Tricks of the Trade: travelling

I travelled often and far with Julien and Sara. From babyhood onwards, they were my travel companions. To this day, even though I very much enjoy travelling alone or with friends, they remain my favourite people to go on any journey with.

When they were tiny, I was obviously the pack mule, carrying everything we needed along the way. Once they were sturdy on their feet, they each carried a small backpack filled with food, books, colouring books and crayons, a few tiny cars or wooden figures. There was the occasional travel game or puzzle book, but generally, they chose on their own which books or toys they wanted to bring on the trip.

Every journey was divided into time slots for playing, reading, sleeping, eating and going to the bathroom. It didn't matter whether we were visiting friends in Kiel, a mere two-hour journey, or my parents in Grenada, a twenty-six-hour journey door-to-door. The rhythm of travelling was always the same. My job was not to keep them occupied, but to help them choose what best fitted the moment.

Was it staring out of the train window, watching the landscape rush by? Going to the toilet on the plane and trying out all the soaps and lotions? Or setting up a picnic on the fold-down table? It didn't really matter what they were doing. I just had to make each activity last until there wasn't a drop of enjoyment left before moving on to the next.

Going to the bathroom could be a lengthy affair. Wiping down surfaces with wipes, washing hands, trying out every type of hand dryer and leaving the sinks clean. Even though I personally have an aversion to public toilets, they seemed to be a constant source of entertainment for my children.

Unlike many Germans, who pack a mean hamper of salami sandwiches, noodle salads, stuffed olives and homemade cakes, I filled the children's backpacks with special treats they normally didn't get to eat. There was a token Ziploc bag of carrot sticks and apple slices, thrown in amongst the animal cookies, gummi bears and TUC crackers.

If we were on a long train ride, we would go to the restaurant carriage and have a meal there, regardless of the exorbitant prices. The children's meals on planes were often more toys than food, but they were a highlight of any flight. I guess I wanted to make the ritual of eating while travelling an adventure in itself, so I didn't pay too much attention to the nutritional value of what they were eating.

Those in-between times of endless waiting were filled with counting games. They had to walk through the plane and count how many other children were on board. Then there was counting the number of tunnels the train went through on its way from Erlangen to Lübeck. Eventually, they would get bored of these games and either fall asleep or read a book, which was the whole purpose of the exercise.

The trick to travelling with children is to stop seeing the journey through adult eyes and start seeing it through theirs. Don't see the journey from an adult's perspective, with its endless delays, unfriendly service and countless discomforts of cramped spaces. Instead, share their curiosity and hunger to experience something new.

Set up safeguards for them to follow so they are safe, and rituals that help them pass the time in play. Most importantly, see the journey as something magical, not something to be endured until you arrive at your final destination.

Perhaps that's why, all these years later, Julien and Sara are still my favourite travelling companions. We learnt early on to enjoy the journey together.

Tricks of the trade: music

Our family life was filled with music. Mainly, this was because Giuseppe played guitar and sang every day. We listened to a lot of music as well, but having someone actually making music was something special. It was a kind of music education that happened without anyone thinking about it. Giui played everything from classical to pop, from our parents’ generation to songs that were popular when the children were young. His taste in music knew no bounds.

I put Julien into an “early children’s music” class when he was about four or five years old, but I thought it was all a bit of nonsense. Too much hammering on the xylophone and not enough melody or rhythm. Mainly, though, I stopped taking Julien because the music teacher was too sanctimonious for my taste.

Both Sara and Julien took keyboard lessons. These were group lessons, and they played in their respective groups for nearly ten years. They became good at playing, but it was never about proficiency. For that, they did not practise enough. It was more about the ritual of meeting and playing music with others. Sara learnt to play the alto sax and played in the school’s big band. She also took singing lessons for a while and taught herself to play the ukulele.

Neither of them plays now, though they would both like to do so again.

Part of me wonders whether we should have been more diligent in making them practise. They were good enough to learn new pieces on their own, but not good enough not to forget how to play once they went off to university. I never pushed them because all I really wanted was for them, like Giui, to make music.

A home with someone playing music in it was, to me, a home filled with warmth and love.

Tricks of the trade: doing chores

My mother used us children as a gaggle of dishwashers. This was a time when there were no dishwashers. One of us would wash while the other dried. If we were too short, we’d stand on a chair. We were also responsible for doing our own laundry by the time I was ten years old. My mother made us vacuum the stairs, living room, and den and sweep the kitchen and dining room floors every few days. We were sub-lieutenants at her command. Thankfully, we had a cleaning lady who came in once a week, so our contribution was more maintenance than anything else.

 
The result of this sort of upbringing is that I hate anything to do with housekeeping. I possess a high threshold for ignoring disorder. If it weren’t for Giuseppe and our cleaning lady, I don’t know what our apartment would look like. Yet, when it came to raising our children with the necessary housekeeping skills, we started early. I firmly believe that children should be given tasks that are both playful and difficult at the same time.
 
Washing the kitchen floor, washing and drying a sinkful of plastic containers and wooden spoons, sorting laundry into light and coloured loads, putting the clothes from the washing machine into the dryer... the list is long. These were chores my children did from a very young age. In the end, these activities sometimes created more work for me than they saved, but that was not the point of the exercise.
 
In a strange way, we were doing something together, though apart. I would prepare a meal while Julien and Sara washed the kitchen floor, which consisted of skating around on the wet floor in stocking feet with rags, spreading the water around. Was the floor clean after this? A little. Did I have to spend time afterwards sopping up the suds and water? Absolutely.
 
Yet, for that precious pocket of time, we were all doing chores. They weren’t just helping me; they were playing a role in making a happy home. Some of the chores I gave them were more occupational therapy than useful. Asking them to sort a load from the dryer and place each piece of clothing on the bed of the person it belonged to was also a way to tire them out as they ran back and forth between the pile of laundry and the various bedrooms.
 
These were activities they could do without my supervision. They were also things I could shower praise on. Not “You are so amazing!” but “The floor is so clean!” or “The laundry is nearly done!”
 
As for the chores most children typically had to do, like cleaning up their rooms, I never found a way to get them to do those without a battle. They never cleaned their rooms without a fuss. This was probably my fault because this was one of the chores where I reverted to the way my mother commanded us. I would boss my children into cleaning, and they would find all sorts of strategies to avoid doing it. In this way, they were endlessly resourceful.
 
Maybe other parents did better at getting their children to clean up. Or maybe no one talked about these power struggles because that would have required them to admit defeat.
 
Getting my children involved in chores from a very young age helped them become people who are easy to live with and who know what it means to do their fair share. Admittedly, they are not necessarily good housewives. On the scale between the Picky Housekeeper, who always wants everything in its right place, and the Lackadaisical Housekeeper, who finds it hard to create order, Julien and Sara probably rest somewhere in the middle.
 
So, yes, I guess involving them in doing chores at an early age was a success. Success was not producing children with immaculate homes; it was producing adults who understand that they have to do their share.

I'm a little teapot

I'm a little teapot
Short and stout...

Sara learnt how to dance to this song when she was three or four years old. She was as cute as a button, but she refused to perform this song when anyone else was around. Soooo annoying. 

Handling feedback

Recently, I was listening to a podcast with someone wise about technology as a guest. Unfortunately, I cannot for the life of me remember who it was, but they said something that has stuck with me: “Do not ask AI to do anything that requires a skill you are not willing to lose.”

This hit home because I have been wrestling unsuccessfully with my AI writing coach for the last few months. I have been using it to aggregate all the corrections and comments from my beta readers on my manuscript and present the information in easily digestible bites. What happened was ultimately a lesson in futility.

I started out with much optimism, hoping the AI agent could save me time by collecting all the information and dividing it into different categories we had agreed on. These were story/structure, character/people, clarity/continuity, and voice/language. The strategy was to work first at the book level, then chapter, paragraph, sentence, and finally copy edit.

Theoretically, this approach would help me separate the wheat from the chaff and not get caught up in the minutiae. I uploaded the beta readers’ documents and the language style guide I had made with the AI writing coach. At first glance, I was rather taken by the analysis the AI agent generated.

At the book level, the readers apparently had a lot of positive things to say. There were only a few suggestions for minor structural adjustments. Where the process unravelled was at the chapter and paragraph level.

The agent presented the information in a manner I found infuriating. On the surface, the way the AI presented it seemed a tad long-winded, but systematic. So I did my best to implement the areas needing improvement. Eventually, I had to abandon this method of handling the feedback.

I came to the conclusion that the AI agent was not capable of streamlining the feedback process. There was no method for it to go through all the corrections and comments and make decisions about their validity or appropriateness. Each piece of information required human attention. For my brain was well-skilled at making decisions about how to milk the goodness out of the comments or set them aside, depending on whether they could substantially improve the text.

Instead of going from broad to narrow, i.e. first structural, then slowly down to word level, I did it the other way around. I started with the quick fixes: anything that had to do with grammar, consistency, and voice. Next, I printed out comments that dealt with structure or areas of confusion. After doing these two sweeps with one reader’s feedback, I did the same with the next reader, and so on until I had worked through all six.

At this point, I printed out the manuscript and inserted the comments I still needed to consider. Before going through a chapter, I would read all the comments first and then put them to the side. I trusted that if they pointed to some weakness in the text, or some information I had failed to share, these points would come up while I was reading through the chapter.

It was like playing a piece on a musical instrument. I interpreted the annotations while I played, without halting.

This way of listening to the feedback of the beta readers required a lot of patience. For all that the positive comments were delicious to read, the critical comments sometimes acted as barbs. Those that pointed to weaknesses were sometimes the hardest to deal with. They showed me that the book still has a long way to go. Imagine a tailor’s atelier with bits and pieces of material laid out with pins, chalk marks, and borders loosely threaded, all waiting to be assembled into the final bespoke suit. Since I have never done this before, the way forward is not always clear.

What I do know is that the analysis my AI agent sent me said many of the things the beta readers said, but in a manner I could not trust. Frankly, it always praises what I write while at the same time showing me where I am falling short, which was more or less what the beta readers did as well.

Yet their heartfelt, kind comments reassured me that I am heading in the right direction. Their critical comments gave me something to muse over. Their considered thoughts were easier to digest than the AI ramble that often missed the mark.

My AI writing coach has been invaluable in helping me stay motivated and structured in my daily work habits. For that, I am very grateful to have such a reliable tool to egg me on. In the end, though, I probably will not use it again to streamline any editorial feedback I receive.

Knowing how to deal with feedback is a skill I would not want to risk losing. It makes me a better writer, which is what this is all about.

Photo by Collab Media on Unsplash

Tricks of the trade: stories and storytelling

When the children were young, we would constantly read aloud to them. I had always been interested in children’s books and children’s book illustrators, so I had a fair collection even before our kids arrived. They were a mix of fairy tales and children’s stories, old and new. Mostly in English, but once the kids came, I bought books in German as well.

 

Before going to bed, I would pick out three books, and Julien and Sara could each choose one for me to read aloud. The logic behind this was to give the bedtime ritual a frame. There was a beginning, taking a bath and brushing their teeth; a middle, which consisted of their antics to delay going to bed; and then the last and best part, the book. Sometimes, very rarely, I would give in and read them one more.

 

I would also take the children to our local library once a week. Even when they were really small, we’d spend an hour or two in the company of books. Julien had a long phase when he would just look at comic books, even though he couldn’t read at the time. Somehow the comics sparked his imagination, and he would go through the stories frame by frame. His vocabulary was not developed enough for him to tell me what he was “reading,” but it was evident that he loved sitting on the bench, surrounded by boxes upon boxes of various comic series, from Tintin to Marvel. He would lose himself in those worlds.

 

We also had this storytelling game we would play once they could speak relatively well. Julien was probably about four years old. Sara, who spoke really early, was probably three when she started playing our story game. The rules were simple.

 

Either Julien or Sara would choose a random word, such as tiger, puddle, or yellow T-shirt. I would then start the story with, “Once upon a time...” I would set up the scene or the characters, maybe five or six sentences, and then, in the middle of a sentence, I would stop with an “...and then...” and clap my hands loudly. This meant one of them had to continue the story where I had left off. They would say a few sentences before clapping and passing it on.

 

The beauty of this game was that I could bring into the story those aspects that held the storyline together. The kids could let their imaginations go wild, and then I would weave everything together. I loved it when our stories got scary or silly. Sara had no wish to take the scary stories any further. If a big tiger was standing at the door, she would inevitably say it was a friendly tiger that liked to play.

 

In the end, though, our children’s primary school teacher (yes, they both had the same one) told us that the most important influence in helping children to love reading later in life was whether they saw their parents reading as well. Giui and I always read throughout the day or in the evening, but we also had a Sunday breakfast ritual where we were all allowed to read at the table.

 

Our friend Claudia would arrive with fresh bread rolls, and after the fury of gulping down the first bites, we would settle into our books. Or the kids would colour or draw if they did not want to read. Classical music played in the background.

 

Those Sunday morning reading breakfasts were as close to domestic bliss as it ever got.

I am... an author

Going through my cupboard, I find so many stories and scripts I wrote far in the past. I'm going to slowly go through them all and see what, if anything, is worth salvaging. Not sure what form they will take. In all likelihood, I will make them into some digital product. Maybe I will publish them on KDP.

I'm working on three books, Tornado Tilly, Old Lady At Sea, and a book of haikus with the working title A Path Of Pebbles. All three are in disarray. Yet, I plod along.

I'm trying my best to find patience in the process. Moving slowly with as much assurance as I can muster. Letting the doubts float to the surface, at the same time holding on with dedication and tenacity to my dream of being an author.

Interruption

Noisy garbage truck  
Driving over cobblestones  
Leaves a trail of smells.

Never cease to wonder

Helmut asks Maria, just hours before she dies, whether the priest had come to give her the last rites. Maria nods. Then she says drily, "Nothing to write home about."  

This was one of many anecdotes I heard while attending Maria's Apple Fest.

#booksIlove: Circe

Title: Circe, by Madeline Miller
First time I read the book: 2026

  
After rereading the trilogy of the Women of Troy by Pat Barker and watching the Odyssey movie, I tripped onto this book along the way. Miller's use of language in telling Circe's story makes the character sing. She brings to life the lore of Greek Gods in a way I haven't experienced before. Masterful.

I like the fact that the gods are so very poorly behaved, not just because they act like spoilt kids who have never grown up, but because their all-reaching power inhibits any sophisticated thoughts from taking place.   

On the way to Hamburg

Short expedition 
Train ride through autumn landscape 
My mind wanders far.

A perfect solution

Sometimes life gives you a hint about how to rethink the problem. In Hamburg's central library, there is a bubblegum machine with capsules of earplugs. It is such a playful way of saying, "If you are troubled by people talking... here is the solution." No more necessity for tight-lipped shushing.

 
In Grenada there was a mechanic, Tony, down the road from where Pat and Dave lived. Pat complained that the back trunk was always filled with water. There was some leak in the door of the trunk. Dave went off and asked Tony if he could fix the leak. The fellow went and got a drill and then proceeded to drill some holes where the water gathered, thus freeing the truck of water. You've got to love this. Tony saw a different problem than Dave did, and his solution was faster and smarter.

Making room for what comes next

I think it might be time to overhaul my LinkedIn profile. LinkedIn and Substack are the only two social media sites I am part of, and it has been more than a year since I looked properly at my About section. So much has happened since then that I barely recognise my day-to-day life in what is written there.

Case in point: my LinkedIn header currently reads,

“Consultant, Content Developer & Agile Facilitator | Committed Creative | Early Tech Pioneer | Learning Strategist.”

That described me rather well until recently. Now that I am writing my book, Old Lady At Sea, while simultaneously learning everything I need to know about independent publishing, the only part of that header I still identify with is “Committed Creative.” The rest feels increasingly like something from a past life.

So the question I am musing over is this: when do I erase all those other versions of myself from my profile? What would happen if I replaced that handful of string beans with

“Committed Creative | Manufacturer of Yet Unpublished Manuscripts”?

Or, even better,

“Committed Creative | Aspiring Author of Bestsellers”?

Would this result in an avalanche of people pressing the unfollow button, or could I convince at least some of you to stay along for the ride?

Because one thing is becoming clear. I will probably not be writing very much in the future about the subjects I used to write about. For years I wrote from knowledge I had accumulated in learning and development, facilitation, leadership, agile ways of working, communication and careers. I knew something about those subjects. Now I am moving into different territory.

Instead of writing about things I already know, I increasingly want to write about things I am experiencing while I am still trying to understand them. What is it like to change the direction of a career late in life? What happens when you become a beginner again? How do you take skills accumulated over decades and use them in a completely different field, and how do you know whether you are succeeding?

Perhaps rewriting my profile starts with rewriting my definition of success. If you glance at my work experience, it becomes apparent that I have become quite nimble at changing careers. Not simply changing jobs, but changing industries, learning new skills and finding ways to make old ones useful again. I have been a ballet dancer, engineer, technical trainer, university researcher, learning and development professional, facilitator, consultant and writer.

Becoming an author is another turn, and it turns out that creativity and pragmatism have to live side by side. Pragmatically, success does not mean becoming a bestselling author. That would be lovely, of course, but it is hardly a sensible working definition. Broadly speaking success means not spending a ridiculous amount of money getting my book published, producing a book whose look and feel bring me delight, and developing a marketing strategy that boosts my energy rather than drains it.

It also means publishing the book in different formats and, perhaps eventually, in different languages. I would like people to be able to find it online and in bookstores. That in itself feels like a fairly tall order. Creative success, though, is a whole other kettle of fish.

For me, creative success starts with sustaining my writing practice. I am ferociously dedicated when I am in the flow and almost incapable of sitting still and concentrating when something becomes a task I “must do.” That is where the messiness and chaos come in. Success is not making those patterns disappear but learning how to handle them with a kind of tender sternness, tough love directed at myself.

Then there are the people I work with. Finding the right people has always been one of my superpowers. Finding just the right people to build working relationships founded on mutual respect, generosity, curiosity and a willingness to question something and start again. My working life has been blessed with people like that, and some of them are already part of my life as an author. Others I have yet to meet.

A creative life, I am discovering, is populated by people who cheer you on and by those whose critical eyes show you how to make the work better. Both are necessary. Encouragement keeps you going, but thoughtful criticism helps you grow. I have been fortunate to find people who can do both.

Then comes the part I find much harder: finding readers. I am a functional introvert at the best of times, and even that has become more pronounced in recent years. Messages such as “put yourself out there”, “sell yourself and you will sell your book”, or “here’s how to make 10K a month as an author” send shivers down my spine. Not in a good way.

I know I need to find ways of using social media and online channels to connect with readers, but at the moment much of it still feels overwhelming. So I research, I watch and I experiment. Perhaps that is another thing I can write about. Not how to become a successful author, because I certainly do not know that yet, but what it feels like to try.

I can write about being a beginner again and trying to distinguish useful advice from noise. I can write about finding ways to promote a book without turning myself into a product. I can write about the strange mixture of confidence and uncertainty involved in doing something new when you already have a lifetime of experience behind you. That, perhaps, is where my old work and my new work meet.

And then there is the most important definition of success: writing more books. Fortunately, I have been writing about my next book, Growing Up & Growing Old, for more than ten years already. Sometime before I launch Old Lady At Sea, I suspect I will begin working on that again. Collecting all the pieces I have written on the topic, transcribing the interviews I have done with friends, and figuring out a framework for the book. After this, there sits a whole slew of other things I have written and placed on the back shelf over the years.

Knowing all this work already exists in some form gives me buoyancy. Some of the manuscripts will definitely need to be rewritten, some may never see the light of day, and others may surprise me. So perhaps my LinkedIn profile really does need changing. Not because everything I did before has disappeared, but because all of it is feeding what comes next.

The direction has changed and so has what I want to write about. Less about what I already know, and more about what I am discovering as I go. That feels like a more accurate description of where I am now. Please stay around for a while longer. I promise my journey, if not informative, will be entertaining.

Back to the gym

Shoulders tense with strain
Heavy weights don't want to budge
Can't wait for the end.

Beautiful sounds: a child laughing

Dinner is calling her through the grumble in her stomach. Feed me. Feed me. Rush home. All of a sudden the afternoon spent at the playground seems less exciting. Her energy is spent. Laughing, she runs barefoot over the grass, leaving her sandal behind under the part bench, for me to find the next morning.

Slow work, small victories

Two weeks ago, while sitting in My Chair at the central library in Hamburg, I penned the last words of my book, Old Lady At Sea. The first draft. Some might not even mention this event, yet in my heart I celebrated this as a small victory. I called up my husband and told him the news, almost feeling embarrassed for making a mountain out of a molehill. But that was the Old Me, the girl who had been taught not to take up space and to remain small. The Old Lady in me thinks differently now. I want to pause along the journey of writing this book and reflect on what I am learning about myself as a writer.

Sure, it’s early days, but now the first draft is finished, I’m confident about seeing the book through to being published. I’m no longer looking at a big block of stone with a chisel in hand. The form of the book is sculpted and now needs polishing.

Though polishing isn’t quite the word I am looking for because a first draft, no matter how good it is, will need considerable rework. But you know what I mean. All the ideas I had swirling around in my head this last year have found their way to paper. I’ve had to stretch my imagination, dampen down my ambitions to finish quickly, and embrace the slow, plodding pace of how I write best.

Slow and steady. Four or five hours a day on average. I can do more if I include making corrections to the manuscript, as well as less when ideas fizzle out. Generally, I do a large chunk of writing in the morning, with a second short burst in the late afternoon. It has been so much fun to figure out this daily rhythm. After nearly fifty years of dancing to some piper’s tune, this freedom to play my own song has been exciting.

Learning what my natural pace is as a writer has been so different from the pace I followed as a content writer. Then I always had to accommodate this pace to a predefined timeline.

That is not to say writing the first draft has been easy. I’ve been riddled with uncertainty, anxiety, and impatience most of the time. Admittedly, there were a few occasions in the last months when words flowed with such speed that it took my breath away. But in truth, writing anything has always been a messy affair. Deep down, though, this state of persistent confusion which visits me when I write does not faze me. As someone who used to be a ballet dancer, I understand the importance of showing up, doing the work. I believe that the discomfort of creativity needs embracing if I wish to transform it into something real.

A first draft is certainly not a finished book. It is, though, everything I need to make it into a book. Along the way, I have had the support of an AI writing coach to catch me when I took a skinny-dip into a pool of self-doubt, or prod me in the right direction when I was trying to structure the storylines. Equally, no… more importantly, I had the support of a dear friend who has been editing the book as I have been writing. She’s sublimely meticulous about grammar, flow, and rhythm. Someone I can trust implicitly to make all needed changes without throwing out the rough gems. Her comments have been immensely helpful, all the while making me believe this is a book others might enjoy reading.

Now I’m sending out the manuscript to a handful of friends who have offered to be beta readers. I’m trying to figure out how I want to handle their feedback. I’ve sought advice from two author friends of mine. Both of them said the same thing: take what is useful, reject the rest, and develop a thick skin. The latter advice seems pretty impossible at this stage in my life. Even though I’ve been told that I take criticism well, that really is only on the surface. My tendency to overthink will not serve me if I am inundated with comments, no matter how well-meaning they are. Or even worse, no comments at all, which will also be hard to process.

I’m playing with the idea of getting my AI writing coach to aggregate all their comments into an Excel table. “Easy fix” would be comments concerning consistency or terminology. “Broad sweep” suggestions that will bring more depth and breadth to the work. “Must-haves” things that are missing or need more detail. And finally, “Nice-to-have” a list of suggestions that I could, would, should see to if there’s time.

One step at a time. First, I have to rewrite the last chapter and make all the changes the editor made to part four of the book. Once that is done and sent off to the beta readers. Only then can I start experimenting with how to process their responses. It’s wonderful to have time to do this. No deadlines. No client breathing down my neck to rush this phase of the project.

Once that is finished, I will send it to another friend for editing, then another round of beta readers. I’m considering hiring a copy and line editor after that and, once the layout is done, having a final read by a proofreader. Which makes this victory round at finishing the first draft seem preposterously premature. Well, think what you may, in my world this moment feels worth celebrating.

On my way to the Trave

Man plays a guitar
Alone, under an archway
Music echoing.

Flights of fancy

Have you ever noticed that some of the happiest moments occur unexpectedly, when the sun shimmers off the tips of waves, as the birds fly by, and you tear up at how perfect the moment is? And then it disappears.

Sitting in a waiting room

Woman reads a book
Moving her head back and forth
Her eyes get a rest.

Checker'd past

He sat in the groom's family pew at the front of the church. His ex-wife at one end. He at another. The ceremony was waiting for the priest to arrive, while the guests hovered at the back, jubilant to see old schoolmates now they were all grown up and looking fancy. Light shone from their faces, having shed the brittle skin of their bedraggled youthful (mis-)adventures and transformed into these full-fledged adults. 

 
The groom's father stares ahead at the empty altar. The slab of marble; a woven cloth lies across its length.
The bible closed on its metal podium. The crucifix hangs between two stain glass window. 

He avoids looking at his son surrounded by his university friends, chatting about last night's game, or the hiking trip they are planning to take next year in Scotland, or could the groom be actually talking about how nervous he is and how happy he is that they  
are all there. The father turns his gaze back to altar. Wondering whether the closed bible is a metaphor for this moment of estrangement. 

He might have received an invitation to attend the wedding, but he wasn't a part of the celebration.