I am... a collector of stories

Some people can remember names or faces. I can do neither. I even switch people's names of those I hold dear (sorry, Daniel... err... Julien). There is no excuse or explanation to brush this inadequacy aside. Still, there is one thing that I'm good at and this is collecting and remembering stories.

I'm sitting at a community table in a lovely café. The two women sitting next to me seem to have only met by chance. Even though they don't know each other well, they enter into an intensely deep conversation after the first 15 minutes.

There is very little chance I will see either woman again, but if I do, I will definitely remember how the one fell in love with her partner (she just met his parents!") and how the other had a terrible father and has always been disappointed by her lovers, so is only focusing on being a good mother. By the end of the conversation the two women get up and hug before going their separate ways. An afternoon well spent.

Of course, most of the stories I collect are not found by listening into private conversations (I swear they were talking loud enough it was impossible not to overhear). I particularly like stories told by relative strangers (e.g. taxi drivers, storekeepers, or museum security guards) or those strangers who become briefly instant friends because of certain circumstances (e.g. long-haul airplane trip or in a crowded doctor's waiting room.) But, like drinking instant coffee, such encounters can leave a bitter after taste once you say goodbye. You have to make sure to wrap up such conversations with consideration and thankfulness. If not, it can be really awkward. 

Then there are the stories told over and over again when friends and family meet. You have to be careful of not repeating them too often. Especially, as one gets older, this is such an embarrassing thing to do. You might catch some people in the room roll their eyes. How mortifying.

It's those stories told in secret that sometimes tear my heart apart. I have yet to find a method to remove the burden of these stories from my soul. I'd love to be able to set them free.

Stories, whether gifts of reminiscing or burden of confessions, are always precious. I try and hold on to the dearly.

#booksIlove: The Classic Fairy Tales

Title: The Classic Fairy Tales, but Iona and Peter Opie
When I read it first: Christmas of 1974

In my teens and early 20s, I became quite obsessed with fairy tales and folk stories. Pat gave me this book for Christmas, and I remember gulping it down so quickly I could barely come up for breaths.   

#booksIlove: Zen Mind, Beginners Mind and Everyday Zen(Love & Work)

Title: Zen Mind, Begginers Mind, by Shunryu Suzuki

When I read it for the first time: late 70s or early 80s and many times afterwards
Title: Everyday Zen (Love & Work), by Charlotte Joko Beck
When I read it for the first time: 1989

I followed Zen Buddhist practices for a decade in my 20s. I went on regular retreats and practiced daily. These two books were lifelines to hold onto during this spiritual journey. Admittedly, holding on to their words was not very Zen, but they comforted me.

Scary man wearing "Gorilla Biker" t-shirt

He empties his nose
On sidewalk while walking dog
Quickly close my eyes.

I am... a dancer

I love to dance. My parents loved to dance, and my (adult) children love to dance. Even though I do not dance around the apartment like I used to, I wonder if old age might be best experienced through dance. Perhaps I should occasionally allow myself the freedom of abandonment through motion.

Nerida and I were reminiscing early this morning about the years we were ballet dancers. There have been years when I do not look back at those times. It is as if it was another life.
Another reincarnation.

I have been talking about that time in my life with friends. It is hard to imagine how much dedication and discipline it took to become a professional dancer. Certainly, watching athletes perform during last month's Paris Olympics, triggered memories. 

The hardest thing to grasp is doing something with such
passion during my late childhood, throughout all my teen years, and then stopping suddenly in my early twenties, at my peak, as it were. 

I know why I chose to quit, which I won't go into here, but part of me regrets not continuing to dance for another few years. Had I done that, I probably would not have gone into engineering, and where would I be today without that?

So, back to the conversation with Nerida. She mentioned how good I was and how when we finished the bar exercises and came into the center exercises, I would smile and shine with such joy. I'd forgotten that feeling and was teary at the reminder of what drove my passion—why dance was/is what I love best.

(P.S. Julien, Nicola (a friend from Thailand), and I went to see an Ezra Collective concert in Hamburg. Definitely a highlight of this year.) 

#booksIlove: Turn

Title: Turn (the journal of an artist), by Anne Truitt
When I read it first: when it was first published 1986

One of Pat's great gifts was "discovering" writers whose lives were as fascinating as their writing. Anne Truitt was one of those discoveries. She was a sculpturer who wrote beautiful journals.

Browsing through the book this morning made me wonder whether I was the only person Pat knew to who she could send the book. I shared her obsession with such relatively obscure writers or artists. Truitt's meanderings or reflections drew me into her world and left me with wonder.

To my dear friend in need

In the cathedral 
Or a long walk in nature 
My thoughts are with you.

In the midst of my garden

A butterfly bush
With royal purple blossoms 
Nectar of the gods.

#booksIlove: Good on the Rocks

Title: God on the Rocks, by Jane Gardam
When I read it: early mid 80s

Jane Gardam was a prolific writer. At 96, she still seems to be alive. She wrote until her mid-80s. Good for her!

Pat loved all of her work. She was an Anglophile, and writers such as Gardam were the clotted cream to her scones.

Construction starts next week

Muffled world outside
Netting in front of windows
Inside a cocoon. 

#booksIlove: A Country Year

Title: A Country Year (Living the Questions), by Sue Hubbell
When I read it: early mid 80s and a few times more

It is hard to describe this book because it threads various storylines throughout, but they are hidden and quietly, slowly explored. The framework is life on a small farm in the Ozarks, Missouri. Sue Hubbell brilliantly explores the changing seasons and her existence over a year.

The book is auspiciously a nature book, but what I found more fascinating is how she manages to share her journey of discovery with the reader. Her marriage of 30 years has broken up, and she has to decide whether she will continue to live on the farm that was a shared existence. She explores whether she can claim or build a new life rather than daily grieve a life that no longer exists. 

Pinching myself to see if it is true

Since retirement
Always check my calendar
Lots of emptiness.

Rushing to the train station

Stumbling along 
I have a broken suitcase
Story of my life.

#booksIlove: An Interrupted Life

Title: An Interrupted Life (The Diaries Of Etty Hillesum 1941-43), by Etty Hillesum

When I first read it: in the mid 80s and in stops and starts throughout my 20s and 30s

Hillesum's diaries witness her journey on a spiritual path interwoven with the treads of social turmoil and terror of the Nazi invasion and occupation of the Netherlands during WWII.

This book, as well as Oliver Messiaen's Quartet For The End Of Time, gave me a sliver of understanding of how humans can survive such atrocities.

I am... a mentor

In forty years of working as a trainer and (agile) coach in various German companies, I have often been asked whether I would be willing to be a mentor. Usually, I was the only woman and foreigner in my department, so it is not surprising that those who asked for mentorship were often women and/or foreigners. Strictly speaking, my mentorship did not focus on opening new doors for the mentees, but acting as a sounding board.

Women and foreigners generally lack what Germans call Vitamin B. 'B' stands for Beziehung, or personal relationships or a strong network of people who are willing to help advance your career. It is almost impossible to break into the Old (White) Boys' networka that rule in most German organizations or corporations. I've only known a handful of women, two or three foreign men, and three foreign women (Shoutout to Charlotte, Dagmara, and Marine, whose tenacity in this high-stakes game has been nothing short of inspirational) who have managed to pursue a successful and dynamic career within German companies.

So, when I say I am a mentor, it is a matter of helping them get an invitation to an interview, negotiating better contracts or salaries, or coming up with strategies for moving up one or two steps on the executive ladder. Once or twice in recent years, I have delighted in helping a mentee realign their career paths. It is exciting to accompany someone transitioning from one industry or field to another.

What I like about being a mentor is seeing a mentee become serious and intentional about their careers. It is a process of supporting them while they make their dreams come true. Even having a dream is a rare thing for those whose otherness have been stripped of ambitions. Each success story is a testament to the quiet power of resilience and a reminder that even in the most rigid systems, change isn't just possible—it's inevitable.

A lesson in how nature works

Out of my window
Baby pigeon stands all day
It's waiting to fly.

#booksIlove: Four Quartets

Title: Four Quartets by T.S. Elliot
When did I first read it: incessantly during the late 70s and beginning of the 80s 

This book (four poems) transformed my life much like The Book of Ebenezer Le Page did. It made me believe that the world I lived in was larger than what I had been told it was. I read the poems over and over again, and I even bought the audiobook of Elliot reading them.

His voice was mesmerizing, both deeply present and deeply detached. I would not have understood his work without listening to the cadence of his words.

When I now read excerpts of his work 45 years later, the voice inside my head and the drum of my heart finds a dear friend with every turn of the page.

A good week of good news

Tano got a job
Kay won, at last, her court case
Now I celebrate. 

#booksIlove: The Book of Ebenezer Le Page

Title: The Book of Ebenezer Le Page, G.B. Edwards
When I first read it: when it came out in 1981 and a thousand times since

This in another book that Pat gifted me that in some microscopic way transformed my life and they way I thought of life. It is a brilliant story told by someone who was a master observer and storyteller. 

The fact the book was published posthumously is tragic as it is beautiful. Gerald Basil Edwards never received the acknowledgment he deserved. 

Chewing gum

Many years ago, I went to pick up Julien at the kindergarten. He said he was really hungry, so I gave him two pieces of gum to chew. (I do not remember if it was the first time I gave him gum.) I was hoping the gum would keep him quiet until we got home.

And it worked! He didn't make one peep the whole way home. When I went to take him out of the children's bicycle seat, I flew him around in a circle before putting him on the ground. Instead of looking happy, he looked distraught.

When I asked him what was wrong, he cried out. The gum was now stuck together. All the way home, he had chewed one of the pieces of gum on the left and the other on the right. He didn't know they were meant to chew together. No wonder he wasn't able to talk to me.

I gave him a big hug and brought him upstairs for a snack.