enjoying today

the mist, my wee ones, the fun filters on picasa, my mum's visit, an amazing new blog, soup and bread, just being, the mist,

and this.

kitchen art

his prettiest feathers

good care

i've been thinking lately of what it means to take good care of myself. what kind of care do i need? and how can i best provide it?

walking on the beach today i began a list (non-exhaustive as yet, but definitely a good beginning) of what good care means, (aside from the three obvious basics (a roof over my head, enough money to buy food, and not being in constant mortal danger)):

- enough sleep
- fresh air (forest or ocean)
- movement (as in my body moving) (preferably in the fresh air)
- solitude
- the company of people i love
- physical contact with people i love
- inspiring words and images
- fresh water
- fresh food that nourishes and energizes my body
- self-expression (writing, talking, painting, drawing, knitting, making music, etc) (but also crying when sad, shouting when angry, laughing when glad)
- silence
- music

just reading the list makes me feel good. but how much better i feel on days when i spend most of my time engaging in one of these...

secret agents in the woods

in search of a new language

november is a month for practicing. 'exercise', it's called on my Nikki McClure calendar. and here is what i have come up with for this year.

for the next 30 days, i want to practice clearing my communication with others. there is nothing like a divorce to make a person realize the importance of limpid communication. the rules are simple:

- be impeccable with your word
- hide nothing
- take nothing personally

the first means telling no falsehoods. which automatically implies no bad-mouthing. of other people, of myself, of the weather, of the authorities, etc. it also means that 'i hate you' would automatically come out as 'i am having trouble feeling how much i love you right now'.

the second means trying to communicate as much as possible of what goes on in my inner world. instead of being silent about the painful shameful bits, bringing them into contact every time i can master the courage.

the third means reminding myself time and again that whatever other people say, they are always saying something about themselves, never about me. even if sometimes it sounds as if it really really is about me (funnily, i tend to interpret everything people say as if it was about me, even if it doesn't sound that way at all. witness the following ubiquitous exchange: "I feel so down" "What did I do wrong?").

deceptively simple. 30 days. long enough for a small miracle to unfold.

halloween

or what happens when zorro and the devil hit the town...

on eating dessert first

growing up (a process in no way complete...) i learnt that food and pleasure are a reward. for work, for pain, for the unavoidable unplesantness. eat your cabbagey thing first, then you'll get cake. clean up your room, then you can read your book. as i grew, the tasks changed, but the principle didn't. waking up early and tired on what i know will be a busy day filled with work appointments and administrative circus, my first reflex is still to brace myself, to mentally map my day around all those 'shoulds', and somewhere on the far horizon, hopefully, hopefully before the sun sets, to leave a small patch of peace. maybe i can have a walk then, a cup of tea, do some yoga.

but experience is a wise teacher. i know that that small patch of peace is a mirage. it will disappear before i get there. i know that being tired and cranky while doing a whole bunch of 'shoulds' will just leave me more tired and cranky. i also know that it's not the tired and the cranky that is the issue here, nor is it the fact that there are clouds of 'shoulds' hanging over my day.

would you venture on a difficult hike on an empty stomach and with no provisions? probably not. because that's pretty much what it boils down to. i need to eat first. then i can work. and being tired and cranky means my soul needs food, as does my body. can i really afford to postpone nourishing myself until i am 'done'? will this improve the quality of my life, or my work? nope. i can say this with great certainty. it won't. because it never ever did.

so these days, i try (and sometimes even manage) to practice the other way. yes, there are lots of things i need to do today. but i am going to start right here, in this space that i love. with a cup of tea. and a blogpost. i will have a tasty breakfast. do some yoga. walk on the beach. (maybe even) do some writing. i will take my time. i will meet my breath. whatever it is that makes my tired cranky face break up into a smile. and then, when i am filled with the sense of the abundance, the goodness, the spaciousness of my own life, i will get down to work. (experience is whispering that i just might enjoy that too...).

and yes, i know that some of my 'shoulds' are likely not to make it, they will probably fall off the edge, and crash on the horizon of this day. but i won't be missing them. not today.

unkept garden

even though we didn't go often enough, and we didn't grow enough, and we didn't weed enough, and we didn't harvest enough, we really enjoyed renting this tiny bit of dark earth in the middle of the green. another year, another chance... to do it right (oops, i mean, to enjoy it all over again)

short list

of things that made me cry this week: a bunch of insanely daring dahlias, the sight of my unborn baby's unsuccesful attempt to suck her thumb, hearing myself say outloud that i am worth it, this song, this song, this documentary.

oh, and then there is what made me smile: all of the above. and this.

de zee

de zee (judith herzberg)

de zee kun je horen
met je handen voor je oren,
in een kokkel,
in een mosterdpotje,
of aan de zee.


(uit Beemdgras 1968)

lie-in

the wind is howling, the rain beating on the pane. i'm lying in bed, wondering what to do with today. maybe a bit of yoga, maybe a walk in the rain, maybe some knitting in the writer's café, maybe a solo visit to the hammam, maybe hanging out with my girl, maybe some work, maybe wash my hair, maybe browse in the library, maybe read a pretty magazine, maybe... maybe just lie here a bit longer, maybe dream a little...

did you see this? and these? and this?

some days

are more orange than others

october

every year i forget how much there is to love in october: the colours, the smell, the sudden gusts of wind, the leaves, the fruit. the whole wild, intemperate dance in the face of decay and death. october is a celebration. of what has been and what is yet to come.

(no, it's november that stretches the spirit, december that sends it under, january in which i attempt deep-sea diving en apnée and february which nearly drowns me, every year)

rags

if my prayers are blown to rags by the wind does that mean they will be heard?

birds

sometimes on rainy grey days tropical birds come to roost on my kitchen counters and stainless steel water bottles grow feathers

1am

i was supposed to drink tea with my friend and neighbour. 9pm, as soon as the children sleep. everything was ready: an almost tidy kitchen, an easy knitting project, new loose-leaf tea and a freshly baked apple pie (we went apple-picking, we went apple-picking, we went apple-picking today) (to be sung at the top of your lungs).

she must have given up by now, the friend and neighbour. and gone to bed. and maybe even forgiven me (she knows it's dicey business, putting the children to bed).

and here i am, 1am. re-reading my blog. starting from all the way in 2007, and working my way slowly through the weeks, the months, the years. crying and laughing, catching a glimpse of a different self. where did she go, that funny, honest, raw, sensitive, beautiful woman? did i lose her along the way? i hope not, hope not, hope not.

looking for something else, too, in between the lines, the photographs. looking for what happened. the how, the why, the wherefore. there must have been signs, leading from there to here. warnings. whisperings.

i could not find any. no explanations. only an unfolding.

between september 2007 (new baby in the house, happily married people, joyful children, creativity and love gallore) and september 2011 (new baby in the belly, scared divorcing lonely people, sad lost children, grief, anger, excitement, and shame): what happened? what happened?

in september 2007 i knew so much. i know so little today. tomorrow, i will know less. but i know who i love. and i know how to hold grief (mine and yours). gently. i know where to put my foot down, for the next step. and if i don't know yet, i might know once i lift it.

maybe that's all you ever need to know. Sam's uncle Jim said: "When driving in the dark, you don't need to see further than your headlights see."

maybe. maybe. maybe.

her carriage

the crocodile he made himself

note the moving head and the little band-aid where a nail was inconveniently sticking out ("het maakt niet uit, mama, ik doe er gewoon een pleistel op")

her new pen