Back To Life

Hey everyone,
It's been a loooong time since I've posted something on the blog. It was too difficult to write for the past few years, anyone whose gone through deep grief knows that even the most expressive and creative amongst us shut down once in a while. Yet time really does heal wounds, thank God. A little flicker of hope has ignited into a steady-burning fire inside my core. The pencil has been picked up, a new notebook opened. The stories are ready to come out.

I write because I have to. If I don't, I will wither and eventually die. Not in a physical sense, but a spiritual sense. There will be a shell of a person who functions in the world, but that facade won't be me. And I don't want to live life as an imposter, a thief of time and space and breath, nor do I want to begin a downward suicidal spiral into mere existence. Life is too precious. There is work to do, experiences to be had, meaning to be made, contributions to give. I write to give structure to the fabulously messy process called Life, to make meaning out of nonsensical situations and ordinary reality, and to expression passion and, ultimately, joy.

With that, the blog has officially opened for republication. I hope you enjoy.

xox me

Christmas Markets

We went to a Christmas market on Saturday. It seemed that the entire city was downtown, taking in the beauty of the lights and the festivities. It's been dark and cold for a while, perhaps everyone needed some good cheer to brighten up their spirits. Truly bustling, people were everywhere, swarming from the Hauptbahnhof onto the streets, taking in the sights of the season.

We ate some crepes with cherries, then stopped at a stand for hot roasted chestnuts. The line for Gluhwein was long, too long to manage with a toddler (another time). Sophie spotted the carousel and rode on the tiger and then the trolley. We saw the Nativity, a windmill with the Three Kings, and lots of Christmas trees. Then we saw a parade with Santa, the Snow Queen, and lots of life-sized gingerbread men and candy canes.

The liveliness and energy of the Christmas markets brings much joy and delight into December. Artists display beautiful (and plain) wares. The food stands are the best: sausages, potatoes, Gluhwein, sugared almonds. Colors and movement everywhere.

Colorful, Passionate and Bold meets Square. Practical. Good.

Spotted in the Hauptbahnhof: banners advertising Germany's national chocolate, Ritter Sport, with the slogan "Square. Practical. Good."

Now I like the idea of advertising chocolate, especially one as delicious as Ritter Sport. And I appreciate the large images of the different chocolates and the Germans smiling with delight as they hold a candy bar. But the logo? Square. Practical. Good. Eh?

When I think of chocolate, I think of a dark, delicious, satisfying treat. I think bliss. I think edible heat and sunshine. I think surprises of nuts, crunchy crisps, and hidden caramels. I think of basking in the sun and savoring each morsel. I think of the cocoa ripening in the South American heat, the creamy milk that tempers it, and the swirling of the ingredients in a copper cauldron over a low fire. I think explosion of joy. I do not think of squares, or practicality or merely good.

Dan explained that this appealed to Germans, and the logo was printed on the back of every Ritter Sport bar. Sure enough, it is. Yes, it's square. That's obvious by looking at the packaging. And why emphasize this point...? Nothing odd sticking out? Maybe Germans like squares, as the apartments and windows seem to be very square. I find squares to be a fine shape, but so are spirals, waves, and circles. Maybe it's a reference to being part of the cultural norm, where everything is neatly contained. No fuss, no muss, all tidy and clean.

Practical? Well....Germans do value practicality over almost everything else. The local hardware store is called "Praktiker", which means practical. How many times have I heard people commenting on a kitchen gadget or a blouse, "this is practical!" As if practicality is more important than beauty. Some people have seem insulted when I have given a gift that is NOT utilitarian, but indulgent, like a lovely bottle of wine or a small basket of fine chocolates. Would they rather have received socks or the Maggi Quick Fix cookbook? I wonder what lurks repressed in the German cultural psyche that results in the censorship of beauty and indulgence just for the sake of experiencing it.

Good? Uh, yes, the chocolate is good. Better than good, actually. So why stop at good? Is it again the reassurance that the consumer is buying a quality product, but the need for self-deprecation? What keeps the company from saying, "delicious" or "satisfying"? Room on the label? Or something more? The northern German culture is quick to criticize and find fault with something, never satisfied, rarely expressing an appreciation for the good that is right there. Maybe saying "good" is as much of a passionate outburst as we'll get.

And what's up with calling bittersweet, or semi-sweet, chocolate "half-bitter"? Again, the emphasis on what is wrong, what is painful, what is unpleasant. It's the combination of flavors that makes this type of chocolate special. Why not acknowledge the sweetness?

It's true that we Americans tend to focus on the sweetness and the sunshine a lot. Maybe too much so. Maybe we do hide from our cultural darkness, the pains that we do not want to see. We could do with a healthy dose of critical thinking, and we could take away the candy-coated jingoism, especially when it comes to real concerns. Like how to balance a budget and save for tough economic times. What to do about the wars. How to make sure that everyone has access to good quality healthcare and education and food. These are realities that the Germans have had to deal with, and continue to address. The result? A society where needs are met. It's a little gray sometimes, a lot reserved, and definitely judgmental. Square, practical, good? Maybe, maybe not. But basic needs are met. For everyone. Germans, Turks, Asians, Africans, even the wayward American. Maybe we Americans could temper our exuberant rogue Yahooism with some square, practical goodness. It's not a bad idea. It might enhance our joy of living.

As I whisk my chopped Ritter Sport bar into the cooking pot, making hot chocolate on this snowy gray day, I realize once again that I am living in a foreign land. A place whose values are similar to mine, yet different. I'm the outsider, looking in at a culture that works just fine. I just don't always understand it. It's bigger than being a square peg in a round hole. It's more like my color, passion, and bold laughter clashes with gray, efficient and stoic. I have no choice but to be myself.

In my dreams, we take the best from both worlds: the passion and creativity and friendliness of America, and blend it with the efficient systems and attention to details of Germany. Add the sun of California and the fabulous summers of Hamburg, and the seasons of Colorado and the spirituality of the ancients. Give me the transit and healthcare systems of Hamburg, but the food from California (adding Atlantic salmon and mackerel). Let my family live down the street, where we can walk to each others' homes and meet in the park for BBQs. Blend the warmth and spontaneity of Americans with the depth and presence of Germans. What a creation. How would Ritter Sport package that?

Smashing into That Cultural Wall--Part I

When I first moved to Germany, I was keen to learn all that I could about my new home. I ate new foods, sported some new glasses, took some German classes, and tried to incorporate German phrases and expressions into my vernacular. I studied maps, played CDs, listened to the radio, and cheered for both St. Pauli and HSV whenever a football game was on. When a tidbit of trivia or genuine cultural interaction was offered, I took it wholeheartedly.

But then I started to notice that my responses were met with surprise. They weren't what people expected to hear. Sometimes it was the words, the sentence structure or the intonation that threw people off...other times it was my very actions.

I learned that you don't smile on the street or nod to other mothers pushing babies in strollers. Don't talk with the cashier--she, and the other customers in queue, will wonder why you are taking up so much time. Don't strike up a conversation with the other parents in the park unless they initiate it; you are a stranger and why do you want to talk with me. Don't do anything that might intrude on someone else's privacy or their right to do XYZ. And, whatever you do, don't be loud.

A little problematic for someone from sunny California.

The other day, Dan's parents and sister, Sophie and I were in the park. A man and his little dog stood right by us. Sophie and the dog started to walk toward each other. Sometimes it's ok to pet dogs, other times not, so we always ask, and I said, "Bist du ein liebes Hund?"

"Have some respect!" retorted the man, yanked the dog's leash, and stomped away.

Stunned, I said to a sad Sophie, "some people and dogs are friendly, others are not. They did not want to play with us, but maybe another dog will."

Then I noticed my in-laws were trying not to laugh. "You just asked if that dog was a lover-dog." Ah. Liebes Hund = Lover-dog. Liebe Hund = nice dog. Won't make that mistake again.

Even though I have blond hair and blue eyes, my facial features tell that I'm not German. I don't wear my clothes with that panache, my walk swings to a different gait, I have to remember to use a fork to eat french fries. How many times have people innocently asked, "Where are you from?" Few expect to hear "United States", the shockwaves visibly flicker across faces accustomed to a display of stoicism.

"But you look Swedish/Russian/Danish/Ukrainian!" they exclaim. And I smile, "Yes, my ancestors are from Sweden and Russia, but I am an America."

"You German is so good!" they reply. "Americans usually don't speak German!" Oh God, how do I interpret this? My German is good, for an Amerikan Dumkopf? It really is good? No, not really...but I live in Germany, and I kind of have to learn the dominant language if I am going to buy groceries, take my kid to the doctor, or have any sort of life outside the house.

And then, nine times out of ten, whoever I'm talking to will correct my grammar. When did I give you permission to do that? While the intent maybe helpful, the action is not. Just let me speak and get the words out. Bunged up akkusativ or dative tense or correct, you still can understand the gist of what I'm trying to say. Lover-god or Nice-dog. Sometimes being supportive is more important than being correct.

I still get strange looks when I ask for tap water, or softly sing along to the song on the radio, or grimace when overhearing that the local high school is dangerous "because of all those foreigners." Hey, I'm one of them, and so's my kid. We might not be fulfilling a stereotype, but we are Auslanders, foreigners.

It's tough, it's tough, it is what it is. And I have it easy. I have a loving husband, great in-laws, and the toughness to make the best of almost any situation. What I bump into is minor league, but it gets tiring when you do feel like I have to constantly assess whether or not I'm doing the culturally appropriate thing. I'm beginning to "get" on a core level why some people choose not to join the dominant society. It's exhausting.

More on this at another time. The joy of the Christmas season has infused the house with a new delight.

Laterne, Laterne

Ich gehe mit meiner Laterne und meine Laterne mit mir... I go with my lantern and my lantern with me

-German folksong

We're entering the dark time of year. The newspapers report zero hours of sunshine. When it does appear through the clouds, the sun makes a low arc in the sky, at its zenith it's strength is that of a California sunrise. Throughout the day, the light is low, flat, and gray. By 4:30 in the evening, all is black. People scurry about in the cold, from one building to another, in search of warmth, friendship, light.

No surprise that the Germans have a holiday to bring in some cheer in what must be the dreariest month. Called "Laterne", or St. Martin's Day, it is a celebration of light and warmth, specifically the warmth that comes from the human heart. A time to remember how kindness can comfort even the most weathered soul.

The story goes that St. Martin was riding on a horse and saw a homeless man freezing in the snowstorm. Martin cut his coat in half so the man wouldn't die. That night, he dreamed that Jesus appeared wearing the torn coat that had been given away, and that Jesus spoke to the angels, saying "Here is Martin, the unbaptized Roman solider."

Giving away a coat might not be a big deal in warm California, but trust me. Here in cold cold Germany, that half a coat is a charitable act that means a lot.

Today, children celebrate St. Martin's day by making lanterns and going on a parade. We went to two celebrations: one sponsored by the local Opel car dealership (over 500 people!), and the other a family-friendly one by the neighborhood Martin Luther Church. Sophie made a lantern, complete with candle. We donned out thick ski parkas, hats and gloves, and met up with others at the church.

First, there was the bonfire. Large and bright, it cackled warmth. Kids gathered around and adults added more logs. Warmth and heat. A priest dressed as St. Martin appeared, and told the old stories about the holiday. We sang songs. Sophie was hungry, so we ate some Weinerwurst (sausage) and I drank Gluhwein, a hot spiced wine, yet another source of warmth. Then the band appeared, and it was time for the parade. The first song was "When the Saints Go Marching In", and we sang with gusto.

We marched around the rather big block, the band playing St. Martin's Day songs, kids dashing here and there or riding on their father's shoulders, mothers chatting with friends. Families, grandparents, and lots of seniors gathered at their windows to take in the celebration. The parade brought warmth to their homes.

Sometimes the most precious fire is the kindness of the human heart. The simple hello, a song, the friend who listens when you share a story. A coat in the snowstorm. Thank you, St. Martin.

Sophie Photos

Here's what you've really wanted. Photos of Sophie. Some of the pix are from our trip to Colorado in August, others in California, others here in HH. I know I've piled on a lot of writing, and thank you to folks who've read the postings and commented.

The catch is that the photos are surrounded by Sophie stories. Hee hee hee.

She likes to play with other children. Her cousin Ayan visited, and they got along fabulously. When she says her prayers at night, she says "thank you for..."and names the children she played with that day.

We've been waiting for today's milestone: Sophie told us with words that her diaper needed changing. Not that I couldn't smell it, but still exciting. We were riding the bus, and she looked at me with those big blue eyes and said, "Sophie has a wet diaper! Take off the old, put on the new." Oh man, if only we could. I wanted to reinforce her confidence and change the diaper right then and there, but it's a little impossible on public transit, especially the clean Hamburg busses. She didn't want to sit down (smart girl!), so she knelt on my lap for the 10 minute ride home. Hoping that this communication continues. Neither of us want to keep doing diaper checks. She's too old and proud for that kind of privacy invasion.

Sophie likes to go to the tropical aquarium (click for a link). It's wonderful. Since it's a tropical aquarium, there are animals from all over the tropics in interesting habitats. Lots of plants. It's warm (perfect for those cold winter days), and smells like Hawaii. You enter into a Caribbean house with Lorikeets and Ring-Tailed Lemurs. Then we go past the turtles and pythons to the mongoose. Sophie like to see the Nile Crocodiles, the leaf-cutter ants, and the green treefrogs. As she says, "we saw treefrogs munching on a leaf!" We tromp through the mine past the bats and spiders (yikes!) through the cave with the green snakes and bats (squeak!) to the submarine with portholes to a deep water exhibit. Then we go to the tropical reef and have a snack while looking at all the colorful fish. She says she wants to learn how to snorkle and swim in the reef. We hang out a while, then visit the sea horses, the jelly fish, and then go to the big auditorium where one gigantic wall is a deep water exhibit with sharks, mackerel, rays and more. Love it. If you visit us and the weather is cruddy, we'll go.

Autumn

Autumn arrived in Hamburg with the grace of a new-fallen leaf. Colors, colors everywhere. The days are crisp and cold, the mornings foggy, the mid-afternoon skies blue. The sun doesn't fully awaken until after 8 am, and it's getting dark earlier. Yet the days hold the warmth of the sun, and late afternoons are perfect for being out in the fresh air.

Sophie and I are ready for an explore. Long coats, scarves, hats and rainboots on, we tromp to the apple tree in the backyard to pick a fruit. Recently, the night temperature hovered around freezing, and this cold snap gave the fruit a jolt of flavor. Sophie spots an apple, and I lift her up so her little hands grasp it. With a tug, it's off, and after a cursory glance for worm-holes, she tries take the first bite. The skin is thick, so she hands it to me. I bite into the fruit flesh. A kiss of cold greets my lips, then sweetness. Something inside me awakens. Greedily, I want more, and crunch into the fruit again. Sophie looks up, big blue eyes appraising the situation, hands outstretched. She knows that Mom's got something good, and takes a nibble, then a chunk. We pass the apple back and forth, enjoying the flavors. I toss the core into the bushes. She tugs on her hat; I readjust it so it doesn't slide over her eyes. It's a game we play, something just for us.

We stop at the oak tree at the end of the walkway to collect acorns. The red squirrels won't mind, there's a buffet on our street alone. A dozen or so acorns go into the bucket. Then Sophie says, "Sophie in the bushes to pick Smashberries." She slips between some shrubs and tugs on a few remaining white round berries. She brings her quarry to the street, tosses them near her feet, and stomps them to smithereens with her right boot. Satisfied, she takes my hand, and we walk to the bridge.

"Trip, trap, trip, trap," Sophie and I sing as we approach the bridge. She takes the bucket, and places a handful of acorns on the wood railing. One by one, she tosses the acorns into the creek. "Satisfying plop!" she grins. We watch little twigs float in the water, and look for ducks. A spider wove a web connecting the bridge with a shrub. Pleased, Sophie takes my hand again, and we continue to the park.

Our little park is alive with wildness. Ruby rosehips glow on thornbushes, reminding us of summer's fiery heat. Leaves on the maple trees change almost before our eyes; the crown a dusty red, the mid-section a swirl of golds and greens, the lower branches cling to their fading green glory. Gone are the plums, marillens and blackberries. A duck waddles across the grass, and brown birds hop around a new patch of mushrooms. The blue sky is clear today.

Sophie dashes to the slide. I watch her climb, remembering that not so long ago, this same girl dared to play only in the sandbox, only on the rocking donkey, only on the carousel with Papa. Now she climbs to the top of the slide, tucks her feet under her, and zips down, bold and confident. She knows what to do.

A gust of wind sets loose a flurry of yellow leaves, and tickles my cheeks. My baby is no longer a baby. She's started preschool. She stirs the batter when we bake cookies, and holds her own cup of milk when she eats. She's figured out that some sounds are words, and words have meaning, and if she says "please", she'll probably get what she wants. She has her own thoughts and opinions, and wants to share them. She can spend time away from home, with other children, and thrive. As summer flowed into autumn, Sophie left infancy and has taken her first steps towards independence. Now it's my job to step to the side a bit so she can grow.

"Mama!" Sophie shrieks with a grin. I squat, arms outstretched, and she run as fast as she can into them. We hug and rock side to side. I kiss her head. She snuggles in, pauses, then wriggles away. "Come see!" she says, and takes my hand and leads me to the yellow leaves.