the human protagonist. But not in this book. My favourite is the one where Irah finds a jellyfish on the beach and eventually carries it in her bucket back to the sea.
While she wonders whether the jellyfish is cold, asleep, homesick, the jellyfish is only thinking water, water, waiting, sand, water, deeper, water. The beautiful thing is that they really are talking to each other, there is true communication here, albeit without words. And with the jellyfish constantly reminding Irah that her concepts do not translate directly into its world.
It's this fine-tuned dialogue between two beings, two worlds, two languages. It's Luce Irigaray, for children. It's breathtaking.
mosquitoes
There are many mosquitoes in our neighbourhood. In particular at the back of the house, where the gardens are, and where our bedroom faces, with the big balcony doors which remain open night and day in the summer to compensate for the unbearable heat of sleeping under a flat roof. The first summer we spent in the house (seems like a lifetime, but really only three years ago), when Isabelle was just 5 months old, Marc walked around most nights beating the various walls of the bedroom with one of my slippers. It did not seem to bother him or me (or her). The second year, I was sitting on the bed one late afternoon when I caught Isabelle looking at Marc smashing some mosquito to smithereens, and I suddenly thought: I am watching my daughter watching her father killing an insect for no reason other than that it buzzed around his head once or twice approximately 14 hours ago.
Since then, not one drop of mosquito blood has been shed in this house, and we sleep the summers away under mosquito nets. Loving every minute (it's a bit like a little house, says Isabelle, it's a bit like camping, says Marc, it feels like summer, says I).
Our most recent acquisition, the Majestic, is memorable for being able to comfortably fit around our absurdly sized bed (240 by 200). This is a great improvement on all the previous systems where some of us (those with the big no-killing ideas) slept under the mosquito net, while others (those with no big ideas but with jobs they had to go to every morning) were stuck sleeping outside the net, and being visited by a bunch of very frustrated mosquitoes (who could see Isabelle, smell Isabelle, but not get to Isabelle). So the Majestic is a good thing.
And then some weeks ago, I read this article. Ten grown men spending months of their energy and time figuring out a way not to kill even one ant. Such a happy, hopeful, smiling thought!
harvest
If it continues like this we are going to have to hire fieldhands to help us harvest our two (yes: TWO) balcony strawberry plants. It's insane! Every day there is at least a kilo more that's ready to be picked... Anybody in for some lovely sun-drenched strawberries?
Friday, June 08, 2007
the story of the old Jew from Odessa
My grand-father often tells this anecdote about an old Jew who lived in Odessa at the turn of the century (my grand-father, being himself an old Jew from Char'kov, holds the prerogative of telling stories about old Jews). Anyway, this old Jew had discovered all by himself Newton's laws of thermodynamics. Since he only spoke Yiddish, he did not know that Newton had in fact come up with these laws some years before him. When finally told, he was devastated.
I heard this story often when growing up, and I heard it again on our recent visit to Moscow. Each time I hear it, and once I get over the involuntary chuckle produced by the glee with which my grand-father tells the story, I ask myself the same question: why would this man be devastated? Clearly, it has something to do with whether the idea was 'his' or not 'his'.
The importance of the originality of thought. A big thing in the world we live in, and particularly in academia.
According to this view, the impact of thought lies not simply in what is thought, but also very much in who is thinking. The thinker and the thought together form the basic atomic unit of academic tradition, of science, of knowledge.
During my short career as an academic researcher, I remember the agonies I suffered as a result of this system. The constant pressure to come up with 'new ideas', the dread once you had a good idea that you might accidentally stumble on someone else, somewhere else, in some long-forgotten or hidden article, who had already had 'your' good idea. Which would of course instantaneously make your own thinking achievement null. The fear also that as a result of so much reading, you might accidentally have an idea which felt like it was yours, but was in fact simply your brain feeding back to you what you had fed it last week. Which in turn would make you a fraud.
Surely, this type of system is bound to lead to misery and cheating, surely it is bound to lead to blindness too. Once the thinker becomes dependent on the recognition of 'his' or 'her' thought, how can thought be free to move and evolve? But never mind the disastrous effects we are all familiar with, the worst of it is: it takes away all the fun of thinking.
And to be very honest, I just never quite understood it. Just like I do not understand the story of the old Jew from Odessa. Not really, not deep down.
I was telling the anecdote today to some of my students (I know, I know, I'm still sort of hanging around academia, but I like to think of myself as a very small grain of sand in the machine, and while teaching my students how to 'write clearly' in class, I spend all the breaks secretly attempting to make them into academic anarchists). And one of them said, 'had he known about Newton, the old Jew could just have read about it, and saved himself a lot of time. The result would have been the same.' And there it is. Right on the money. The result would have been the same. Maybe it is true, about the result. But whatever happened to the process? How can the knowledge acquired through reading a book ever be compared to the knowledge resulting from a process of years of thinking? Because only the result matters. How can this old Jew ever be seen as less of an original thinker than Newton? Because only the timing of the result matters. And when did thought, and knowledge, become equated with a random fixed stage in its development, i.e. the so-called result? On a black, black day, that's when.
I am no longer an academic researcher. And in the last few years, I have slowly but surely recaptured much of my joy in thought. I often fail to quote my sources, not out of rebellion but simply because my mind no longer makes the effort to record them. I just don't know where I get stuff. I don't know whether it came from me, or from you, or from some book I read. And I couldn't care less. I am delighted if you take my thoughts and makes them yours. They are bound to travel an entirely different path in your mind.
And if I ever have a good idea, and it then turns out some Newton already had this idea, either last week or many centuries ago, well, that just makes me happy. Both for myself and for the Newton in question. For the fun we both had. For our learning process.
I heard this story often when growing up, and I heard it again on our recent visit to Moscow. Each time I hear it, and once I get over the involuntary chuckle produced by the glee with which my grand-father tells the story, I ask myself the same question: why would this man be devastated? Clearly, it has something to do with whether the idea was 'his' or not 'his'.
The importance of the originality of thought. A big thing in the world we live in, and particularly in academia.
According to this view, the impact of thought lies not simply in what is thought, but also very much in who is thinking. The thinker and the thought together form the basic atomic unit of academic tradition, of science, of knowledge.
During my short career as an academic researcher, I remember the agonies I suffered as a result of this system. The constant pressure to come up with 'new ideas', the dread once you had a good idea that you might accidentally stumble on someone else, somewhere else, in some long-forgotten or hidden article, who had already had 'your' good idea. Which would of course instantaneously make your own thinking achievement null. The fear also that as a result of so much reading, you might accidentally have an idea which felt like it was yours, but was in fact simply your brain feeding back to you what you had fed it last week. Which in turn would make you a fraud.
Surely, this type of system is bound to lead to misery and cheating, surely it is bound to lead to blindness too. Once the thinker becomes dependent on the recognition of 'his' or 'her' thought, how can thought be free to move and evolve? But never mind the disastrous effects we are all familiar with, the worst of it is: it takes away all the fun of thinking.
And to be very honest, I just never quite understood it. Just like I do not understand the story of the old Jew from Odessa. Not really, not deep down.
I was telling the anecdote today to some of my students (I know, I know, I'm still sort of hanging around academia, but I like to think of myself as a very small grain of sand in the machine, and while teaching my students how to 'write clearly' in class, I spend all the breaks secretly attempting to make them into academic anarchists). And one of them said, 'had he known about Newton, the old Jew could just have read about it, and saved himself a lot of time. The result would have been the same.' And there it is. Right on the money. The result would have been the same. Maybe it is true, about the result. But whatever happened to the process? How can the knowledge acquired through reading a book ever be compared to the knowledge resulting from a process of years of thinking? Because only the result matters. How can this old Jew ever be seen as less of an original thinker than Newton? Because only the timing of the result matters. And when did thought, and knowledge, become equated with a random fixed stage in its development, i.e. the so-called result? On a black, black day, that's when.
I am no longer an academic researcher. And in the last few years, I have slowly but surely recaptured much of my joy in thought. I often fail to quote my sources, not out of rebellion but simply because my mind no longer makes the effort to record them. I just don't know where I get stuff. I don't know whether it came from me, or from you, or from some book I read. And I couldn't care less. I am delighted if you take my thoughts and makes them yours. They are bound to travel an entirely different path in your mind.
And if I ever have a good idea, and it then turns out some Newton already had this idea, either last week or many centuries ago, well, that just makes me happy. Both for myself and for the Newton in question. For the fun we both had. For our learning process.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Russian photography
Marc has taken some photographs on our trip to Russia which, in different ways and for different reasons, I find extremely moving. I would like to share a few with you here, and I have been thinking about how I want to present them: I have found it quite impossible to make series of them, and words fail me when trying to tell their 'story', so I think I'll just give them to you one by one, in the disorder...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
uncrafty
So I didn't make it myself. I didn't receive it from someone who made it themselves. I didn't buy it from someone who made it themselves. It is not second-hand. It is not made from organic linnen. It was dirt cheap. Because it was mass-produced. By a 'not-so-good' company. It is altogether a very politically incorrect item of clothing.
And yet... I shamelessly adore my new smock.
And so I officially pledge to wear it until it wears itself out. To use it as a model for more of the same (clearly hand-made this time, and only from recycled organic materials). To continuously love and honour it long after fashion has left it behind. To make it my 'always right' outfit. For pregnancies and in between. For summer and winter. For work and play. And all other seasons.
(ok, I guess it should be 'almost shamelessly'...)
1251
After writing that brave post last night, I spent an hour crying my eyes out, imagining myself a lonely old woman lying forever alone in her lonely cold bed, sniffing the cold lonely air for a melancholy whiff of long-gone curly heads. Then, exhausted and somewhat lighter I went to bed and picked up Mrs. Dalloway (who incidentally also muses on her cold lonely bed).
I had been reading for about ten minutes when I saw the mosquito net across the room move; a very sleepy ghost emerged, made its shuffling (because sleeping-bagged you understand) and tottering (because of being asleep you understand) way over to my bed, looked at me through half shut eyes, mumbled 'het is donker in mijn bed' ('it's dark in my bed') and fell into a deep coma right next to me. It was 9 pm. The sun had not yet set. It wasn't dark anywhere in the house. But who's complaining? Not me. I briefly inhaled the well-known smell of her hair, put my book away, cuddled up and went straight to sleep.
Now that is called a respite.
I had been reading for about ten minutes when I saw the mosquito net across the room move; a very sleepy ghost emerged, made its shuffling (because sleeping-bagged you understand) and tottering (because of being asleep you understand) way over to my bed, looked at me through half shut eyes, mumbled 'het is donker in mijn bed' ('it's dark in my bed') and fell into a deep coma right next to me. It was 9 pm. The sun had not yet set. It wasn't dark anywhere in the house. But who's complaining? Not me. I briefly inhaled the well-known smell of her hair, put my book away, cuddled up and went straight to sleep.
Now that is called a respite.
Monday, May 28, 2007
the end of an era
Isabelle is asleep upstairs. In her very own child-size bed. For the first time in her three and a half years.
Recently, having re-discovered this lovely book by Jan Ormerod, she started talking about having her own bed, just like the little girl in the book, and it just so happened that a very good friend (thanks again Sammy!) had one she was willing to donate. Anyway, the bed arrived this morning and Isabelle was excited as a flea (that's French idiom); we were busy the first half of the day choosing the right blanket, the right sheet, the right pillow, the right mosquito net (??). Then she spent the rest of the day 'just sitting' on her bed. She refused to have any dolls or stuffed animals in it, because it is 'her' bed. She also refused to let any of us lie in it to try it out. Mine. Mine. Mine. She said.
I am so happy and excited for her. So proud too: in the span of one day, she expanded. Stood taller. Broader. Bigger. It was an amazing thing to witness.
I am also a little sad for myself. Since the 23rd of December 2003 until today, with only two notable exceptions, Isabelle and I have slept in the same bed, cuddled up together, every single night. That is exactly 1250 nights.
And now she is gone.
I try to tell myself she did not go far (I think if I reach my arm as far as it will go, and if I lie with my head where my feet used to be, I can still touch her). I try to tell myself she'll be back (probably as soon as tomorrow morning 6 am for a cuddle). But it still feels like far, and it still feels like forever.
My little bird is spreading her wings. And I can't tell apart the taste of sadness and the taste of joy in my mouth. I think this is called love.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
balcony report
We're going to Russia on Saturday, for a week, and who knows in what state we will find the balcony when we come back, so I thought I'd share some of this year's successes so long as they are with us: strawberries in the making, lavender, basil and tiny tim tomatoes. Inside, we have sage, more tomatoes, some sorrel and more strawberries. Isabelle was involved in every step, sometimes with great enthusiasm (planting seeds) sometimes rather reluctantly (she seems to think dirt is dirty! crazy girl!).
rain at last
Who would have thought I'd ever say this: the rain, it is just sooooo good!
Not that we didn't enjoy the two straight months of sunshine, but when the first fat drops hit the pavement Monday morning, Isabelle and I went a bit crazy, we simply couldn't wait to put on our raingear and go jump through the puddles. And drink a cup of rain tea of course (like Lena Lena). And the smell of rain! Extraordinary! So sweet and juicy and spicy too!
Sunday, May 06, 2007
banned banner thoughts
As you might have noticed, I got rid of my banner. I didn't like the old banner anymore, but even though it grated on my nerves every time I saw it, I couldn't take it away because... i didn't have a pretty new banner to replace the old one. And this got me thinking. About why my blogging has been rather sporadic these last few months, even though my mind is so full. And I have reached the conclusion that I keep running into the same snag with this blog, and it's a snag I run into in other places too (surprise surprise!).
It has to do with the gap between how my mind/being actually functions and how I think it ought to.
Me, I have a number of interests in life: a voracious reader of both fiction and non-fiction; really really into food (both on the eating and the 'making of' end); a radical feminist; a craftster; a student of drawing and painting; a photographer in the making; concerned about the education system and what it does to children, and how and whether I can avoid the worst of it for my child; concerned about the environment and how I can make a difference, right here right now; concerned about how girls are portrayed in children's literature, and avidly searching the world for appropriate reading for my daughter; wanting to write children's books myself; concerned about the consumer society and regularly making desperate attempts to change my own consuming patterns; practicing yoga; really into philosophy, religion and spirituality; really into body work psychotherapy; really into self-analysis and wanting one day to be a therapist myself; passionate about giving birth and everything surrounding that process and dreaming of becoming some kind of professional dealing with pregnant/birthing women; attempting to grow things on my hot hot balcony; writing poetry; reading poetry; baking bread; music; films; organic food; etc., etc., etc.
The only thing is, I'm not into all of this at once. What happens in fact is that I tend to obsess on one or two topics for a period of a few months, making fast advances and fascinating discoveries on the way, and then I 'lose interest'. There follows a period akin to a hibernation of the mind, in which nothing much seems to be going on, and I spend most of my time either watching light comedies, BBC costume dramas and detectives on TV or reading The Forsyte Saga. This is a period in which I tend to judge myself for not 'sticking with things', for always 'dropping out', for 'not knowing my mind'.
Until one day, something catches my attention, and I'm off again, on some wild wild ride to discover and learn more.
What I have come to see, though, is that these periods of 'nothing' are really needed for all the new stuff to settle, to find a place, to take root. That every time I come back to a topic/idea, it is with more depth of understanding and a clearer idea of both my thought and the concrete actions that follow from it. So in that sense, it really is like winter hibernation, when all growth takes place underground, where you cannot see it, which doesn't mean it is not happening.
The other thing that I have come to realize is that I do not have to make a choice of one or two things that interest me and stick to them for life. In fact, my life is infinitely richer because I have many many things that I am passionate about. And what's more, different though these interests may seem on the surface, they cross-fertilize each other constantly and are in fact part of a larger pattern, a pattern I will probably never be able to see in its entirety, since I am sitting at the heart of it, weaving the tapestry of my life.
Back to the blog. I keep thinking of it as a 'crafting/photograph blog'. And I haven't been crafting or taking photographs since I got pregnant. So I haven't been blogging.
I have been reading though, and doing yoga every single day, and coming up with exciting discoveries about parenting, about buddhism, about consumerism, about what does in fact grow on my balcony, about guerilla gardening, and much much more.
And I have been dying to write it all down right here. But none of it involves a needle or a thread. And there are no pictures to support it either. So I have been silent. And a little bit sad. Afraid to disappoint you (of whom I know nothing, not even whether you exist), and disappointing myself in the process.
Thus freedom begins: with a banner, or rather without one. And may the white space above stand witness to how open this blog is to whatever happens to be on my mind.
It has to do with the gap between how my mind/being actually functions and how I think it ought to.
Me, I have a number of interests in life: a voracious reader of both fiction and non-fiction; really really into food (both on the eating and the 'making of' end); a radical feminist; a craftster; a student of drawing and painting; a photographer in the making; concerned about the education system and what it does to children, and how and whether I can avoid the worst of it for my child; concerned about the environment and how I can make a difference, right here right now; concerned about how girls are portrayed in children's literature, and avidly searching the world for appropriate reading for my daughter; wanting to write children's books myself; concerned about the consumer society and regularly making desperate attempts to change my own consuming patterns; practicing yoga; really into philosophy, religion and spirituality; really into body work psychotherapy; really into self-analysis and wanting one day to be a therapist myself; passionate about giving birth and everything surrounding that process and dreaming of becoming some kind of professional dealing with pregnant/birthing women; attempting to grow things on my hot hot balcony; writing poetry; reading poetry; baking bread; music; films; organic food; etc., etc., etc.
The only thing is, I'm not into all of this at once. What happens in fact is that I tend to obsess on one or two topics for a period of a few months, making fast advances and fascinating discoveries on the way, and then I 'lose interest'. There follows a period akin to a hibernation of the mind, in which nothing much seems to be going on, and I spend most of my time either watching light comedies, BBC costume dramas and detectives on TV or reading The Forsyte Saga. This is a period in which I tend to judge myself for not 'sticking with things', for always 'dropping out', for 'not knowing my mind'.
Until one day, something catches my attention, and I'm off again, on some wild wild ride to discover and learn more.
What I have come to see, though, is that these periods of 'nothing' are really needed for all the new stuff to settle, to find a place, to take root. That every time I come back to a topic/idea, it is with more depth of understanding and a clearer idea of both my thought and the concrete actions that follow from it. So in that sense, it really is like winter hibernation, when all growth takes place underground, where you cannot see it, which doesn't mean it is not happening.
The other thing that I have come to realize is that I do not have to make a choice of one or two things that interest me and stick to them for life. In fact, my life is infinitely richer because I have many many things that I am passionate about. And what's more, different though these interests may seem on the surface, they cross-fertilize each other constantly and are in fact part of a larger pattern, a pattern I will probably never be able to see in its entirety, since I am sitting at the heart of it, weaving the tapestry of my life.
Back to the blog. I keep thinking of it as a 'crafting/photograph blog'. And I haven't been crafting or taking photographs since I got pregnant. So I haven't been blogging.
I have been reading though, and doing yoga every single day, and coming up with exciting discoveries about parenting, about buddhism, about consumerism, about what does in fact grow on my balcony, about guerilla gardening, and much much more.
And I have been dying to write it all down right here. But none of it involves a needle or a thread. And there are no pictures to support it either. So I have been silent. And a little bit sad. Afraid to disappoint you (of whom I know nothing, not even whether you exist), and disappointing myself in the process.
Thus freedom begins: with a banner, or rather without one. And may the white space above stand witness to how open this blog is to whatever happens to be on my mind.
pot holders
This is today's project, from Lotta's scrumptious (my new '!' word) book. As far as the process is concerned, this was far more characteristic of my general sewing experience than the shirt I made last week.
It all began so well: calm as a wide wide river, and almost as sure-handed, with Feist's new album playing in the background, I cut out the pattern pieces, pinned them onto the pre-washed, pre-shrunk and ironed fabric, cut out the fabric, marked the seams and began to sew. For a while, all was pure soothing meditation. The sewing-machine, the universe and my hands one flowing motion.
But then something went wrong (something always does). And I mean REALLY WRONG. As in, so wrong, it took me more time to fix it than I had planned to spend on the entire project (including washing and drying the fabric). By the time I was done fixing, I had turned from a wide wide river into some kind of demented mountain dervish, muttering under my breath and swearing at all and sundry (who were mercifully absent; in fact, this is the moment when even the cat decided to beat a safe retreat). Feist was starting to seriously get on my nerves with her naggy voice, and I suddenly realized looking at the clock that Marc and Isabelle were about to come home, and I was still up nowhere creek.
So, heart racing, and with the gnashing of my teeth for only musical accompaniment, I completed (read 'blotched') the bloody pot holders in just under 5 minutes.
I tell you, being Buddha is not easy. Not even with a sewing-machine. Every day, though, I get to try again...
And still, when all is said and done, they don't look half-bad (especially from a distance, with your eyes half-closed) and they are certainly a tremendous improvement on their rather dead predecessors.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
sophistication
Believe it or not, my most beautiful sewing project to date (seriously, you should see the detail on this one, me very proud), from a pattern in my gorgeous new Japanese children's clothing book
was rudely pooh-poohed by the plebs on account of it being 'just white'. Isabelle says she will not wear it unless I embroider flowers, leaves AND sheep on it. Shockingly ungrateful, don't you think?
For the record, this amazing shirt is not 'just white', it's made of a scrumptiously fine Indian cotton fabric, with vertical stripes in different shades of off-white, almost see-through, and silver. Me, I would give much to have a shirt like that (unfortunately I haven't yet figured out how to magically turn a child-size pattern into a grown-up-with-large-belly pattern) (plus, the fabric is all gone now).
There's nothing for it, my next experiment will just have to involve fabric that has first been approved. In the meantime, I'm off to do flowers, leaves and sheep...
Monday, April 23, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Marie's new coat
Meet Marie, Isabelle's new doll. She used to be my doll, a Fisher Price My Friend Jenny doll purchased last year, second-hand, on e-bay after reading about her on Amy's blog. She came with a book of patterns for clothes, and the idea was that I'd get to 'play' with her for a few years before surrendering her and her newly sewn wardrobe to Isabelle.
The plan did not work out. Marie was spotted 6 months ago on one of the local KGB searches through my sewing-room and after a ridiculously short period of stilted lip-service to my ownership (Mama, can I play with your doll?), I just gave up. Now Isabelle and I sew clothes for her together. Much more fun. And I don't think we're doing a bad job either. Here she is sporting her brand-new spring coat and a skirt that matches Isabelle's dress.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Day 120
In the Yogic tradition, 120 days after conception the soul of the child settles in the body. Before this day, the new soul is present, but it hovers around the mother and the child, sort of like an impatient house-owner checking on the progress of the construction of its house. Yogis celebrate the 120th day by offering spiritual gifts to the new soul, things to help it on its journey through life.
When I first read about this, it resonated so much that I decided to do something similar. So this past Wednesday, Marc and I both took the day off and we spent it meditating together, in the forest, among the daffodils. The way in which we were able to make contact with each other overwhelmed us both. We had not ever felt this close, this bonded, this free, this happy to just be in the presence of the other. All day we meditated in silence and out loud, letting our gifts for our baby come to life between us.
We came home and prepared the house, with some flowers and some food; and then you came, and raised what had been a wonderful day into perfection. I have no words for how loved we felt, how blessed with your friendship; the gifts you brought, the love and care and energy that had gone into them was so much we could not have handled it on any other occasion. But our hearts had been opening all day long, and we just drank it in, and are still drinking from it, and will continue to do so for as long as there is. Our common gift to the baby.
Photography courtesy of Marc
Thursday, March 22, 2007
in memoriam
Tanya Reinhart died suddenly last week. If you are interested, you can read more about her political activism and her linguistics here and here. I just want to take a moment, to stand still and remind myself of what Tanya meant to me.
We first met almost exactly 10 years ago, in the summer of 1997, when I was in the process writing my MA thesis and she had kindly agreed to be one of the supervisors. I used to visit her in her Amsterdam appartment, on the Singel, and we argued back and forth about some of the finer points of my thesis. After I had begun my PhD, I took one of her classes, together with Ineke, and we used to occasionally have lunch with her in a little coffeehouse on an Utrecht canal. In 2003, we met again when she accepted to be on the committee for my defense. She came to my graduation party and we spoke for a while, agreeing to meet as soon as I had given birth (I defended my PhD with a belly sticking out all the way to the Vatican :)). That didn't materialize, as I was sucked into baby world, and then detached myself from linguistics altogether. Although we exchanged a couple of e-mails over the last few years, I never saw her again.
Every time we met, she made me feel warm and welcome. She made me feel seen, heard and recognized. She also made me feel, always, that I could do better still.
She was one of the most amazing people I have ever met, and I have been figuring out these past few days what it is exactly that I find so inspiring about her. It is the fact that she managed to balance the brain and the heart, to apply her razor-sharp mind to that which her heart knew was true. The fact that she exuded warmth and lack of compromise, all in the same breath. The fact that she had found and was walking with confidence what always seemed to me to be such an elusive hair-fine line. The fact that living as she did from the heart, she retained innocence and infinite joy while dealing daily with the horrors we inflict on one another. The fact of her amazing power of focus.
Tanya is no longer here. I cannot e-mail her, I cannot meet with her. But I know what her legacy to me is. I know that she showed me the way to that thin line which, once you walk it, turns into a wide tree-shaded alley. The path of heart and mind. The path of warmth and steadfastness. The path of truth and kindness. The path of no compromise.
Thank you, Tanya.
We first met almost exactly 10 years ago, in the summer of 1997, when I was in the process writing my MA thesis and she had kindly agreed to be one of the supervisors. I used to visit her in her Amsterdam appartment, on the Singel, and we argued back and forth about some of the finer points of my thesis. After I had begun my PhD, I took one of her classes, together with Ineke, and we used to occasionally have lunch with her in a little coffeehouse on an Utrecht canal. In 2003, we met again when she accepted to be on the committee for my defense. She came to my graduation party and we spoke for a while, agreeing to meet as soon as I had given birth (I defended my PhD with a belly sticking out all the way to the Vatican :)). That didn't materialize, as I was sucked into baby world, and then detached myself from linguistics altogether. Although we exchanged a couple of e-mails over the last few years, I never saw her again.
Every time we met, she made me feel warm and welcome. She made me feel seen, heard and recognized. She also made me feel, always, that I could do better still.
She was one of the most amazing people I have ever met, and I have been figuring out these past few days what it is exactly that I find so inspiring about her. It is the fact that she managed to balance the brain and the heart, to apply her razor-sharp mind to that which her heart knew was true. The fact that she exuded warmth and lack of compromise, all in the same breath. The fact that she had found and was walking with confidence what always seemed to me to be such an elusive hair-fine line. The fact that living as she did from the heart, she retained innocence and infinite joy while dealing daily with the horrors we inflict on one another. The fact of her amazing power of focus.
Tanya is no longer here. I cannot e-mail her, I cannot meet with her. But I know what her legacy to me is. I know that she showed me the way to that thin line which, once you walk it, turns into a wide tree-shaded alley. The path of heart and mind. The path of warmth and steadfastness. The path of truth and kindness. The path of no compromise.
Thank you, Tanya.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
fairytale
(I can't get enough of these flowers, have you noticed? And I don't even know what they're called. In French it's 'renoncules'. In English? The colours are amazing.)
(I am also seriously running out of exclamative adjectives, the only ones I ever use are 'amazing', 'incredible' and 'mind-blowing', so if anyone has a suggestion, please to send it in.)
In Jungian psychoanalysis, fairytales are supposed to represent the deep processes of the human psyche. I am a big fan of Clarissa Pinkola Estès, and Women who run with the Wolves is the book I have probably read most often (well, apart from the Forsyte Saga of course). I recently bought a set of her CDs, which are pretty good too (this is typically the kind of spot where the new adjective would fit in nicely), and on one of them she talks about how important it is to remember the fairytale that marked your childhood most, the one that fascinated you, the one you liked best or the one you found most frightening, the one that seemed somehow to stick. Once you remember it, the idea is to try and make a Jungian analysis of how closely that fairytale matches your psychic journey from childhood to adulthood. Apparently most people either choose pretty bad stories and live them full out, or they choose pretty good stories, but for some reason get stuck in the bad parts and can't seem to move on. The idea is that by recapturing the story and its significance in your life, you can either change the ending or live the story all the way to its happy end.
So much for the theory. Off I went in search of 'my' fairytale. It took me just under 10 seconds to find it. For as long as I can remember I have been fascinated by Andersen's Little Mermaid. As a child I remember having it read to me and then reading it again and again and again. As a teenager, I wrote poems (yes, I know, no comment...) which integrated the imagery and themes of that tale. As an adult I have been ranting about the rape of the story by Walt Disney, while simultaneously telling everyone I know NOT to read it to their children.
Looking at it from the Jungian perspective, however, just knocked me out of my socks. Here is the story of a powerful female figure, in touch with her strength and living in her element, who chooses to sell out all her power (her tail and her voice) in order to fulfill the expectations (or rather the imagined expectations) of the person whose love she craves. In order to gain this person's love, she believes she must become a 'real' woman, which means relinquishing everything that makes her what she is, a mermaid. Not only that, but she chooses to endure horendous pain in the process. And what does she get for all this, I ask you? Zilch. She never gets the love she wanted. Instead, she dies.
Now this, up to a point, is the story of my life. Of my childhood in any case. Of my teenage years. Of most of my young adulthood. Of all of my life in fact barring the last few years. The most amazing thing for me is the fact that what the little mermaid sells to the witch is her tail and her tongue. I have been doing Bio-energetics therapy for the last three years (there, all my secrets revealed) and from the beginning the recurring theme in my therapy has been my legs and my voice. The way the loss of psychic power has expressed itself in my body for most of my life has been through my inability to feel my feet, to feel my legs, to carry myself, as well as through the sheer impossibility of using my voice. I cannot open my mouth and scream, because nothing ever comes out. Now seriously, is that mind-blowing or what? (This is another good spot for the new adjective).
Now I just had to do some serious rewriting. I think the little mermaid is perfect the way she is. I think the prince fell in love with her on that beach, when she sang so beautifully to him. He fell in love with her voice, and he fell in love with her strength, the strength of that tail of hers which allowed her to swim him to shore and save his life. He fell in love with her sheer mermaidness.
And if he didn't he's a big loser who deserves the boring wife he got and on whom not another drop of ink shall be spilled. Anyway, it's the mermaid who is the heroine of this particular tail/tale, the mermaid in her full magical glory. In the water. Right where she belongs (did I mention my love/hate relationship with water?).
And who says she was little anyway? She's as wide as the sea. As deep as the ocean. And her voice touches you right there, at the hair-thin crack in your heart.
pure
Technically speaking, i didn't really need to buy these. There are exactly 18 large garbage bags of baby clothes waiting in our walk-in closet. The child 'on its way' will not have to go naked. And yet, on another level, I really did need to buy them, because it is a new life and a new life deserves its own new shell. They are pure silk, and so tiny you wouldn't believe it. So pretty. So soft. So innocent. And marked down to half the price.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Happy 8 March!
To all the women I love, and all the women they love, and all the women they love, ...
"White-Shell-Woman, she moves ...
Before her all is beautiful,
she moves,
Behind her all is beautiful,
she moves."
- Navajo Song
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The imagination of a three year old knows no bounds
... and requires much explanation. The hairband on her head is not in fact a hairband when worn at this angle. It is a crown. For the hairband to be a hairband, it must be worn in a more traditional style, just above the ears. The blue thing on her right hand is the mouse's dungarees, doubling as a special type of bandage for fixing fingers that have fallen off (the trouser legs fit one's fingers perfectly, and the blue colour works to stop the bleeding). The box of Tic Tacs in front of her is in fact her baby's medicine, in the form of a collapsible lolly. The mint tea can only be sipped through a straw from a Moroccan mint tea glass. And that thing on her face (I don't even know what it's called) is not as you might in your innocence believe used to prevent oil spattering out of frying pans; it is a fishing net for catching multi-coloured fish in the Corridor Ocean.
I rest my case.
Oh, she has also redecorated the oven with elastic hairbands.
On feeling better
Reading my ‘not’-ness post, I find it simply unbelievable that I could come from that place to where I am now in just a few short weeks. That dark grey place seems so unreal. And yet I know I really was there because there is an echo of it in my body, because the undiluted joy and power I feel now are a function of how deep into myself I was able to reach in those difficult days.
I feel a need to record for myself how I have moved from there to here. Partially, it’s the yoga. I made a commitment to myself to do yoga every day for 40 days, no matter what. If I miss one day, I start again at the beginning. We are now on day 19 and what started as a 15 minute work-out in-between loading the dishwasher and browsing internet has now turned into a full one-hour (on workdays) to two-hour (weekends) dawn session. I actually get up at 6 am every day so that I can do yoga before the day begins. It is an unbelievable experience, an incredible gift to myself, this serious commitment, this focus on what I know is good for me.
Partially, it’s having put it down in writing here. Openly acknowledging fear is the only way to make it melt. Things that live in the dark don’t like the light. So thank you again for your help in voicing it all.
Partially, it is simply reaching the second trimester. Yesterday, I found this quote in my beautiful new book:
“The fist hundred and twenty days are given to us as a time to strenghthen the foundations of our lives, in order for us to be prepared for the seismic shift which comes with having a child... each birth gives you a new opportunity to penetrate your understanding even more deeply and grow in your love and wisdom.”
Wish I could have read this two months ago. It would have helped a lot. Not with getting out of it sooner, but with accepting it more.
Whatever it was, it made now possible. I have never felt stronger, I have never felt more centred, more focused, more sure of my power to conquer whatever comes my way. I have never been happier. I have never been less afraid. I have never been so free. I have never been so ready to welcome a child into my life. I have never felt so blissful. Or so blessed.
I feel a need to record for myself how I have moved from there to here. Partially, it’s the yoga. I made a commitment to myself to do yoga every day for 40 days, no matter what. If I miss one day, I start again at the beginning. We are now on day 19 and what started as a 15 minute work-out in-between loading the dishwasher and browsing internet has now turned into a full one-hour (on workdays) to two-hour (weekends) dawn session. I actually get up at 6 am every day so that I can do yoga before the day begins. It is an unbelievable experience, an incredible gift to myself, this serious commitment, this focus on what I know is good for me.
Partially, it’s having put it down in writing here. Openly acknowledging fear is the only way to make it melt. Things that live in the dark don’t like the light. So thank you again for your help in voicing it all.
Partially, it is simply reaching the second trimester. Yesterday, I found this quote in my beautiful new book:
“The fist hundred and twenty days are given to us as a time to strenghthen the foundations of our lives, in order for us to be prepared for the seismic shift which comes with having a child... each birth gives you a new opportunity to penetrate your understanding even more deeply and grow in your love and wisdom.”
Wish I could have read this two months ago. It would have helped a lot. Not with getting out of it sooner, but with accepting it more.
Whatever it was, it made now possible. I have never felt stronger, I have never felt more centred, more focused, more sure of my power to conquer whatever comes my way. I have never been happier. I have never been less afraid. I have never been so free. I have never been so ready to welcome a child into my life. I have never felt so blissful. Or so blessed.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Another thrifting miracle
Thick silk cotton mix, beautiful beautiful beautiful... 1 euro for 2 yards!!!!!! And, of course, not to forget, a beaded reggae belt for my little gipsy queen...
Beautiful Use
I participated in the Beautiful Use Swap, and this week the most amazing goodies arrived from Reva. They are over at Flickr, but I couldn't resist showing off here too. First there was something for the doll-house, and the future inhabitants are already fighting over it, which one can hardly blame them for...
Then there was something for Isabelle. After only a brief spell of wondering how to wear it, she figured it all out and Alice Alice has never slept better.
Finally, the best part, there was something for me, including four of these beauties
and the most yummy chocolate bar ever, dark and Belgian, and with bits of real raspberry, and 10% of the proceeds going towards helping endangered species, so it's real clear conscience chocolate too...
Thank you Reva!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
