Promise to myself

So looking forward

To six weeks of travelling
I will move slowly.

Photo by Sergio Sala on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

The end of a short, but lovely vacation

One more night to sleep...
Before I go back to work.
Sunset in blue skies.

Trying to talk about my privilege (4/4)

 How would I describe myself?

"well-tattered resilient kindred spirit"

Taking count...

The only grace I ever felt was dancing on my pointe shoes a pas de deux with Phillipe Tallard over half a century ago in Cannes, France. That was magic. Now there are some infinitely small breaths of stretching during my yoga that sing. The rest of my day-to-day movements tatter and tear at my body in many new ways.

What counts though is what is inside, right? There, there are occasional moments of grandness.

It is the kindredness of friends, the bond with my siblings, the kindness of my Giui, the generousness of Sara's heart, and the patience of Julien's being that make this life precious.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

Trying to talk about my privilege (3/4)

How would I describe myself?

"gentle gracious elder"

To myself...

To all those years of prickliness... 

Deep cuts in my heart caused by

Caustic words spoken unmeaningly

By distant family and quasi-friends...

Or, in tabloid newspapers headlines,

Read by colleagues in our break room,

Such nastiness washing down the

Last of their breakfast sandwiches...

Or, the slaps of profanity of strangers, 

Yelling and minding my business

When it was not theirs to comment upon...

I was often hurt, certainly angry,

Sometimes I still even rant, but

Mostly, because of you, my dear

Family and friends, I survived and 

Still feel endless gratitude for the

Coming of every dawn.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

Trying to talk about my privilege (2/4)

How would I describe myself?

"old foreign woman"

OLD: Old comes with wisdom, of sorts.

For some my being old is irritating

They tend to condescend and become rude

My voice is reedy, transparent, and 

Passes through their minds unnoticed.

FOREIGN: Foreign can pique interest, open

Doors for conversations and confessions

Allowing unusual perspectives to explore

The mundane day-to-day going-on of their lives.

Yet, always, always, there are those moments

Of the acute hurtful realisation that I do not belong.   

WOMAN: So deeply what I am and yet, 

Days go by without my thinking at all about this

This is paradoxical because so much of what

I do, think, how I speak, who I love, finds its

Being through my womanhood. Also, so much

Of social dis-ease, psychological disorder, even

Many personal interactions are burdened by this.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

Trying to talk about my privilege (1/4)

How would I describe myself?

"curious, open-minded geek"

The words I use can be seen through the lens of privilege. Starting with "curious, open-minded geek"; I became so through the privilege of education. I attended good primary and secondary schools. 

I was able to go to a co-op university, where I could earn enough during work terms to pay for tuition, room and board during our study semesters. I did not have to take out student loans. 

Generally, during this time in the 1970s, the tuitions in Canadian universities were not exorbitant. I recently came across a document from that time where it stated the tuition for one semester was around 700 dollars. Still, because of my middle-class upbringing, I could go to university without financial worry.  

My family environment also played a big role. My father and grandfather were very hands-on engineers, and they instilled in me a love of technology. My mother, though a technophobe, was a veracious reader, and she fed my love of books and helped me always to explore other worlds.

Lastly, I have spent all my adult life having access to various technology from the moment they were invented. I could not always afford the technology, but I found ways to use open-source technology and buy more generic devices that were not high-brand.

Is there any way to describe oneself that does not leave some aspect of privilege aside?

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)   

Same place, different worlds (trip to the beach outside of Copenhagen)

Nude bodies sunbathing
Fleece jacket and windbreaker

Are my loyal friends.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

I am off on a trip again!

Garbage truck roars by
Brumming noises in my brain
I pack for my trip.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

In the middle of a drought

Prayer: rain please come
The leaves hang and are shrivelled

Grey skies this morning.

Mussolini Moment

L: How was the visit to your parents-in-law?
D: Tiring... Discouraging... Sad.
L: Was it seeing the state of their home? Is it still so messy?
D: Still messy, but that isn't it. They used to be so optimistic and it was always a comfort to talk to them. No matter how dire, they would always say, "It could be worse." or "This will pass." Now they are blaming the Turks and the refugees for everything. 
L: That must be hard to hear.
D: How could the two of them become so bitter with age? It scares me. My father-in-law now says, "If only Mussolini was in power" whenever he listens to the news!
(L. breaks out in laughter.)
L: Let's make a pact. If either of us catches the other saying such comments in the future, we have to promise to say, "Hey, dear friend, I think you are having a Mussolini Moment."
D: Done!

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Happy 65th!

Street cleaning machine rolls
Passing my bedroom window
Silent prayer escapes.

Photo by Anshu A on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

First time on a plane

Off to visit Nerida in Munich, who has come from New Zealand.

First time on a plane
In the last years of covid
Joyful excitement.

Photo by Matthias Schröder on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

Exit coaching

(first draft of my exit coaching strategy)

I am retiring next year. I still have a year to explore what this means. A year to transition from my 40-year work career into ... what-might-come... or, ideally, into another career as... an artist, writer, blogger, explorer... the horizon is magnificent.  

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.) 

A joyous Sunday

Our daughter comes home
A pit stop to reconnect
My heart goes thump thump.

What covid taught me

No smells and no taste
Makes it easy to diet
But robs me of joy.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

The last week of school

School children running
Though summer is here, they wait
Dreaming of time off.

A rant (again)

To my nieces and news back in Canada, I am their German aunt. Even my dear friend, Ann, who I went to high school with, once introduced me as her "German friend" when we bumped into her neighbour. In some weird way, this almost makes sense... this is where I have lived my whole adult life.

My family, friends, and colleagues in Germany always staple on the prefix "Canadian" when explaining who I am, as in my "Canadian friend" or my "Canadian colleague". When I call them out on this, they respond defensively. "I don't mean anything by this. It's just who you are. It's sort of a badge of merit." They try to coax me into thinking it is something positive.

I persist. "Can't I just be your friend? Or just your colleague? Don't you see it might be irritating, wrong, not nice to have to carry this label?" For f*cks sake, I have been living in Germany for 40 years now!

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)  

Thank you note to me L&D team

My favourite team
Laughs and cries throughout the day
Brilliant women. 

Business trip

My first business trip
Since pre-pandemic, hurrah
I'm so excited.

Photo by Jacob Buchhave on Unsplash

A visit from Limo and Wian

Night time comes slowly
Afternoon at the playground
My dear family.

Outside my window

Raindrops on tree buds
Young green leaves anxious to come
I gaze out in wonder.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

Time spent in Wennigsen monastery

My window open
Steam rises from my teacup
You knock at my door.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Business trip

I'm packing up my suitcase. The hotel room, a temporary home, slowly loses its charm. When I arrive in a new place, I put my clothes in the offered cupboards and place my toiletries over the bathroom sink. I do this partly because I want to claim the place as my own. Also, partly for those who clean the room daily, to show them I respect of their space.

Now, I open my empty suitcase on the bed, put on some music, and wander from cupboard to drawer to bathroom, gathering all my belongings. 

I roll each piece of clothing into a tight roll, as I was taught decades ago by an army friend. Then stack them in layers throughout the suitcase. Shoes and slippers are stuffed with socks. Toiletries snuggled between the underwear. First, press out all the air in the shampoo bottle before snapping the lid shut. 

Before I go, I do one more tour of the room. The feeling of welcome, the hint of adventure, dissipates. Leaving behind an ordinariness that borders on tackiness. I write on a sheet of the hotel's notepad, "Thank you" and leave a tip for the person who will clean this sad room and restore it back to its proper state for the next guest and stranger.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Such a sense of relief

Performance review

Discussion about everything

Leaving with light steps

Photo by Wout Vanacker on Unsplash

Walking along the Wakennitz

The end of winter

A dash of yellow brightness

Still holding my breath

Photo by Niklas Ohlrogge on Unsplash

All's well

This is a short post to say, we are all well. I will be back writing soon. The last weeks have been fraught with worry, which is the reason I have not been writing. 

Covid numbers continue to escalate to never-before levels. It is hard to know how to stay safe. I know people who have been boostered, vaccinated, and still have come down sick twice. All this makes me wonder...

At the company I work for, they are trying to make sure that children and families of our Ukrainian colleagues find safe routes for leaving the country. They are helping them set up homes here. It is inspiring to see how willing everyone is to offer help on this scale. 

When the days are as long as the night

Sunshine and daytime

Finally noticeable

Springtime at my door.

Photo by Rayia Soderberg on Unsplash

News channel on all day

My words are not right
Much strife and constant worry
Are my prayers enough?

Nestled down at home bravely

A storm blasts away
Strong winds and human folly
Ramen soup for lunch.

Photo by Valentin Müller on Unsplash

Suburban mom

She is a suburban mom. The boys. Rambunctious devils. Continuously making noise that echoes off the walls of the house. Pounding up and down stairs. Slamming of doors. Ripping the refrigerator door off its hinges. She has no time to think about all the chores that have to be done.

Her days are defined by two bookends of mayhem. The first is getting her three boys off to school and her husband off to work. Starting each day with a litany of instructions. "Don't forget your gym suits." "Your sneakers are in the basement." "Put away the milk." "I'll pick you up at five after your practice."  

The second is that one turbulent hour at dinner before they disappear into the den or up to their rooms. In between are those rare hours of "putting life back into order" before she heads off and chauffeurs the boys to one school activity after another.

Then comes an afternoon when she is bringing her youngest son to his friend's birthday party. The son of her best friend. One of her dearest friends, who she had known since university. When she gets out of the car, her son looks at her aghast. "What's wrong, mom?", he asks, "Why are you getting out?" She looks at him, puzzled, "Because Susan asked me to join." He continues to stare, then gives her a sheepish look, obviously embarrassed that his chauffeur will join the party.

Alarms go off in her head.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)   

Slow start to my work day

A grey grey Monday
Early morning wake-up sounds
Drip, drip, flush, brume, swoosh.

My inner compass

She left her life in Germany out of disillusionment and a deep yearning for adventure. The five years she spent living in Erlangen, the world of Siemens and Siemens Indians, taught her a major lesson... there was no way she would ever fit in. This would never be home.

So, when an offer came to do an ocean-crossing in a sailing boat, she jumped at the opportunity. She wanted to sail away as far as possible from the drab life she was living. The endless rules and regulations she could not comprehend.

She yearned to take off and see what the world brought her way. Footloose and fancy free. Maybe she wouldn't stop in Grenada. Maybe she would go to the Galapagos Islands. Or far far away to the Great Barrier Reef. Who knew. Nothing was holding her back. She'd quit her job. Given up her apartment. Her lover. Her illusions of Life in Europe.

What she didn't count on was the far-reaching tenacity of her friends. The one friend helping her extend her German residence visa, as she was in Scotland, in what could not possibly be a legal thing to do. Or the other friend showing up with her husband and four-week-old daughter to spend some precious weeks with her in Peurto Mogan in Grand Canary. Or the other friend who visited her on the Venezuelan coast and shared the experience of seeing a rainbow one full moon night.

All the adventure. All the travels. All the aspirations to continue on. What she hadn't realised was how the magnet of friendships was pulling her back to Germany. A place she called home for the rest of her life.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)   

Childhood locket

 

These old keys unlock

A treasure of emotions

My heart beats awake.

Photo by Jason D on Unsplash

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Turning on the computer in the morning

My dreams sneak away
Music playing in my bones
Now I start to work.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

After a long hard day at work

Brain power is gone
All that I can do is sit
Thoughts spill out slowly.

Photo by Ilja Nedilko on Unsplash 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Looking out the window

The bronze Buddha head
Standing still by the window
Winter leaves gone brown.

Simple daily act of kindness

Nurturing my soul
Counting my tender mercies
Heart open, mind bright. 

Theme Year: Freedom (a reflection on inner biases)

Last year, I did a theme year on the topic of Freedom. Together with three other women, we explored our individual themes, all the while giving each other support. I must say that this experiment very much resonated with me.

I started by looking at how my inner prejudices and biases limit my freedom of thought. There are quite a few of them to work on. Yet, for the sake of this blog post let's look at just one. As you might know, I am a feminist. In my heart lives an aspiring radical feminist, but outwardly, especially in my work world, I am a diminished feminist. 

Forty years working in various misogynistic predominately-male work fields has wore me down. So, one of the mechanisms for dealing with this was to develop a silent "old white guy"  not-worth-the-effort response. When faced with blatant misogyny, this thought would come into my mind. No sense in addressing the statement. No sense in holding a mirror to the person who holds sexist or "frauenfeindlich" beliefs. He is just another old white guy who has no idea what a jerk he is.

What I do now, which is freeing, is I stopped swatting away the old white guy thoughts. Instead, I concentrate on how often I think this and question how much this biased thought limits my ability to react or respond accordingly. Not that I confront each and every statement or feel a need to hold the person accountable. Rather, to look at the person and acknowledge how their words puzzle/hurt/confuse/estranged/anger me. 

So, essentially, I start with myself by acknowledging my bias and end with myself when I speak up, even quietly, and say I am not comfortable with their statement. This strategy might not seem radical. Yet, it has helped me stop saying in my mind, "old white guy" and start saying out loud, "be careful in the words you speak in my company".

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)        

What we knew, but didn't know

The dress-up box was an old discarded ocean liner trunk our mother had re-purposed after years of travelling between Venezuela and Quebec. The trunk was covered with stickers from ports all over the Caribbean, South and North America. Its travels ended in a basement corner in our house on the West Island, a suburb of Montreal.

The trunk's insides were bursting with long discarded formal wear. There were old dresses our grandmothers had worn to Easter masses. Cocktail dresses our mother no longer fit in after bearing four children and hosting a decade of business dinners for our father and his visiting customers. 

We three girls loved to play dress up. We would create Tolstoy-like sagas of sordid suburban hues. We would act out scenes of unhappy marriages, unwanted pregnancies, and saucy women sitting on men's laps. We'd giggle and laugh and blush with the forbiddingness of out imaginations. We were wise. We were wicked. And, mostly, we were complete innocents.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)   

Acquired taste

A secret pleasure of mine is watching Hot Ones. The show is a slow burn... the conversation is fun to listen to. The concept grows on you. I will only recommend a few: Zoë Kravitz, CL, Trevor Noah, and Anthony Mackie. 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Morning musing

Schubert sonata
Winter morning made joyful
When you, my friend, call.

Photo by Shaun Holloway on Unsplash

Faded memories

 

In my grandmother's generation
The summer sun shined upon 
The relentless, quiet occupation
Of women throughout the day.
The rays bleached the laundry
Hung out on washing days to dry.
At noon, it warmed the back 
Of their necks and massaged 
The kinks out of their resolve.
And so, they stopped and wiped 
The sweat off their brows, and
Wondered if they might slip away
And have a cup of tea and a biscuit. 

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

The beauty of poetry

The Poetry Archive is one of my favourite sites over the last 10-15 years. There is something about listening to poets speak their poems that acts as a balm to my soul. I remember succinctly who convinced me of the chemistry of voice and written word. It was Jackie Kay. I have listened to her speaking her poems numerous times. My Country is a friend of mine.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)

Let them not say*

It is such an incidental slippery assumption, “you must have been a good mother” after someone meets one of my adult children. What nonsense. One of the wonders of age is realizing how good parenting does not necessarily equate with children growing into responsible kind adults. It is so much more complicated or nuanced a process than that.

No one is a Good Mother all the time. Given, there are some mothers who might be consider Terrible Mother most of the time. Instead, we mothers slide back and forth on the scale all the while. A day spent on the good end of the scale is considered a victory.
 
What I hope is that my children can remember me as being engaged and excited to have them in my life. It has been so from the moment they were born and continues to this very day. There is not one moment that I have not loved them deeply. There have been many moments though that I fell far short of being a Good Mother. For this I will continue to ask for forgiveness. For this I will try to live a life of a good actions, kind words, and humble aspirations.

 
This post was inspired by Jane Hirshfield’s poem, Let Them Not Say.

(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)