Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Fairytale for my brown princesses - freely adapted from the Russian Wassilissa and Babajaga
Part One
In a little village somewhere far away lived a beautiful girl with her father and her mother. Her name was Wisai, which means love and community. Wisai had beautiful, golden brown skin like soft smooth silk and hair as strong and black as the night-sky, with beads of silver and gold like sparkling stars. But most importantly Wisai had a mind as quick and bubbly as a mountain stream and her heart was full of love and happiness.
One day Wisai's mother got ill. When she knew she was going to die, she called Wisai to her bed and gave her a little doll.
"Keep this little doll everywhere you go", she told her. "She will help you whenever you are in danger or need advise. I must go now, I have been called back to the house at the end of the rainbow, as my journey on this earth has come to an end".
Wisai cried, she did not want her mother to leave her. Her mother held her in her arms one last time and blessed her, then she closed her eyes and was gone.
Wisai was sad for a very long time.
After they had buried her mother, she planted a tree in the little garden at the back of her house and the tree grew bigger every year. When it was big enough for her to sit in its shade she was still sad.
One day her father came home with a new wife and two new sisters. They looked foreign like beautiful exotic birds with their pale skin and yellow hair, but their smile did not warm their eyes which were cold and hard like frozen lakes in winter. Wisai did not want a new mother but she was hoping that her new sisters could be her friends and tried to be kind and welcoming to her new family. But the two girls were not kind and beautiful and they did not like Wisai. They made fun of her golden brown skin and her beautiful black locks and told her she was ugly and her hair was fat and full of worms. Wisai felt very lonely and unhappy. She tried to scrub her golden brown skin to make it look pale and cold like her new sisters, she even tied her beautiful black hair and hid it under a woollen scarf so that they would not notice her so much and stop making fun of her. She also did all the hard work around the house and only spoke kindly to them, so that her stepmother and sisters would see how good and hard working she was. But nothing could soften their hearts and whenever Wisai tried to defend herself, her stepmother threatened to tell her father that she was not kind to her new stepsisters.
Wisai knew that her father would be worried and sad to learn that they did not get on so she kept to herself and went to sit under her mothers tree whenever she could as this seemed to be the only place in her home where she could be in peace.
The sisters even moved into Wisai's bedroom and Wisai had to sleep in a little space, not much bigger than a cupboard under the stairs. Wisai's father did not dare to stand up to his new wife as she kept his house and daughter safe for him when he was away on business. She told him that her girls deserved the big room because they had lost their home and their father.
Deep down the sisters were just as sad as Wisai, because they too had lost a parent and they even had to leave their home to come and live with Wisai and her father. But because their mother was not kind and loving and only cared about her wealth and her looks, their hearts had turned to stone and they had long forgotten how to cry and be sad - they only knew how to be angry and nasty.
Wisai's father had to travel a lot to make enough money for his new bigger family and whenever he came home for a short while he brought them all many gifts of beautiful clothes and jewels. He always made sure that Wisai had the shiniest jewels and the finest silk, and he asked her often if she was happy. Wisai did not care much for clothes and jewels - all she wanted was her mother and her old life back - but she did not want to worry her father either,so she thanked him and said that she was happy.
Whenever he left again, Wisai's stepmother and sisters took the beautiful jewels and fine silks from Wisai and said they would not suit her ugly brown skin and black hair and it would look much nicer on them.
But even though the sisters wore beautiful clothes and sparkly jewels, they were not nearly as beautiful as Wisai and whenever the three of them went to the village market, it was Wisai who turned the heads of the most handsome young men in the village. No matter how the sisters tried to hide Wisais beauty under old and dirty clothes, it was her warm smile touching somebodys heart or the glimmer of her golden brown skin reflecting a ray of sunshine or the sparkle from her beautiful almond eyes that drew people to her wherever she went.
The stepsisters got more and more angry and turned even nastier. Until one day they asked their mother to send Wisai away. We can never find a husband when she is around, they complained. She knows everyone and has turned them against us. You need to get rid of her.
The three of them waited until Wisai's father had gone on a long journey at the beginning of a cold winter and would not return until spring time. They planned to tell him that she had run away and died in the forest. So one cold night, they blew out all the candles in the house and poured water on the fire in the kitchen and then went to wake Wisai.
Wake up Wisai, they called to her. The storm blew out all our candles and rain came in through the chimney and quenched our fire. You have to go into the woods to the witch Babajaga and get fire from her. Otherwise we will all die in this cold winter.
Wisai was very afraid and did not want to go, but her stepmother gave her an old blanket against the cold and a crust of bread to take on her journey and pushed her out the door.
Wisai stood in the cold and looked at her old home, where she was once so happy with her mother and father. The house looked dark and cold and even though she did not want to go into the woods she also did not want to go back to her old home and the people who now lived there. As she walked away from her house, with only the moon and stars to show her the way, she suddenly felt the little doll move in the pocket of her apron, where she had kept her ever since her mother's death. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the little doll warm against her skin like a living creature. With both hands warmed by her mother's doll, Wisai walked on into the forest and felt a little less afraid.
Wisai walked deeper and deeper into the forest. She heard strange noises from night creatures slithering and crying and hissing in the dark. Whenever she felt she wanted to turn around and run, the warmth of the little doll gave her strength and she walked on. After what felt like an eternity of walking and stumbling and listening to the dark, the night was about to turn into a pale morning light and Wisai stepped out of the deep forest onto a clearance. There, in the middle of a wastefield of cracked earth and ragged rocks, high stone walls rose up with flaming torches all along the top like a row of fierce watchmen guarding the witche's fortress. When Wisai looked at the flames, wondering if she could somehow get onto the high walls to reach one of the torches and carry the fire home, she suddenly froze with fear. What she had thought to be simple torches were really human skulls on wooden poles, their empty eye sockets glowing in the dark.
Suddenly the sky turned flaming red and a rumbling noise like thunder rolled closer and closer. In an instant there were horses all around her, with red masked riders gallopping past at the speed of light and disappearing into the distance as sudden as they had come. Out of the settling dust appeared the tall, dark figure of a woman. The rising sun behind her wrapped her in a cape of fire. As she came closer, Wisai saw that she was covered from head to toe in what looked like layers of ash, her face a wrinkled, grey mask with eyes like two burning coals and her colorless lips twisted into a cold and mirthless grin. Her hair was a mass of white twisted curls, springing from her head like vicious snakes ready to attack.
The witch reached out a hand like a claw and grabbed Wisai by the neck until their faces almost touched. Her breath was foul and hot and brought tears to Wisai' s eyes. The witch kackled a sound like breaking glass - and said : What are you doing here child? Don't you know I eat people for my supper and mount their heads on my wall ?
Wisai froze with fear and felt like she was going to die, when suddenly the little doll moved against her hands, an send a trickle of warmth up through her arms and into her belly and heart. Without thinking, she heard herself talk in a voice that seemed calm and unafraid:
I have come here mother-witch to ask you for the gift of fire.
Papperlapapp grumbled the witch (which is actually witch language for "nonsense") and then she laughed her terrible witch laugh, that stopped the morning birds from singing in the forest.
No living soul has ever received any gifts from me and you are going to be dead before nightfall. You can run now and never come back or I will eat you as sure as I stand here in front of you.
I need the fire, mother witch, said Wisai. If I don't bring it back to the village my stepmother and stepsisters are going to die from the cold of the winter. I will do whatever you ask me to.
The witch just looked at Wisai with her black glowing eyes and then she turned around and knocked three times on a gate in the stone wall. She mumbled something under her breath an the gate creaked open. The witch disappeared inside the walls of her fortress and just as the gate was about to slam shut behind her, Wisai quickly ran after her. Only when she heard the loud metallic clang of the lock did she realise what she had done and that she was trapped in a place from where nobody has ever returned.
She crossed a bare courtyard of black burned earth and stepped into a hall, which loomed high like a tower. A sudden breath of icy wind touched her face and made her shiver. The light seemed to have gone from the sun. There was only a dim, grey twilight falling through windows covered with hundreds of years of grime and dust. Wisai stood in a huge corner-less room, maybe twice the size of her fathers house. In the middle of the room was a big spiral staircase, made of rusty metal, leading up to a second floor and from there to another floor and to another, and further than Wisai's eyes could see. There was also a metal trapdoor in the floor with a big rusty lock and Wisai shivered imagining what would be behind that door hidden away in the dark under the house.
No pictures or ornaments adorned the bare stone walls and no carpets covered the uneven and cold mud floor. There was a huge oven standing against the wall opposite the entrance. The witch had bent down and opened the door, blowing on the ashes to revive a dying fire. There was also a massive wooden table the size of 5 grown men lying top to toe and a number of wooden stools piled around and under it. Despite eing so afraid, Wisai could not help noticing the mess on the stove and the table: left overs of many breakfasts and suppers and glasses half filled with red and violet and green liquids, some of them bubbling and steaming, some of them leaking from the table onto the floor. Wisai had never in her life seen such a mess and her hands itched to start cleaning up. She almost forgot how afraid she was.
Come and help me restart the fire, the witch barked at her, it has gone out during the night.
I don't know how to whispered Wisai, suddenly afraid again to make the witch angry.
Papperlapapp croaked the witch, here take the torch and go outside, you can light it on one of my skulls.
(.... to be continued)
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
soooooo out of the loop - fear, race and fairy tales
Its been so long, I have so many excuses, and none of them really count. Coming back to my blog feels like opening the door to a cupboard that I haven't been in in such a long time that I am scared what I might find there. Moths come flying out, clothes are scattered about, some of them even make me feel embarrassed - I was wearing THAT??? Anyway - good excuse or not: I started studying - for the third time - and am slowly finding my way around text books, computer based courses and whole mornings spent at school with classmates the age my kids should really be by now, had I made up my mind about having them, before starting my midlife crisis. Most important lesson learned so far: teenagers (or people the age my kids should be by now) are really just people who are (a lot) younger - but other than that, not so scary-alien as previously believed by me. They do of course like their own company and regard me (and the other oldish girl in my class) like one indulgently looks upon an elderly person who takes up skydiving or parachuting at an age where most people start to notice retirement villages in their area. So as I am busy enjoying myself in the company of youngsters, my writing is taking second place and I somewhat guiltily open this blog, wave the moths out of the way and start thinking about what I want to write next.
As my children grow older and noticeably change from being blissfully unaware of skin color to being only too aware of the differences in status, prospects and privilege that come along with the color of our skin, I go through a borderline-spectrum of emotions, ranging from "I will change the world" to "I have totally and utterly failed them" and anything in between.
When my six year old daughter asked her dad the other day, if a person her color could ever drive a car like that - referring to some fancy brand that I don't have an eye or memory for - I was once again thrown deep into the guilt and I-will-never-be-able-to-get-this-right scenario. Feeling that what we say to her now might influence her for the rest of her life, and at the same time not wanting to make a huge issue out of her question, which we of course sort of did, with her scowling at us, saying she didn't want to talk about it, I was at a total loss at to what to do or say. And that's the thing: there is so much we could say, like:
Sadly in this society black people or people with brown skin are still so much worse off than "white people". This has to do with the history of apartheid, where black and colored people were treated badly by white people, who had all the power and made all the decisions. Today things should change but they don't change very quickly and it will still take a long time before black people all over the world will have the same chances and opportunities as white people. But you can change this for yourself, because you are a resourceful, beautiful and intelligent human being who can achieve whatever she wants in this world. And you have your papa and I who will fight for you and support you and be at your side for as long as you let us and probably even longer.
Only I could not say that because she doesn't want to talk about it, she does not want to talk -period. Whenever I raise the subject of color or race or any subject for that matter, like what was nice at school today or what did she play with her friends all day, she gives me about 5 seconds of grudging attention before zooming out or changing the subject. She is no dialogue-communicator my daughter. There are no cozy mum-daughter talks (yet???) about her school day or disputes with her friends on the long drives to and from school or at meal- or bed-times. All those golden archways of opportunity that the relevant textbooks suggest somewhat fail to work for us. So either I am getting this whole talking-to-my-children-thing totally wrong or it's simply something in her nature that I will have to come to terms with. I suspect she has an overdeveloped probing-adult radar that detects the slightest hint of a conversation that only tentatively steers in the direction of approaching her emotional landscape. She immediately clams up and disappears. So, as I see it, I have two choices here: I can either accept that I have totally and irrevocably fxxxxd up in my novice attempts at mothering a 6 year old teenager or I can come to terms with how and who she is: An intensely private yet uncompromisingly authentic person, who hates to talk about herself but at the same time expresses her emotions in ways that might not be agreeable to me but could teach me new ways of communicating - if I don't give up here.
So next time she has a meltdown because she does not want me to do her hair in the morning ( but what she is really saying is that she hates how she sometimes feels so different from other girls in her class and just wants to fit in and look like everybody else) - I don't look so hard for an opportunity to corner her into a conversation about being different and how I understand that she feels awful and that it is hard for her - because all that achieves is her talking about something else (best case scenario) or shouting "don't talk to me, I don't like you (x-rated version for young mothers and fathers of a not yet 6 year old).
What I only recently learned instead (pat on shoulder from myself here and huge thanks to my beloved, beautiful and wise friend Brooke ) - is a new way of approaching her, which came about as a total "coincidence" when once again we had a highly emotional scene: She had psyched herself up all week to go for a camel ride at Imhof farm, but when the moment arrived, was so overcome by fear (So was I - at the sight of the enormous mouth full of hugely unattractive yellow teeth, repeatedly attempting to bite the bum of the person in front of him) that she had to be rescued from the saddle and burst first into tears and then into a fit of rage. The rest of the afternoon was spent in different attempts to talk to her about fear and how it is ok to feel it and that it can in fact help you to be safe when other people are not, and that you can only be brave when you know that you are afraid and so on and so forth. With - you will have guessed - no effect whatsoever and only resulting in her getting more and more livid with me for being such an annoying and persistantly ignorant mothercow.
That evening she asked me to tell her the story of the witch Babayaga (check it out babayaga) which I had started telling her before bedtime. Next thing I noticed that the story coming out of my mouth was a more or less accurate retelling of the afternoon's events with the beautiful girl with dreadlocks (Wassilissa) being bullied and ridiculed by the horrible witch Babajaga for being too cowardly to jump on one of the fiery red horses gallopping through her house at sunrise every morning. She then threatens to eat her in the evening when she returns from her day's work as a witch, where upon Wassilissa has to come up with a plan to escape, which is obviously to steal one of the horses and ride off. Wassilissa has a little doll, that her mother gave her on her deathbed, and which she always carries close to her heart. The doll,who can talk and helps her whenever she is in need of "mothering" could tell Wassilissa what I had tried all day to impress on my child :
Don't be ashamed of being afraid Wassilissa, fear is your friend. Fear will always warn you when something bad is about to happen and when it is better to run. But fear also tells you when it is wise to step back and think about what could really happen. Only brave people know fear. If you are not afraid you can not be brave. The whitch is not brave, she is unafraid because she is not human. So think about it Wassilissa, maybe there is not so much to be afraid of.
They then discuss the worst thing that could happen - falling off the horse and getting eaten by the witch - and the most likely thing to happen - that she will be able to stay on the horse and get away as she is young and fit and strong. In the end Wassilissa manages to jump on the witches horse and ride off into the forest. It amazed me how totally unaware Leah was of how the fairy tale was all about what happened to her during the day. She was so utterly absorbed in my story that she never once interrupted, or got bored or started doing something else. She just wanted to hear more and more and we are now on the third episode, where Wassilissa - after returning to the witch - goes on adventures with the witch as her guide to find out about race and fear and some of life's mysteries.
The next Saturday we went to the Constantia Waldorf fair (yeah, still in Waldorf world :-))where they had a sky high and scary long fuffy-slide. Leah announced she wanted to go up, and I almost did not dare to look at her for fear she would lose her nerve again and come back down, defeated and humiliated and angrier than ever.
But she did it. With her whole face a mask of fear and determination she whizzed passed me and down the hill where I ran to her and could not stop admiring and praising her. And again, she did not really want to hear it or talk about it. Her eyes were just a tiny bit shinier, when she heard the words brave and courageous and great and wonderful explode out of my mouth- but she would not acknowledge her feelings. Much later, when I brought it up once again ( I do have an annoying persistance) in a by-the-way- kind of way, she said to me:
Mama, I was afraid but I was also curious, like Wassilissa.
I never felt so rewarded, proud, happy, elated, wonderful, jump-in-the-air-happy in my whole entire long life. Wassilissa has become my saviour, my new way of communicating with my daughter, she allows me to reach her secret inner world, to become a part of it, and maybe even plant a little memory there of my huge love for her.
It just occured to me, that my next post will be the beginning of the Wassilissa tale as adapted for Leah.
As my children grow older and noticeably change from being blissfully unaware of skin color to being only too aware of the differences in status, prospects and privilege that come along with the color of our skin, I go through a borderline-spectrum of emotions, ranging from "I will change the world" to "I have totally and utterly failed them" and anything in between.
When my six year old daughter asked her dad the other day, if a person her color could ever drive a car like that - referring to some fancy brand that I don't have an eye or memory for - I was once again thrown deep into the guilt and I-will-never-be-able-to-get-this-right scenario. Feeling that what we say to her now might influence her for the rest of her life, and at the same time not wanting to make a huge issue out of her question, which we of course sort of did, with her scowling at us, saying she didn't want to talk about it, I was at a total loss at to what to do or say. And that's the thing: there is so much we could say, like:
Sadly in this society black people or people with brown skin are still so much worse off than "white people". This has to do with the history of apartheid, where black and colored people were treated badly by white people, who had all the power and made all the decisions. Today things should change but they don't change very quickly and it will still take a long time before black people all over the world will have the same chances and opportunities as white people. But you can change this for yourself, because you are a resourceful, beautiful and intelligent human being who can achieve whatever she wants in this world. And you have your papa and I who will fight for you and support you and be at your side for as long as you let us and probably even longer.
Only I could not say that because she doesn't want to talk about it, she does not want to talk -period. Whenever I raise the subject of color or race or any subject for that matter, like what was nice at school today or what did she play with her friends all day, she gives me about 5 seconds of grudging attention before zooming out or changing the subject. She is no dialogue-communicator my daughter. There are no cozy mum-daughter talks (yet???) about her school day or disputes with her friends on the long drives to and from school or at meal- or bed-times. All those golden archways of opportunity that the relevant textbooks suggest somewhat fail to work for us. So either I am getting this whole talking-to-my-children-thing totally wrong or it's simply something in her nature that I will have to come to terms with. I suspect she has an overdeveloped probing-adult radar that detects the slightest hint of a conversation that only tentatively steers in the direction of approaching her emotional landscape. She immediately clams up and disappears. So, as I see it, I have two choices here: I can either accept that I have totally and irrevocably fxxxxd up in my novice attempts at mothering a 6 year old teenager or I can come to terms with how and who she is: An intensely private yet uncompromisingly authentic person, who hates to talk about herself but at the same time expresses her emotions in ways that might not be agreeable to me but could teach me new ways of communicating - if I don't give up here.
So next time she has a meltdown because she does not want me to do her hair in the morning ( but what she is really saying is that she hates how she sometimes feels so different from other girls in her class and just wants to fit in and look like everybody else) - I don't look so hard for an opportunity to corner her into a conversation about being different and how I understand that she feels awful and that it is hard for her - because all that achieves is her talking about something else (best case scenario) or shouting "don't talk to me, I don't like you (x-rated version for young mothers and fathers of a not yet 6 year old).
What I only recently learned instead (pat on shoulder from myself here and huge thanks to my beloved, beautiful and wise friend Brooke ) - is a new way of approaching her, which came about as a total "coincidence" when once again we had a highly emotional scene: She had psyched herself up all week to go for a camel ride at Imhof farm, but when the moment arrived, was so overcome by fear (So was I - at the sight of the enormous mouth full of hugely unattractive yellow teeth, repeatedly attempting to bite the bum of the person in front of him) that she had to be rescued from the saddle and burst first into tears and then into a fit of rage. The rest of the afternoon was spent in different attempts to talk to her about fear and how it is ok to feel it and that it can in fact help you to be safe when other people are not, and that you can only be brave when you know that you are afraid and so on and so forth. With - you will have guessed - no effect whatsoever and only resulting in her getting more and more livid with me for being such an annoying and persistantly ignorant mothercow.
That evening she asked me to tell her the story of the witch Babayaga (check it out babayaga) which I had started telling her before bedtime. Next thing I noticed that the story coming out of my mouth was a more or less accurate retelling of the afternoon's events with the beautiful girl with dreadlocks (Wassilissa) being bullied and ridiculed by the horrible witch Babajaga for being too cowardly to jump on one of the fiery red horses gallopping through her house at sunrise every morning. She then threatens to eat her in the evening when she returns from her day's work as a witch, where upon Wassilissa has to come up with a plan to escape, which is obviously to steal one of the horses and ride off. Wassilissa has a little doll, that her mother gave her on her deathbed, and which she always carries close to her heart. The doll,who can talk and helps her whenever she is in need of "mothering" could tell Wassilissa what I had tried all day to impress on my child :
Don't be ashamed of being afraid Wassilissa, fear is your friend. Fear will always warn you when something bad is about to happen and when it is better to run. But fear also tells you when it is wise to step back and think about what could really happen. Only brave people know fear. If you are not afraid you can not be brave. The whitch is not brave, she is unafraid because she is not human. So think about it Wassilissa, maybe there is not so much to be afraid of.
They then discuss the worst thing that could happen - falling off the horse and getting eaten by the witch - and the most likely thing to happen - that she will be able to stay on the horse and get away as she is young and fit and strong. In the end Wassilissa manages to jump on the witches horse and ride off into the forest. It amazed me how totally unaware Leah was of how the fairy tale was all about what happened to her during the day. She was so utterly absorbed in my story that she never once interrupted, or got bored or started doing something else. She just wanted to hear more and more and we are now on the third episode, where Wassilissa - after returning to the witch - goes on adventures with the witch as her guide to find out about race and fear and some of life's mysteries.
The next Saturday we went to the Constantia Waldorf fair (yeah, still in Waldorf world :-))where they had a sky high and scary long fuffy-slide. Leah announced she wanted to go up, and I almost did not dare to look at her for fear she would lose her nerve again and come back down, defeated and humiliated and angrier than ever.
But she did it. With her whole face a mask of fear and determination she whizzed passed me and down the hill where I ran to her and could not stop admiring and praising her. And again, she did not really want to hear it or talk about it. Her eyes were just a tiny bit shinier, when she heard the words brave and courageous and great and wonderful explode out of my mouth- but she would not acknowledge her feelings. Much later, when I brought it up once again ( I do have an annoying persistance) in a by-the-way- kind of way, she said to me:
Mama, I was afraid but I was also curious, like Wassilissa.
I never felt so rewarded, proud, happy, elated, wonderful, jump-in-the-air-happy in my whole entire long life. Wassilissa has become my saviour, my new way of communicating with my daughter, she allows me to reach her secret inner world, to become a part of it, and maybe even plant a little memory there of my huge love for her.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Dear Agony Aunt....here's to my darling Alan!
my husband and I have been married for 13 years, we have two children, a guinea pig and a business together. I don't know how or when exactly it happened, but at some point we seem to have morphed into a really good team rather than lovers. But where I am enjoying my life, my children, my friends and my new found hobbies, my husband often feels unhappy, rejected and lonely.
He loves bush holidays, I find bliss on my sofa all by MYSELF! He loves boating, I love dancing, he is a sports and news fan, I am a soapy addict....he wants to share everything with me, I love time with my girlfriends, I am happy with my choices ... but ( BUT) there is this very real feeling in his heart that I have abandoned him for my new life. So where is the solution here, when it clearly does not sit well with either of us to half heartedly join the other either in the hard and dusty seat of his landrover or redecorating the house during holidays. What to do?
Sounds familiar in any way?
Dear Team Player (says Agony Aunt)
Find interesting new hobbies that you and your husband can enjoy together, go on date nights and get some lacy underwear. All will be fine in no time at all....
.... and none of that BS works. Not if you are a thinking, feeling, breathing somewhat matured human being instead of a wife-accessory to an unhappy male, deluding yourself into putting a band aid on a gaping wound. I am all for spending time together and connecting with my partner - and I also make the concession that some couples just need to make room in their diaries and throw on some sexy underwear to get "the spark back" (yeah, right!) - but after over 15 years of togetherness we sort of exhausted the "finding a hobby that we BOTH love" route and it might also be time to redefine our relationship with honesty and ..... love.
And this is what I am trying to do today - at the special request of and for my sometimes so desperately lonely partner, husband, love of my life, father of my children: redefine what we have, mourn what we have lost and celebrate what we have gained.
It is possible, I believe, to be life long partners and develop individually, without holding one another back.
Like all living organisms, our relationships have to grow, develop and undergo changes in order to be alive. We can not forever maintain a status quo if we want to live true to ourselves and in sync with our own life rhythm. In my view there is nothing wrong with developing from lovers to most trusted friends and even back again in the course of a lifetime. Trusting ourselves, our partners and this process with honesty and - above all - an open heart might save us all from the heartache of trying to force a status quo upon us that has run it's course.
Yesterday we were each other's world, my love. We came into each other's lives when each of us needed an-other in order to be seen, loved, held and protected. We were each other's happy-ending, and together we learned to take on the world and how to live in it. In your eyes I saw myself for the first time as a lovable, beautiful human being. You were my hero and my rock.
We grew together, always connected at the heart but expanding ever so slightly as our branches unfolded into the world. Our first attempt at "parenting" our business-baby, where everything just fell into place so effortlessly. How we learned to overcome our differences and let them work in our favour, complementing our strengths and supporting each other's weaknesses.
We were running like children then, not measuring our pace but just letting go of any controls, tumbling down the biggest dunes, laughing with the simple joy of feeling the sand under our feet and the salty air on our faces - and all our wishes came true.
But always, when I was running down sand dunes screaming my heart's desires into the welcoming arms of the ocean, there was that moment where I lost control of my legs, as they found a rhythm of their own, running faster and faster. When I started thinking, trying to control the momentum, I inevitably stumbled and eventually fell or stopped. But when you taught me to trust the process and simply run with it, I sometimes came close to flying. Or I fell anyway - but that was OK, the sand was soft and we could just roll the rest of the way, you and I.
Our children came to us in that effortless and wonder-full way. We were running one moment, wishing for them and the next moment we stumbled along as parents! as scary as it was at times, as much as we fell over our own feet, I learned a great deal about giving up control and to just roll with it.
The wonder of seeing you as the kind, loving and wise father I never had. Of seeing you holding this tiny little screaming person, our first daughter, in your big strong arms and dissolve into tears of love and gentleness and fear all at once. Of exchanging a look across a crowded room, sharing what only we can understand, the love we feel for these two exceptionally beautiful human beings that are our children.
The wonder of finding yet another shade of love in my heart, which is forever expanding into mother-hood and all that comes with it.
The wonder of you all in my life. My family. My heartbeat.
And always there is you. My family man. Steady as a rock - you hold us all in your loving heart - while we are forever floating away from you - and underneath the surface you contain all that is lonely and hurt and not seen.
In the rare moments when you allow me to be with you in that underwater world of all your past and present hurt and loneliness, where I am a witness and a loving friend rather than the outsider tearing at half- healed scabs in my attempts to break the silence, when I am your mirror once again instead of a wall to run into, those are the moments that hold us together today and carry us still.
I will never understand your pain, I can only guess at it with my own experience. I can not be the healer of your pain, nor you of mine. A lifetime has passed from when we first found a new purpose with and in each other. We have grown our roots together, built our family nest in this beautiful tree that is our life together and found our sense of belonging here.
And now we are facing yet another challenge:
We want different things. This scares you. Somehow we were told to believe that as a couple we always have to want the same things. But do we?
And here comes the part where our journey can take us into the shut down and abandoned parts deep inside of us where our sense of child-like joy and abundance has been cut off and turned into a socially acceptable desire to please and find compromise rather than truth.
I want to see you following your heart's desire - without compromise or consideration for what is socially acceptable. I want to see you shine in all the beautiful colors of your true self. I want to see all of you so that you will finally understand that my love is big enough for everything that you are.
I feel a sweet sadness when I think about how we raced through the fun times, stumbled along in crisis, how we picked each other up and carried one another at times, only to arrive at this point where we are faced with what has been hidden and buried a lifetime ago and now wants to see the light and breathe and be integrated.
This is not a honeymoon trip nor a family holiday, this is a retreat for the soul, where we can set our intentions for the rest of our lives. I believe ours will be a life together - where you and I allow each other to want different things and will always find our spot in the dunes where we can run wild with dreams or stumble and fall and lie still for a bit.
Today we are strong enough to go in different directions without losing sight of one another. You are a part of my roots in this life, you are my family nest, my place of rest, my sense of belonging, my motivation to be who I can be. I know I am the same to you.
You are my home, my nest, my rock. Always. My love.
He loves bush holidays, I find bliss on my sofa all by MYSELF! He loves boating, I love dancing, he is a sports and news fan, I am a soapy addict....he wants to share everything with me, I love time with my girlfriends, I am happy with my choices ... but ( BUT) there is this very real feeling in his heart that I have abandoned him for my new life. So where is the solution here, when it clearly does not sit well with either of us to half heartedly join the other either in the hard and dusty seat of his landrover or redecorating the house during holidays. What to do?
Sounds familiar in any way?
Dear Team Player (says Agony Aunt)
Find interesting new hobbies that you and your husband can enjoy together, go on date nights and get some lacy underwear. All will be fine in no time at all....
.... and none of that BS works. Not if you are a thinking, feeling, breathing somewhat matured human being instead of a wife-accessory to an unhappy male, deluding yourself into putting a band aid on a gaping wound. I am all for spending time together and connecting with my partner - and I also make the concession that some couples just need to make room in their diaries and throw on some sexy underwear to get "the spark back" (yeah, right!) - but after over 15 years of togetherness we sort of exhausted the "finding a hobby that we BOTH love" route and it might also be time to redefine our relationship with honesty and ..... love.
And this is what I am trying to do today - at the special request of and for my sometimes so desperately lonely partner, husband, love of my life, father of my children: redefine what we have, mourn what we have lost and celebrate what we have gained.
It is possible, I believe, to be life long partners and develop individually, without holding one another back.
Like all living organisms, our relationships have to grow, develop and undergo changes in order to be alive. We can not forever maintain a status quo if we want to live true to ourselves and in sync with our own life rhythm. In my view there is nothing wrong with developing from lovers to most trusted friends and even back again in the course of a lifetime. Trusting ourselves, our partners and this process with honesty and - above all - an open heart might save us all from the heartache of trying to force a status quo upon us that has run it's course.
Yesterday we were each other's world, my love. We came into each other's lives when each of us needed an-other in order to be seen, loved, held and protected. We were each other's happy-ending, and together we learned to take on the world and how to live in it. In your eyes I saw myself for the first time as a lovable, beautiful human being. You were my hero and my rock.
We grew together, always connected at the heart but expanding ever so slightly as our branches unfolded into the world. Our first attempt at "parenting" our business-baby, where everything just fell into place so effortlessly. How we learned to overcome our differences and let them work in our favour, complementing our strengths and supporting each other's weaknesses.
We were running like children then, not measuring our pace but just letting go of any controls, tumbling down the biggest dunes, laughing with the simple joy of feeling the sand under our feet and the salty air on our faces - and all our wishes came true.
But always, when I was running down sand dunes screaming my heart's desires into the welcoming arms of the ocean, there was that moment where I lost control of my legs, as they found a rhythm of their own, running faster and faster. When I started thinking, trying to control the momentum, I inevitably stumbled and eventually fell or stopped. But when you taught me to trust the process and simply run with it, I sometimes came close to flying. Or I fell anyway - but that was OK, the sand was soft and we could just roll the rest of the way, you and I.
Our children came to us in that effortless and wonder-full way. We were running one moment, wishing for them and the next moment we stumbled along as parents! as scary as it was at times, as much as we fell over our own feet, I learned a great deal about giving up control and to just roll with it.
The wonder of seeing you as the kind, loving and wise father I never had. Of seeing you holding this tiny little screaming person, our first daughter, in your big strong arms and dissolve into tears of love and gentleness and fear all at once. Of exchanging a look across a crowded room, sharing what only we can understand, the love we feel for these two exceptionally beautiful human beings that are our children.
The wonder of finding yet another shade of love in my heart, which is forever expanding into mother-hood and all that comes with it.
The wonder of you all in my life. My family. My heartbeat.
And always there is you. My family man. Steady as a rock - you hold us all in your loving heart - while we are forever floating away from you - and underneath the surface you contain all that is lonely and hurt and not seen.
In the rare moments when you allow me to be with you in that underwater world of all your past and present hurt and loneliness, where I am a witness and a loving friend rather than the outsider tearing at half- healed scabs in my attempts to break the silence, when I am your mirror once again instead of a wall to run into, those are the moments that hold us together today and carry us still.
I will never understand your pain, I can only guess at it with my own experience. I can not be the healer of your pain, nor you of mine. A lifetime has passed from when we first found a new purpose with and in each other. We have grown our roots together, built our family nest in this beautiful tree that is our life together and found our sense of belonging here.
And now we are facing yet another challenge:
We want different things. This scares you. Somehow we were told to believe that as a couple we always have to want the same things. But do we?
And here comes the part where our journey can take us into the shut down and abandoned parts deep inside of us where our sense of child-like joy and abundance has been cut off and turned into a socially acceptable desire to please and find compromise rather than truth.
I want to see you following your heart's desire - without compromise or consideration for what is socially acceptable. I want to see you shine in all the beautiful colors of your true self. I want to see all of you so that you will finally understand that my love is big enough for everything that you are.
I feel a sweet sadness when I think about how we raced through the fun times, stumbled along in crisis, how we picked each other up and carried one another at times, only to arrive at this point where we are faced with what has been hidden and buried a lifetime ago and now wants to see the light and breathe and be integrated.
This is not a honeymoon trip nor a family holiday, this is a retreat for the soul, where we can set our intentions for the rest of our lives. I believe ours will be a life together - where you and I allow each other to want different things and will always find our spot in the dunes where we can run wild with dreams or stumble and fall and lie still for a bit.
Today we are strong enough to go in different directions without losing sight of one another. You are a part of my roots in this life, you are my family nest, my place of rest, my sense of belonging, my motivation to be who I can be. I know I am the same to you.
You are my home, my nest, my rock. Always. My love.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Congratulations: She's a little boy!
My daughter Kala came to us about a week before her 3 rd birthday and announced in a cheerful voice:
I don't want Barney at my party anymore, I want a Spiderman Party, because I am a boy.
As it was only half past five in the morning, on a dark and gloomy winters day, I just yawned and mumbled: oh, that's nice darling, let's talk about it later.
Hoping of course that she'd forget all about it by breakfast time, as we had already booked the themed Barney venue including a garish purple dinosaur cake. But as the day progressed she asked me at 5 minute intervals whether I had organised her Spiderman party, giving me no choice but to phone the party people and pray that by Saturday she won't turn into a frog and we'd have to spray the walls green and all wear gumboots to her pond party....
Now I know some things about phases and stages in a three year olds life as I have been there before with Leah, who transformed from princess to helicopter pilot to fairy to brat-girl and back again within days.
But Kala showed an impressive amount of consistency in all the 7 or so days leading up to her birthday party. Not only did she stick with the I-am-now-a-boy theme, she raised the bar by changing her name to Maxi and only responding to her own given name for long stretches of time - without prior notice of course.
If it was a Maxi-day, she would simply ignore any comments, suggestions or questions when addressed as Kala. There were moments during the first couple of days, when I was getting worried about her hearing or her ability to concentrate or some new form or autism, only to realise that I had called her by the wrong name. As soon as I would repeat whatever I had said but addressed Maxi instead of Kala, she'd immediately engage with a distinct undertone of buoyant glee and a triumphant glimmer in her eye.
On her birthday she finalised her transformation by refusing to wear anything that had the color pink in it, anything with flowers, butterflies or fairies, no skirts or ruffles or leggings or t-shirts that could be mistaken for dresses. Which pretty much ruled out her entire wardrobe.
Except for her new Spiderman Pyjamas, which came in handy as her chosen party outfit for the day.
Needless to say, the party was a great success. Barney was finally reunited with Spiderman - apparently they had been separated at birth - , our new 3 year old boy came officially out and she might have even helped one or two boy- princesses along in the process....
After the life changing event, I packed away the pyjamas and sort of hoped that life would now resume in it's old ways, where Kala is just Kala and the Spiderman persona retires until her next birthday (or maybe her final coming out party at 16 or so....).
Of course it did not turn out this way, otherwise, what's the point of blogging about it, right? The next day, she demanded her pyjamas back and I could only coax her into getting dressed in fairly neutral clothes by offering a trip to the next department store to stock up on themed boy's outfits.
From here on there was no looking back. It has been over 6 months now, and we had to invest in new shoes (only Ben 10 flip flops or bafana-socker-shoes in her cupboard), buy a truly scary pirate cap and even cut her hair for the first time in her life as she was threatening to take scissors to her own head.
We had heated discussions amongst us and with friends and fellow parents about how far and how long we could let this go on for without consulting a professional, how to deal with people's reactions, her sisters questions, our own prejudiced minds about what is acceptable, possible or normal in this world.
At the end of each of those sometimes lighthearted and funny, sometimes helpless and angst-ridden conversations, it only became clear that all we could do was learn from the only specialist in this particular field: Kala herself (or Maxi himself). It also helped to re-read the somewhat worn into a cliche(from hanging on too many Eco-toilet walls) poem by Khalil Gibran about our children.
Yes, it never hurts to challenge my own prejudiced mind and do some good old fashioned Kumbaya-ing along with ageing hippies from my own generation in order to get in touch with the wisdom of my heart-center. Read it again, if you haven't done so in a while and you might be surprised what suddenly jumps out at you, infused with new meaning. This was the one sentence that got me:
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
Where I may have understood this sentence on a purely intellectual level before, it now brought home a whole new emotion filled meaning. Instead of worrying about my daughter, because she won't conform with a socially accepted image of a girl/woman that is ultimately me (more or less, if you don't know too much about me that is :-)) - I can use this unique opportunity to learn how to become more like her.
I have never in my life come across a person who is so true to herself: uncompromisingly, happily and unconcerned about what anybody may think. Where I have to work hard to overcome my life long conditioning to fit the social mould, striving to eventually become my true empowered self, my daughter is still effortlessly authentic. Even when faced with the many challenges that come with being "different", she reacts only with humor and wisdom (or a well aimed punch to the head if her still limited vocabulary fails her from time to time - which I am NOT encouraging of course - but can't help admiring :-))
When told by a friend's mother, that she is not a "real" boy because she does not have a penis (really!) - she calmly replied: So? I am going to buy one at Woolworth.... (in the newly opened penis department - in case you didn't know). I could not have suggested a better response to her - and she came up with this within miliseconds of the offending remark!
So from today on I make the conscious decision to quit worrying about her - and start trusting in her.
To go with the flow and at the pace she decides she wants to grow.
Hoping that she will be happy in HER body as she grows up, as the idea of having to chop off bits here and add other bits there really scares me - but for today I am not challenging this remnant of my own conditioning as we are nowhere near that bridge.
Today I am happy that I have a daughter who chooses to be a beautiful, strong, happy boy with a heart big enough for the whole world and it's neighbouring planets.
And who knows: by tomorrow we might all decide to become superheroes and wear our Pyjamas to work....
I don't want Barney at my party anymore, I want a Spiderman Party, because I am a boy.
As it was only half past five in the morning, on a dark and gloomy winters day, I just yawned and mumbled: oh, that's nice darling, let's talk about it later.
Hoping of course that she'd forget all about it by breakfast time, as we had already booked the themed Barney venue including a garish purple dinosaur cake. But as the day progressed she asked me at 5 minute intervals whether I had organised her Spiderman party, giving me no choice but to phone the party people and pray that by Saturday she won't turn into a frog and we'd have to spray the walls green and all wear gumboots to her pond party....
Now I know some things about phases and stages in a three year olds life as I have been there before with Leah, who transformed from princess to helicopter pilot to fairy to brat-girl and back again within days.
But Kala showed an impressive amount of consistency in all the 7 or so days leading up to her birthday party. Not only did she stick with the I-am-now-a-boy theme, she raised the bar by changing her name to Maxi and only responding to her own given name for long stretches of time - without prior notice of course.
If it was a Maxi-day, she would simply ignore any comments, suggestions or questions when addressed as Kala. There were moments during the first couple of days, when I was getting worried about her hearing or her ability to concentrate or some new form or autism, only to realise that I had called her by the wrong name. As soon as I would repeat whatever I had said but addressed Maxi instead of Kala, she'd immediately engage with a distinct undertone of buoyant glee and a triumphant glimmer in her eye.
On her birthday she finalised her transformation by refusing to wear anything that had the color pink in it, anything with flowers, butterflies or fairies, no skirts or ruffles or leggings or t-shirts that could be mistaken for dresses. Which pretty much ruled out her entire wardrobe.
Except for her new Spiderman Pyjamas, which came in handy as her chosen party outfit for the day.
Needless to say, the party was a great success. Barney was finally reunited with Spiderman - apparently they had been separated at birth - , our new 3 year old boy came officially out and she might have even helped one or two boy- princesses along in the process....
After the life changing event, I packed away the pyjamas and sort of hoped that life would now resume in it's old ways, where Kala is just Kala and the Spiderman persona retires until her next birthday (or maybe her final coming out party at 16 or so....).
Of course it did not turn out this way, otherwise, what's the point of blogging about it, right? The next day, she demanded her pyjamas back and I could only coax her into getting dressed in fairly neutral clothes by offering a trip to the next department store to stock up on themed boy's outfits.
From here on there was no looking back. It has been over 6 months now, and we had to invest in new shoes (only Ben 10 flip flops or bafana-socker-shoes in her cupboard), buy a truly scary pirate cap and even cut her hair for the first time in her life as she was threatening to take scissors to her own head.
We had heated discussions amongst us and with friends and fellow parents about how far and how long we could let this go on for without consulting a professional, how to deal with people's reactions, her sisters questions, our own prejudiced minds about what is acceptable, possible or normal in this world.
At the end of each of those sometimes lighthearted and funny, sometimes helpless and angst-ridden conversations, it only became clear that all we could do was learn from the only specialist in this particular field: Kala herself (or Maxi himself). It also helped to re-read the somewhat worn into a cliche(from hanging on too many Eco-toilet walls) poem by Khalil Gibran about our children.
Yes, it never hurts to challenge my own prejudiced mind and do some good old fashioned Kumbaya-ing along with ageing hippies from my own generation in order to get in touch with the wisdom of my heart-center. Read it again, if you haven't done so in a while and you might be surprised what suddenly jumps out at you, infused with new meaning. This was the one sentence that got me:
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
Where I may have understood this sentence on a purely intellectual level before, it now brought home a whole new emotion filled meaning. Instead of worrying about my daughter, because she won't conform with a socially accepted image of a girl/woman that is ultimately me (more or less, if you don't know too much about me that is :-)) - I can use this unique opportunity to learn how to become more like her.
I have never in my life come across a person who is so true to herself: uncompromisingly, happily and unconcerned about what anybody may think. Where I have to work hard to overcome my life long conditioning to fit the social mould, striving to eventually become my true empowered self, my daughter is still effortlessly authentic. Even when faced with the many challenges that come with being "different", she reacts only with humor and wisdom (or a well aimed punch to the head if her still limited vocabulary fails her from time to time - which I am NOT encouraging of course - but can't help admiring :-))
When told by a friend's mother, that she is not a "real" boy because she does not have a penis (really!) - she calmly replied: So? I am going to buy one at Woolworth.... (in the newly opened penis department - in case you didn't know). I could not have suggested a better response to her - and she came up with this within miliseconds of the offending remark!
So from today on I make the conscious decision to quit worrying about her - and start trusting in her.
To go with the flow and at the pace she decides she wants to grow.
Hoping that she will be happy in HER body as she grows up, as the idea of having to chop off bits here and add other bits there really scares me - but for today I am not challenging this remnant of my own conditioning as we are nowhere near that bridge.
Today I am happy that I have a daughter who chooses to be a beautiful, strong, happy boy with a heart big enough for the whole world and it's neighbouring planets.
And who knows: by tomorrow we might all decide to become superheroes and wear our Pyjamas to work....
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The house at the end of the rainbow - my first Waldorf birthday (tears and all)
It was Leah's school birthday a while ago - and quite a build up to an event I did not even know existed until I joined Waldorf. Leah was getting more wriggly and restless and excited as the big day approached. I assumed it was the prospect of a pink chocolate cake (yes, it's possible - ask me!)with loads of smarties and jellytots that got her all hyped - little did I know!
A school birthday, I was told, is when each child receives a little gift from her classmates - self made of course or "found" (during the last 3 terms with about a birthday a week, we diligently crafted away for the first two birthdays, and then came to heavily rely on the "found" part, which stretched to found in cupboards, drawers and even found amongst our very own toys).
So now it was our turn to present the cake and carry home the golden basket of self made or found little treasures. I dutifully dropped child and cake off at the normal time and was told to come back at 11:45 for a little birthday celebration. In my mind that was the collecting of gifts, cutting of the cake, some candles and a song or two and then home.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived at 11:48 slightly out of breath (not because I was expecting the Cake Cutter to drop at 11:45 sharp but because I am German and it is genetically impossible for me to be late ) to a candle lit circle of little people all gathered around an altar with a fairy land display of angels and beautifully colored silk scarves next to a golden throne where my birthday princess was seated in a golden gown with a golden crown between her two birthday angels also in golden gowns but with slightly smaller golden crowns - so as to not upset the birthday hierarchy!
No cake in sight I might add as this was devoured at snack time (I found out later). I felt sligthly deceived and a little apprehensive of a birthday celebration without the birthday cake, which I had hand baked (ok, I confess: woolies chocolate cake mixture) and decorated with much enthusiasm so it would be the shining center piece of the event with me receiving much praise from the teacher of course.
These phantasies of mine were shattered as I was ushered with only a hint of a reproach from the teachers kindly eyes (for being late !!!) to a little chair just outside the circle and left to watch in awe as the ceremony unfolded.
My golden vision of a daughter floated passed me, led by her birthday angels along her birthday land to rest on her throne - and myohmy what a queenly walk it was! Not even a glance in my direction of course and all cool, queenly, 6-year old composure. As the first tear started to creep into my left eye, there might have been the hint of a small knowing smile on her candle lit face but that could have just been a trick of the light.
So there she was walking to little bells ringing and little voices singing (something or another about a little child being born) and I was amazed at the mere logistics of it all: 20 preschool kids beautifully coordinated and not a note or a tinkle out of place (they had clearly done this before!). Then the teacher started to jump into action and the floodgates truly opened. This, my dears is the story (get the tissues)
There was once a little star, her name was Lah and she was living with her star friends in the house at the end of the rainbow. When it was time for her to be born, her guardian angel came to her and said: Leah, it is time for you to begin your journey down to earth and your journey is going to be different as it will be an extra long one. You are not only going to have one mummy, you are going to have three mummies waiting for you(insert gasps of envy from the audience here- and add to it my slight feeling of doom as Leah had specifically asked me NOT to bring up her adoption - but I needn't have worried - her little face glowed with pride as her classmates listened in awe to her special story).
And the little star Leah said: but I am worried! What if I miss all my star friends and my home at the end of the rainbow?
And the guardian angel said to her: Don't worry , when your journey on this earth is finished, you will come back to the house at the end of the rainbow where all your star friends will be waiting for you.(insert: suppressed sobbing noise from the little chair outside the circle)
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's tummy mummy ("whats her name" - voice from the audience. "Shhhht QUIET, doesn't matter" - hiss from the teacher)
AND THE GUARDIAN ANGEL went to Leah's tummy mummy and he said to her: A little child will be born to you. Leah's tummy mummy said:" this is so beautiful, I will love and protect her while she is in my tummy but I am too young to look after a child and I will need help.
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's kangaroo mummy and said: a little child will be born and you shall look after her for a little while. And Leah's kangaroo mummy was so happy and excited and was looking forward to holding Leah in her arms.
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's real mummy and dad and told them that Leah would finally come home to them. Leah's mummy and dad were so happy and overjoyed at the good news: Oh we can't wait for Leah to come to us, they cried!
And then Leah started her journey onto this earth -
At this point the teacher took the little angel from the altar and started walking her along the silk scarves. I am a little unclear on the correct order of what happened next as I was a mess of streaming tears and barely suppressed hiccup-sobs trying desperately to hold it all together and not to embarrass my princess in front of her whole class - so this is what I remember of the rest of the ceremony:
Leah (the little puppet angel in the teachers hands) went passed the blue star (or red or orange or golden or yellow or green....) and the star gave her the gift of grace (or strength or beauty of kindness or music...). Each silk scarf represented another star in all the colors of the rainbow and each star gave Leah a gift.
Finally Leah arrived on earth and was born to Amelia, who held her in her arms for a short while and loved her. And then her Kangaroo mummy held Leah in her arms for a little while longer and loved her so much. And then it was time for Leah to come into her real mummie's arms and her mum and dad were so happy that she was finally home with them and that they could be a family!
The story still went on with the teacher recounting little details of each year of Leah's life - which I had written down for her (obviously not knowing what she needed them for - and why did I not ask???) and a candle was lit for each of her years. At the end all the children sang some more and Leah was walked by her birthday angels out of the circle. Suddenly I became aware of Alan sitting beside me and the noise of 20 odd chairs being moved and little people running around ....
and Leah coming towards me with her basket of gifts, cool as a cucumber, asking in a matter of fact voice : so, did you see it, mama?
I somehow pushed passed her and grabbed the teacher in a big wet clinging hug - which she gracefully reciprocated for a couple of seconds after which she gently disentangled herself from my hot grasp and turned me towards my daughter (who was of course rolling her eyes at me and asking, can we go now mama?)
So that was it: I am hooked now. A waldorf disciple like you have never seen before. Ready to knit or sew or stitch whatever anybody throws at me for the next 11 years of my life and then some (if Kala decides to join that is).
And to imagie we'll get to do it all again next year ! Only this time I will be prepared (no mascara and a handbag full of tissues).
Happy Holidays everyone!!
A school birthday, I was told, is when each child receives a little gift from her classmates - self made of course or "found" (during the last 3 terms with about a birthday a week, we diligently crafted away for the first two birthdays, and then came to heavily rely on the "found" part, which stretched to found in cupboards, drawers and even found amongst our very own toys).
So now it was our turn to present the cake and carry home the golden basket of self made or found little treasures. I dutifully dropped child and cake off at the normal time and was told to come back at 11:45 for a little birthday celebration. In my mind that was the collecting of gifts, cutting of the cake, some candles and a song or two and then home.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived at 11:48 slightly out of breath (not because I was expecting the Cake Cutter to drop at 11:45 sharp but because I am German and it is genetically impossible for me to be late ) to a candle lit circle of little people all gathered around an altar with a fairy land display of angels and beautifully colored silk scarves next to a golden throne where my birthday princess was seated in a golden gown with a golden crown between her two birthday angels also in golden gowns but with slightly smaller golden crowns - so as to not upset the birthday hierarchy!
No cake in sight I might add as this was devoured at snack time (I found out later). I felt sligthly deceived and a little apprehensive of a birthday celebration without the birthday cake, which I had hand baked (ok, I confess: woolies chocolate cake mixture) and decorated with much enthusiasm so it would be the shining center piece of the event with me receiving much praise from the teacher of course.
These phantasies of mine were shattered as I was ushered with only a hint of a reproach from the teachers kindly eyes (for being late !!!) to a little chair just outside the circle and left to watch in awe as the ceremony unfolded.
My golden vision of a daughter floated passed me, led by her birthday angels along her birthday land to rest on her throne - and myohmy what a queenly walk it was! Not even a glance in my direction of course and all cool, queenly, 6-year old composure. As the first tear started to creep into my left eye, there might have been the hint of a small knowing smile on her candle lit face but that could have just been a trick of the light.
So there she was walking to little bells ringing and little voices singing (something or another about a little child being born) and I was amazed at the mere logistics of it all: 20 preschool kids beautifully coordinated and not a note or a tinkle out of place (they had clearly done this before!). Then the teacher started to jump into action and the floodgates truly opened. This, my dears is the story (get the tissues)
There was once a little star, her name was Lah and she was living with her star friends in the house at the end of the rainbow. When it was time for her to be born, her guardian angel came to her and said: Leah, it is time for you to begin your journey down to earth and your journey is going to be different as it will be an extra long one. You are not only going to have one mummy, you are going to have three mummies waiting for you(insert gasps of envy from the audience here- and add to it my slight feeling of doom as Leah had specifically asked me NOT to bring up her adoption - but I needn't have worried - her little face glowed with pride as her classmates listened in awe to her special story).
And the little star Leah said: but I am worried! What if I miss all my star friends and my home at the end of the rainbow?
And the guardian angel said to her: Don't worry , when your journey on this earth is finished, you will come back to the house at the end of the rainbow where all your star friends will be waiting for you.(insert: suppressed sobbing noise from the little chair outside the circle)
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's tummy mummy ("whats her name" - voice from the audience. "Shhhht QUIET, doesn't matter" - hiss from the teacher)
AND THE GUARDIAN ANGEL went to Leah's tummy mummy and he said to her: A little child will be born to you. Leah's tummy mummy said:" this is so beautiful, I will love and protect her while she is in my tummy but I am too young to look after a child and I will need help.
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's kangaroo mummy and said: a little child will be born and you shall look after her for a little while. And Leah's kangaroo mummy was so happy and excited and was looking forward to holding Leah in her arms.
Then the guardian angel went to Leah's real mummy and dad and told them that Leah would finally come home to them. Leah's mummy and dad were so happy and overjoyed at the good news: Oh we can't wait for Leah to come to us, they cried!
And then Leah started her journey onto this earth -
At this point the teacher took the little angel from the altar and started walking her along the silk scarves. I am a little unclear on the correct order of what happened next as I was a mess of streaming tears and barely suppressed hiccup-sobs trying desperately to hold it all together and not to embarrass my princess in front of her whole class - so this is what I remember of the rest of the ceremony:
Leah (the little puppet angel in the teachers hands) went passed the blue star (or red or orange or golden or yellow or green....) and the star gave her the gift of grace (or strength or beauty of kindness or music...). Each silk scarf represented another star in all the colors of the rainbow and each star gave Leah a gift.
Finally Leah arrived on earth and was born to Amelia, who held her in her arms for a short while and loved her. And then her Kangaroo mummy held Leah in her arms for a little while longer and loved her so much. And then it was time for Leah to come into her real mummie's arms and her mum and dad were so happy that she was finally home with them and that they could be a family!
The story still went on with the teacher recounting little details of each year of Leah's life - which I had written down for her (obviously not knowing what she needed them for - and why did I not ask???) and a candle was lit for each of her years. At the end all the children sang some more and Leah was walked by her birthday angels out of the circle. Suddenly I became aware of Alan sitting beside me and the noise of 20 odd chairs being moved and little people running around ....
and Leah coming towards me with her basket of gifts, cool as a cucumber, asking in a matter of fact voice : so, did you see it, mama?
I somehow pushed passed her and grabbed the teacher in a big wet clinging hug - which she gracefully reciprocated for a couple of seconds after which she gently disentangled herself from my hot grasp and turned me towards my daughter (who was of course rolling her eyes at me and asking, can we go now mama?)
So that was it: I am hooked now. A waldorf disciple like you have never seen before. Ready to knit or sew or stitch whatever anybody throws at me for the next 11 years of my life and then some (if Kala decides to join that is).
And to imagie we'll get to do it all again next year ! Only this time I will be prepared (no mascara and a handbag full of tissues).
Happy Holidays everyone!!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Power of Anger
Bath time at the end of the day was like negotiating a mine field after a whole week of sleep deprivation: from undressing, to brushing teeth, to washing, to getting out of the bath and putting cream on - there was always something I totally blew. And subsequently got shouted at for. Sometimes I ignorede the outbursts and simply got on with bath time. At other times I resorted to terrible threats: mama is going to be REALLY angry (yeah, right!) no tv, no reading in bed for years to come (haha, who cares, she's never going to stick it out....) So of course, nothing worked.
At some point on day 7 or 10 or 500, I finally cracked and shouted back that I was sick and tired of being shouted at every single evening and anyway, I had enough of this and they could just get themselves to bed without my annoying presence. And stormed out of the bathroom.
Which obviously did not help.
At all.
Two seconds later, I found myself crouched on the flooded bathroom floor, hugging two sopping wet and sobbing bodies to my heart, assuring them in the most soothing of voices (hoarse and sore from shouting outburst) that I was sorry, and they were so right: no mama was NEVER allowed to shout at her children. Ever. And could they please forgive me (Nohohohoho) and sorry and sorry and sorry.
When they eventually passed out, still muttering "naughty mama" with their last waking breaths - I felt guilty and exhausted and was wondering what on earth was going on. With me? With Leah?
I realised that I had fallen into one of the many traps of motherhood, where we allow our primal instincts to jump to our defence (on about the level of a 5 year old) instead of applying our better judgement .
I also realised that my bad parenting moment was a direct result of my residual problem with: A N G E R
Growing up, it was a total taboo to ever express anger towards my parents. It was regarded as disrespectful to even critisize them, leave alone shout or rant at them. There was no acceptable outlet for anger (not for girls anyway) - and what I learned was to bottle it all up and pretend it did not exist.
As a result of this early conditioning, I -like so many women of my genertion - never learned how to express anger in a healthy and appropriate way or - on the other side of the coin - how to stomach somebody elses anger in a calm and respecful manner. As women we tend to channel our anger into competitive dieting and being "bitchy" towards one another. Our anger hardly ever translates into power and healthy aggression but tends to meander undgerground in sulking or "mood swings" explained away by the experts as pre/post or peri menstrual/menopausal symptoms. An angry woman is a symptom. And often pills are the commonly accepted remedy.
And where does it all start? With the little girl being told not to ever shout out her anger at her mother (and her father), to be quiet and respectful, to be "sensible" and sweet and never think an aggressive thought. As I was contemplating this sad truth, it dawned on me that I was setting my daughters up to repeat my history with anger. Which is the last thing I would want for them.
I also realised that my reactions to Leahs anger were to either punish (or threaten to) or ignore her outbursts, because in my adult world they did not make sense.
Where I always tried to acknowledge her feelings of sadness no matter how benign the reasons (to me anyway) because sadness does not "threaten" or "attack" me, I never gave the same safe space to her anger.
My mind invariably finds a way to shut down any reasons anybody in the world would be allowed to be angry with me - leave alone a little girl who is shouting at me because I put cream on the wrong side of her leg first. Instead of acknowledging her anger and letting her be with it, I ignore it (because in my adult world it is ridiculous to shout at somebody because of the logistics of putting cream on a leg) or I argue with her and tell her she can't be angry because of something so silly.
And this is why there had to be so many of these outbursts. I never allowed her to just be angry with me FOR NO PARTICULAR REASON, at least none that was apparent to me - I am sure she finds me intensely annoying lots of the time for her own good reasons. What I also did not take into account ever, was the fact that children can not always voice their anger in a way that makes sense to us. Feelings that overwhelm them during the day, when we are not with them, might just surface in the evening (hence: suicide hour - duuuh!) and to suffocate those feelings by trying to apply adult reasoning to them..... you horrible mama, just go live in the forest with the other witches and think about what you ve done to your sweet little children for the next 200 years....
So my resolution for the next couple of days was to allow her anger and see where this would take us.
This is what happened:
The next morning, we were about to get into an argument about what clothes to wear. Normally, in the spirit of just getting on with things simply to be able to leave the house before lunchtime, I avoid confrontations early in the morning and distract or bribe or threaten to get the result that I want, which is a dressed and fed child (two of them actually) in the car by 8am. Not so this time. When she started complaining about having to wear long sleeves, I did nothing, but insisted long sleeves had to be worn, fully expecting her to rebel. Predictably, she started shouting, she hated long sleeves and I was horrible and she did not want to see me ever again. I did not disagree with her nor did I demand she stop shouting at me. Instead I stayed with her and when I finally got the chance I said: you are really angry with me, I can hear how very angry you are.
Which was followed by a re-energised outburst: Don't talk to me, don't even look at me.
So I averted my eyes a little trying not to smile ( because - believe it or not - in this moment I only felt huge love for her and the biggest admiration for the power of her anger) and let her shake her little fists in front of my face, telling her again that I found her anger very strong and even a little scary. She now actually started glowing and sizzling in a sort of alien-movie-special-effects way. She then took me by the hand and sat me down on a chair (similar to what I do when my children have to sit on the mat - firm but absolutely careful not to hurt me). Now she was at eye level with me (clever move!!!) and could shout the rest of her anger right into my face.
I just sat there and processed it all, feeling a little shaky and emotional - because I never in my life had allowed anybody to be angry with me leave alone actually love them throughout the whole process. Maybe other parents do this all the time, but for me this was the biggest lesson ever (so far). After not even a minute on the chair ( a long minute that is) her anger clearly peaked and after that her heart wasn't in it anymore. I could feel that she just carried on for the fun of it and told her that my ears were actually starting to hurt now and that I would just get on with getting dressed in the meantime. I invited her to come and join me in the bathroom when she was not feeling so angry anymore. I also told her that I loved her and that no matter how angry she was with me, I would always always always love her.
Surprisingly, she let me talk without starting to shout again, she just sort of looked into the corner of the room furthest away from me, with a big sulk on her face. But I could detect a hint of a smile around her mouth when I said that I was impressed with how strong she was when she was angry. I then left the room (without storming or being angry myself this time) and not even 1 minute later she joined me in the bathroom and started chatting about "baking day" at school - as if the last 15 minutes had never happened.
I was truly amazed. The rest of the morning was a breeze, and on our way to school we even talked a little about how we sometimes get angry and it just feels good to shout. I told her again how strong she was in her anger - as this really seemed to be her biggest sense of achievement in it all: to feel her own strength in her anger.
The evening outbursts stopped - (well not entirely of course, but ever so often I get a break ) and from now on, whenever my kids need to be angry with me, I try and make the time to face their anger and love them for it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I am still so overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of anger towards me that my defense mechanisms kick in and I deflect or avoid it - and that's ok too, because in this process I am also allowing myself to be who I am (i.e. emotionally damaged and far from perfect) but generally we are on a much healthier course now.
So I am declaring this month of November the official month to celebrate anger in my family. Anybody care to join?
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
....you don't know what it's like not to be adopted.....
In the movie "And then she found me" the adopted sister (helen hunt) says to her brother, who is the biological son of their parents:
You don't know what it's like to be adopted.
The brother simply replies:
And you don't know what it's like not to be adopted....
At the time I saw the movie, I somehow liked the answer but did not understand it's implications. Now, years later, as I am reading through the posts on our FB group about "trans racial adoption/fostering" - I find a deeper truth in it.
Ever since I have started talking to adoptees, I have been feeling uneasy and sad about the fact that my life choice to adopt rather than to procreate, which was made out of a whole hearted "yes" to life and it's many possible roads and pathways, seems to be at the root of so much heart ache, despair and pain - for adopted children.
I am wondering if this seemingly "negative" side to adoption might be one of the reasons that too many people regard adoption as a "last resort", when all else fails and after they have often spent mind boggling amounts of money on artificial ways of conceiving. Is it a fear to adopt rather than the imagined need to have a biological offspring, that makes people shy away from the adoption option?
I was also wondering at some point- had I heard all these stories before I chose to adopt - would I still have made this choice - or would I have opted for the seemingly easier road of giving birth to my children through my body?
Would this have saved me from challenges and problems around adoption and even more so cross cultural adoption? Absolutely.
Would this have made my life and my children's lives easier or even better.
I don't believe this for a moment.
I don't know what it's like to be adopted.
But I know what it's like not to be adopted.
I grew up in my biological family. Some might regard this as a privilege. I do and I don't.
I don't see an inherent difference in adoptive and biological parents.
There are as many different parents as there are parents in the world: bad parents, ignorant parents, indifferent parents and loving parents - but how a child comes to them does in no way define their ability to be a loving parent.
Or to put it bluntly - a "bad" parent to an adopted child will be an equally "bad" parent to a biological child.
And by "bad" parent I am not talking about a possible lack of material support or a need for grand shows of affection - but a missing heart connection to their child.
It is true that love can not solve the problems that and adopted child might feel about being the one standing out in a crowd, or about blank spaces in their past that might never be filled in. But love - a true heart connection to a parent - can create the environment in which these problems can be openly acknowledged and dealt with.
At the same time, love can not solve the problems a child growing up in their biological family might feel about standing out in a crowd or about their parents divorce or the fact that they don't know their father.... (think about the increasing number of sperm donor babies and how they will feel about "blank spaces" in their history)
Every child comes with their own set of problems and challenges in life. We as parents can only love them the best way we know how to. What has shaped us shapes our ability to love.
Where a mother or a father have lost their connection to who they essentially are, they can not instill in their child a love for who she is and as an adult this child will battle with feelings of "not being enough" and "not belonging".
For adopted children, at some point in their lives, these feelings might make sense , because after all, they have not been born into this family.
For me they did not.
Growing up, I felt alienated, misunderstood, and basically not seen at all as my parents tried to "raise" me as the child they wanted to have rather than the child I was.
Through my teenage years I wished I was adopted so I could leave them and find my "real" family. Somewhere out there, I felt, had to be a mother and a father who really loved me for who I was.
Today I have come to understand my parents limitations as a result of the trauma they experienced as "war-children" - with absent fathers and mothers barely surviving, stranded in camps or as refugees on the road.
Today I don't need my parents to survive and this (and years of therapy :-)) enables me to find compassion and forgiveness and reconnect with the love that every small child has in her heart for the people who care for her - without judgement.
Today I have found my real family in my children and my husband and my friends - my whole new adopted family.
So I am putting it out there - (and as I am writing this, I know I am treading on thin ice here as I in no way wish to challenge what people share about their heart felt emotions ) - that growing up in the unique circumstances we all do, adopted or not, creates sadness, trauma and suffering throughout our life's journey - and being adopted can be one of many and the most obvious explanations for feelings of alienation, disconnection and confusion all children experience.
Only for adopted children these feelings have an additional meaning as in many cases they also tie in with feelings of loss experienced early in their lives and the fantasy that there might be someone out there, who could be the missing link, the perfect parent, who might just give them the sense of belonging and "completeness" they have been longing for all their lives.
And this is where we are all essentially the same - adopted or not: we are forever looking for a lost connection and often don't realise that it is the connection to our own soul that is missing and that no one - no parent or lover or friend (or country or culture or cause) - can replace this connection. We sometimes get a taste of what it feels like to be connected, when we are overwhelmed by love - as children, lovers or parents. But inevitably this passes and we are stranded yet again searching for the missing link to our own souls.
As parents we will always make mistakes. To be truthful about our limitations and have an open mind and heart always with our children is our biggest challenge. Adoption is not more or less difficult or problematic or rewarding or beautiful than having biological children - every family has it's own miracles and challenges .
I have always felt that adopting a child in today's world makes more sense than creating a new life. Adopting does not create more problems than bringing a child into this world. Just different ones. And just the same amount of joy and love and sleeplessness.....
You don't know what it's like to be adopted.
The brother simply replies:
And you don't know what it's like not to be adopted....
At the time I saw the movie, I somehow liked the answer but did not understand it's implications. Now, years later, as I am reading through the posts on our FB group about "trans racial adoption/fostering" - I find a deeper truth in it.
Ever since I have started talking to adoptees, I have been feeling uneasy and sad about the fact that my life choice to adopt rather than to procreate, which was made out of a whole hearted "yes" to life and it's many possible roads and pathways, seems to be at the root of so much heart ache, despair and pain - for adopted children.
I am wondering if this seemingly "negative" side to adoption might be one of the reasons that too many people regard adoption as a "last resort", when all else fails and after they have often spent mind boggling amounts of money on artificial ways of conceiving. Is it a fear to adopt rather than the imagined need to have a biological offspring, that makes people shy away from the adoption option?
I was also wondering at some point- had I heard all these stories before I chose to adopt - would I still have made this choice - or would I have opted for the seemingly easier road of giving birth to my children through my body?
Would this have saved me from challenges and problems around adoption and even more so cross cultural adoption? Absolutely.
Would this have made my life and my children's lives easier or even better.
I don't believe this for a moment.
I don't know what it's like to be adopted.
But I know what it's like not to be adopted.
I grew up in my biological family. Some might regard this as a privilege. I do and I don't.
I don't see an inherent difference in adoptive and biological parents.
There are as many different parents as there are parents in the world: bad parents, ignorant parents, indifferent parents and loving parents - but how a child comes to them does in no way define their ability to be a loving parent.
Or to put it bluntly - a "bad" parent to an adopted child will be an equally "bad" parent to a biological child.
And by "bad" parent I am not talking about a possible lack of material support or a need for grand shows of affection - but a missing heart connection to their child.
It is true that love can not solve the problems that and adopted child might feel about being the one standing out in a crowd, or about blank spaces in their past that might never be filled in. But love - a true heart connection to a parent - can create the environment in which these problems can be openly acknowledged and dealt with.
At the same time, love can not solve the problems a child growing up in their biological family might feel about standing out in a crowd or about their parents divorce or the fact that they don't know their father.... (think about the increasing number of sperm donor babies and how they will feel about "blank spaces" in their history)
Every child comes with their own set of problems and challenges in life. We as parents can only love them the best way we know how to. What has shaped us shapes our ability to love.
Where a mother or a father have lost their connection to who they essentially are, they can not instill in their child a love for who she is and as an adult this child will battle with feelings of "not being enough" and "not belonging".
For adopted children, at some point in their lives, these feelings might make sense , because after all, they have not been born into this family.
For me they did not.
Growing up, I felt alienated, misunderstood, and basically not seen at all as my parents tried to "raise" me as the child they wanted to have rather than the child I was.
Through my teenage years I wished I was adopted so I could leave them and find my "real" family. Somewhere out there, I felt, had to be a mother and a father who really loved me for who I was.
Today I have come to understand my parents limitations as a result of the trauma they experienced as "war-children" - with absent fathers and mothers barely surviving, stranded in camps or as refugees on the road.
Today I don't need my parents to survive and this (and years of therapy :-)) enables me to find compassion and forgiveness and reconnect with the love that every small child has in her heart for the people who care for her - without judgement.
Today I have found my real family in my children and my husband and my friends - my whole new adopted family.
So I am putting it out there - (and as I am writing this, I know I am treading on thin ice here as I in no way wish to challenge what people share about their heart felt emotions ) - that growing up in the unique circumstances we all do, adopted or not, creates sadness, trauma and suffering throughout our life's journey - and being adopted can be one of many and the most obvious explanations for feelings of alienation, disconnection and confusion all children experience.
Only for adopted children these feelings have an additional meaning as in many cases they also tie in with feelings of loss experienced early in their lives and the fantasy that there might be someone out there, who could be the missing link, the perfect parent, who might just give them the sense of belonging and "completeness" they have been longing for all their lives.
And this is where we are all essentially the same - adopted or not: we are forever looking for a lost connection and often don't realise that it is the connection to our own soul that is missing and that no one - no parent or lover or friend (or country or culture or cause) - can replace this connection. We sometimes get a taste of what it feels like to be connected, when we are overwhelmed by love - as children, lovers or parents. But inevitably this passes and we are stranded yet again searching for the missing link to our own souls.
As parents we will always make mistakes. To be truthful about our limitations and have an open mind and heart always with our children is our biggest challenge. Adoption is not more or less difficult or problematic or rewarding or beautiful than having biological children - every family has it's own miracles and challenges .
I have always felt that adopting a child in today's world makes more sense than creating a new life. Adopting does not create more problems than bringing a child into this world. Just different ones. And just the same amount of joy and love and sleeplessness.....
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