Once

Have you ever talked to a kid who has never heard of  The Red Hot Chili Peppers or The Beatles for that matter? You look at the kid as if maybe all is not right between those little ears and wonder how their exposure could be so incredibly narrow. Last week I had to look in the mirror at the space between my own ears to ask myself a similar question; how on earth did I miss out on the 2006 film Once? Or the lead actors/musicians Glen Hansard and Marketa Iglorva for that matter?

Although Once was produced in 2006 on a meager budget of $160,000, and didn’t really hit the streets running until 2007, it is far from a hidden Indy treasure. It won a 2008 Oscar for best original song, for God’s sake!

Once is the type of film that slowly opens your heart to the character’s struggles and leads you to a renewed sense of hope. Set in Dublin, the film is about an Irish busker who meets a Czech immigrant.  Although he plays great covers, she notices and appreciates his original songs. She is also a musician, and as a friendship and potential romance grows between them, they set out to record his works.

As a musician who has been enmeshed in the beauty of creating music with others, I was completely drawn to both Glen Hansard and Marketa Iglorva’s musical performances. Although the Oscar award winning track “Falling Slowly” was fantastic, I found myself on youtube more than once listening to “When Your Mind’s Made up.” Even though the lyrics are repetitive, the song drives me into a frenzy of creative energy. I find myself turning up the volume, my own energy surging as the song builds into a crescendo of the main chorus. A day later, I heard the same song down the hall emanating from my husband’s office. Clearly I wasn’t the only one taken with the music in our household.

You know you are doing something you love when you lose all sense of time. Jamming with other musicians is such a world and Once captures the essence of this experience on more than one occasion.

After watching the movie, I wanted to know if these two characters had lives outside the film and boy was I surprised to learn that Glen Hansard and Marketa Iglorva had a band together called The Swell Season. And on top of that, they were indeed a couple after making the film.

Upon reading this, I felt some great sense of victory, as if a heart warming fictional story had spilled over into reality. But I did not get to cherish this real love story for long, as further reading divulged that the relationship ended a few years later. Yet the friendship remained, as they continued to play music together.

And of course Glen Hansard isn’t just some unknown musician who was hired to do a movie. He is the founder of a famous Irish Rock Band called The Frames. He’s played all over the world, as a matter of fact.

If you feel like receiving bittersweet inspiration, then check out this film and the musicians!

9 out of 10.

Dutch headline news can really break through the ice

Tonight, I joined Arie Jan on the couch to watch the 8:00 news to catch up on world events. Something serious must be going on inside Holland, I thought, as there on the screen was a somber looking Dutch man speaking before an expansive collection of brightly colored microphones. His countenance, continuously lit up by flashes of light, suggested there were more reporters at this live news conference then there are Stroopwafels in Holland.

Had there been an international attack I had somehow missed out on? Or maybe Holland was pulling out of the European Union? Was Queen Beatrix okay? Was Holland sinking into the ocean at a faster rate than earlier calculated, putting us all in imminent danger? I tried to connect the gravity of the image before me with the weathery words I was picking up: lakes, water, ice, snow, freezing point, centimeters, volunteers, ice thaw.

“Oh My God,” I said to Arie Jan. “Is all of this about whether or not that big skating event will go forward?”

“I’m afraid so,” Arie Jan said. “The Dutch take their skating very seriously. Either that, or there’s not much going on in the world.”

Well, in the world of skating, Elfstedentocht is a big deal. It is described as the world’s largest speed skating competition, going through eleven cities and traversing close to 200 kilometers. And, it is only possible if the weather conditions are just right–e.g. if enough rivers and lakes and waterways that form a contiguous skating path through the eleven cities have reached a deep enough freeze.

Thus, it requires the cooperation of not only thousands of volunteers, but of mother nature herself providing the right conditions and the Elfstedentocht commission verifying that the conditions are suitable. And sadly, despite the one day of snow we had last week, and despite all of the Dutch already out there skating on every patch of frozen water they can find, the conditions were not yet up to par for the world’s largest speed skating competition to go forward.

But after 15 more minutes of continuous news coverage, I switched to BBC without too much flinching on my husband’s part to discover that indeed, the rest of the world was still out there, covering stories that had very little to do with speeding across the ice.

If you are Dutch and you are reading this right now, then my apologies to the insult I am bringing on your motherland. But really, 15 minutes of prime time news coverage for live footage on whether or not the 11 city skating event will go forward? These are the moments when living in Holland feels more like being a member of a provincial town where all eyes turn inward toward the upcoming parade or pageant, than an internationally renowned country that influenced far-reaching parts of the world through its seafaring, trading and business practices.

Now, if I only knew an elfstedentocht economist who could explain the monetary benefits of 200 kilometers of speed skating, or a sociologist or historian who could enlighten me on how this race is connected to the sinew that binds together the Dutch national spirit, then I might just see that elfstedentocht is not only plausibly linked to the origins of Dutch worldliness, but does indeed warrant 15 minutes of prime time.

A home of our own in the city

Sunday night we slept in our new home. We are still lacking lamps, dressers, a decent dining table and a slew of other items, but we have the essentials: beds and linens, a few chairs to sit on, boxes of toys and kitchen items, and each other. And we are happy.

I have never lived in such an urban location. Our home is attached to the large, modern church where I work, and unlike most Dutch flats that have windows at the front and back, our home runs sideways, with a wall of windows bringing in generous natural light on two levels. It stretches upwards with the bedrooms on the second floor. A large urban garden surrounded by a hedge creates a private green space amongst all the concrete, bike paths, streets and buildings.

At night, I hear the trams. Sometimes people talking. Noises from the church. Soon, these strange sounds will become habitual, a mix of elements necessary for proper sleep.

I watch Ezra in his new home and see unbridled, extreme relief. “Are all these things ours, mommy?” he asks again and again, just to make sure. Although they say children are much more flexible than we are, I know this whole move, and extended stays with friends and family, has taken it’s toll. Right now, he’d rather play in his room then go to the playground or play with other kids. He needs the time to claim his own space and redefine his relationship with the physical world around him. This home we can claim as our own.

Book Happy

Friday morning, I got up at 5:45 am to shower, get dressed, make tea, sit on the couch and call America. The phone rang four times before I heard a familiar voice pick up. I was soon on speaker phone listening to my girlfriends cheering because I had “joined them” for book club night.

Seeing that I’m now about 3,800 miles away as the crow flies from my book club, I am more of an honorary member, with rights to drop in on occasion. As most who are in book clubs will tell you, the experience is not only about reading a book together, but about being there with your friends. There is something deeply bonding about breaking bread, drinking wine, and discussing how the work of fiction or non-fiction moved you, or not.  It is also an opportunity to listen to the stories that emerge in response to the reading, deepening your understanding of each other; I didn’t know you lived in a funky loft in the bay area where you lead monthly poetry slams; Really? You have a fraternal twin? I had no idea you’ve interviewed so many famous authors, including the one we’re now reading.  And on top of this, our club is committed to cooking organic dishes from food within a 100 mile radius whenever possible; ingredients fresh from the back yard harvest or local farmer’s market (exceptions always made for wine and chocolate).

In this context, my international call into book club may seem a little sad, like a bone thin fashion model walking into the room just before Thanksgiving meal is served to inhale the sumptuous smells and leave again, without so much as a fork full or sip of wine; like trying to hold onto happier times. Yet, it was perhaps the most appropriate time to phone from abroad in search of happiness and connection. This group of women sitting around a candlelit table in Sonja’s house had just read Geography of Bliss, by NPR correspondent Eric Weiner. The book is about Weiner’s travels to nine countries that have been deemed by psychologists and economists as some of the happiest places on earth, and his investigation into what makes these particular people, or cultures, happy. The first country in the book? The Netherlands. You can see why I had to have this one last fling with book club.

I couldn’t locate a copy in the biblioteek (library) or the boekhandel (bookstore), so ordered a used copy online which was sent over from England, a country that didn’t make the happiness list.

I started the book the night it arrived, feeling rather special to be reading the chapter on the Netherlands in the Netherlands. Did you know that the World Database of Happiness  is located in Rotterdam, just thirty minutes away from where I now sit?  It seems the Dutch are really into happiness. But I was quickly annoyed by the shallow picture Weiner painted of my husband’s homeland, suggesting that legal prostitution, drugs and fervor for cycling were primary keys to understanding Dutch happiness. Although I got his point, it was clear to me there is so much more to it. Yet, in his defense, how much can one person tap into the soul of a nation’s happiness in a two week visit?

As I read further about countries like Bhutan and Iceland, I found his insights on happiness to be eye opening, and I soon found myself underlining passages here and there.  Because as any fine reporter would do within the freedom of their own book, he backed up his musings and criticisms with facts, research and quotes from numerous other books on the topic of happiness.

I wonder what one would discover if they traveled across the world researching the happiness one gains by being in a book club. The right book club can be an until-death-do-us-part experience. Take my mother-in-law, for example. She was in a book club for years. But when one of the members died, the group came to an end, as they were just too sad to go on without their dear friend. Another book club I know in Santa Barbara has also been meeting for years, and these women of all different ages, are a sisterhood of support that rallies behind their members through thick and thin, having emergency book clubs when a sister is in need. I dearly miss my book club and the pure happiness this group of women brought into my life every four to six weeks.

What is so special about this particular configuration? It’s not like a group discussion of a story is a new concept. That has been around since the beginning, both in oral traditions and as part of our written education system. I think what makes the book club movement so powerful is that you have a very personal, solitary experience of reading a book and then voluntarily bring that experience to a group. Not just any group, but a group you trust.  The book transforms into something much bigger, as each person brings their unique perspective and opinions to light. And trust is key to happiness, as Weiner points out. If you are surrounded by people you trust, then you are more likely to be happy. If you are surrounded by people you trust, who have made a commitment to read a book, cook an organic dish, purchase a bottle of wine, and meet up with you to have a heartfelt conversation, you become a bit of a contemporary tribe.

Sure. Sometimes book clubs don’t get around to the book, but a discussion still unfolds. The bonds grow deeper.

Now as I write about book club, I know why I felt a rush of excitement at church a month ago when a woman announced a book group forming at the church. I wanted to be book happy again, in a book club way. Thing is, although my Dutch is coming along swimmingly, I barely understood her announcement.

A book club, like a quality relationship, is something that can’t be rushed. You have to find the right group of people, whom you would like to potentially see for the rest of your life. A group of individuals you relate to and trust.  Perhaps another book club will emerge. In the meantime, I will still fancy myself a member of that great group of women back home, and drop in on them from time to time.

A time bomb detonates

The content of my current Dutch lessons is starkly different from any other language course I have taken. We cover topics like subsidies available through the government, dealing with the belasting dienst (tax office), whether or not it is okay to embrace unemployment as a lifestyle, assimilation, asylum seekers in the Netherlands, etc. These and other topics have led me to conclude that my class is designed primarily for people from lower income brackets immigrating into the country (sounds familiar) and/or those who have come here out of extreme necessity. Thus, odds are that behind some of those beautiful faces of my female classmates are stories so tragic that most of us have no experiences in which to equate (and are deeply blessed by this fact).

Last week the teacher assigned lesson eight: de wet. It sounds innocuous enough. Lesson eight. The one right after lesson seven, which was about receiving help from the government to pay the rent, and before lesson nine. But, de wet is not about how wet it can be here with all the rain, or some sort of slang the Dutch picked up back in their days in New York from the neighboring New Jerseyians. De wet is The Law.

At first, I thought this topic would be somehow refreshing after studying social services and taxes. I only have a vague sense of the laws here, which seem to me a bizarre mix of liberal idealism and indifference, enmeshed in an intricate web of bureaucracy. In my current state of ignorance of Dutch law, I take it for granted that the laws are similar to those in the U.S.: Don’t kill anybody; Don’t steal; Don’t get caught rolling through a stop sign, and so forth. In some countries, acting upon such assumptions of similarity could lead to no uncertain death by doing something as simple as speaking your mind or not dressing appropriately for your gender.

Quite often, we are asked to discuss new topics in the context of how they differ from our prospective homelands. Yet, I find many of the textbook questions invasive. For example: Do you have a job? If not, why? Do you receive a subsidy from the government? In some American dialects, this translates into “Are you a loser? Why?”

As I read through the questions about de Wet, it seemed to me the chances of a cultural time bomb going off in the classroom were pretty high.  For example: Hebben mannen en vrowen dezelfde rechten? (Do men and women have the same rights?) Lord. As I looked at my Afghani, Moroccan, Iraqi and Iranian classmates with their tightly wrapped head scarves,  I knew such a question would make for interesting, if not uncomfortable conversation. It was then that I realized I wouldn’t be the fly on the wall listening in on fascinating cultural exchange, but the sole American in the room, with fading highlights in my uncovered hair.

When I was asked to pose a question to a classmate, I skimmed the list, trying to find something less like a bloody scab cracking open and more like a general topic. Thus I chose this question: Are there countries with very little or no laws and rules?

I posed the question to an Iranian woman whose name I remembered. She usually spoke very little due to her limited Dutch. I will give her the name of Sayah for this post. As background, I had earlier learned that Sayah’s grandfather had four wives and 35 children. She is thus one of a multitude of grandchildren. She hadn’t mentioned how many siblings and cousins were in her generation, not to mention their collective offspring. But given the religious adherence to an Islamic version of  “be fruitful and prosper,” I’m imagining hundreds of first cousins. I don’t even know if there exists a wide angled lens wide enough to capture her whole family in one shot.

I would think if you come from a family this large, you would need to be tough, vocal. Edging your way into the conversation, asserting yourself at the dinner table to get your piece of the pie. More Morrocan, shall we say. Yet Sayah is meek, almost fearful in demeanor. During another class meeting where we went over prescriptions in Dutch, it came out that she has insomnia. She wasn’t alone. Several other students shared her condition. I wondered what could be so bad that she couldn’t sleep until daylight. I figured it was some sort of cultural difference, pressures of being a Muslim female with many responsibilities to serve everyone before yourself, if ever yourself. Most of the women with insomnia said they couldn’t get their thoughts to go away, making gestures of a wheel going round in round in their heads. I suggested meditation. I digress. An avoidance tactic I’m sure. I’m taking a deep breath as I think of how to share what happened next. Am I too Western? Do I just want to hear nice things? Am I that shallow? That trained in the discourse of niceties?

So in response to what I had deemed a middle of the road question–Zijn er ook landen met weining of geen wetten en regels? Are there countries with very little or no laws and rules?–Sayah started talking about haar vrienden (her friends) in Iran. Her body language changed as she struggled for the words in Dutch. She wrapped her fingers around her wrist, as if showing a bracelet. She spoke about a hospital and about friends hanging. I was confused. The teacher was confused. The other women who spoke Arabic dialects talked with Sayah in their native tongues, trying to interpret the details of her story. “Drie of vier vrienden elke dag. Ophangen.” I hoped dearly that  I misunderstood, but soon, the other women started adding in bits of information and confirming that my comprehension was spot on; Back in Iran, her friends had been hung. Three or four every day for a period of days. Men and women. Women with young children. No mercy. She was on the list of those considered to be dissidents. Those who had disagreed with something or someone, in most cases guilty by association.

However, she was also quite sick at the time and was taken to the hospital for her chronic asthma, as were her children. From there, she and her family were flown out of the country. She stayed several months in another country before seeking asylum in the Netherlands, where she has been ever since. I don’t know how long “ever since” is, but I want to find out.

Sayah spoke a little more about her family. There it was again. Her fingers wrapping around her wrists. Not bracelets. Handcuffs. Many of her family members were in prison and she had no means of contacting them. As we pieced this information together, Sayah reached into her bag for her inhaler and took a raspy breath, tears in her eyes.

It became clear to me what sort of thoughts were keeping Sayah up at night, why she couldn’t sleep until daylight. Not the daily responsibilities of a Muslim woman, but the murder of her friends and family. m and f. I can’t even put those two words in the same compartment of my mind. I push it outward.  I love my friends and family so much, I can’t take my empathy to the place of imagining it happening to me. The only murderous entity in my circle of friends and family is that horrible beast known as cancer–and you can fight cancer with the collective knowledge of doctors, scientists and spiritual resources from around the world. Many I know have fought it and won. Some are in the midst of a glorious battle. Others have lost the battle, but were surrounded by a compassionate society of friends and family during the process.

I realize too that Sayah is perhaps one of the strongest women among us. The strength of a survivor. I imagine the horror she is going through, though from a slightly removed place.  I feel the tightening of my tear ducts, the instant pressure of emotion swelling upward.

I want to say lots things, as do many of the other women in class. For once, I go Moroccan.  I blurt out my opinions and questions in paltry Dutch, my voice competing with all of the other women expressing their anger at the situation. The teacher is equally mortified. She uses words like vreselijk (horrible) and slecht (bad). I have the urge to donate money I don’t have to an Iranian human rights activist group.

What I eventually say is very American of me. “What can be done? How can this be stopped? If you are hung for voicing a dissident opinion, how can regime change ever come about?” Yet, it seems that we are seeing how it happens in Egypt, in Libya. Bloody uprisings where people die in the process of demanding change. And even then, there are no guarantees.

The class ends. Before I leave, I touch Sayah’s shoulder and just a bit of her long, burgundy headscarf. I say in my broken Dutch, “Thank you Sayah. Thank you for sharing such a personal experience with us.” I want to say I’m glad you are alive, that your children are alive, that your husband is alive. That this is a lot to be thankful for. But I keep my optimism in check. I think these things for her and as a Christian, I pray for a Muslim. That, and sharing her story with others.

I Promised Snow

When we had made our decision to move to the Netherlands, we developed a game plan on how to best acclimate our almost four year old to the world changing news: He would soon be leaving the land of his birth, his American family and friends, and the sunny central coast of California, home to year round locally grown organic produce and 365 day access to mild weather beaches. He would be moving to his father’s homeland, land of bitter cold and rain, tulips, bicycles, cafes filled with brooding philosophers, tolerance and . . . snow?

On the keen advice of Alice Tropper, his beloved Santa Barbara pre-school teacher, we spoke to him regularly about our move to Holland and what life would be like in the fatherland. We asked the entire Dutch side of the family still living in the Netherlands to send pictures so he could get to know their names and faces. We increased our Skyping sessions abroad and we shared regular stories and photos of Holland.  One of the pictures the family sent was of his 13 year old cousin Victor playing in the snow.

Suddenly, Ezra’s interest in Holland grew exponentially. When people asked him about Holland, his pat answer became “I’m going to build an igloo in Holland.” I’m not sure where this came from. We weren’t moving to Alaska to live with the Inuits, we were moving to rainy Holland. Yet, the photo of Victor in a good 5 inches of snow suggested that the freezing cold rain did on occasion turn to snow. Snow that stayed on the ground. I ran with it. I incorporated stories of us playing in the snow, having snowball fights, building snowmen, making snow angels. Arie Jan shook his head. It doesn’t really snow in Holland. I opened up the photo of Victor to back up my stories and pointed to the lush whiteness in the middle of Den Haag. I promised snow.

He had been to the snow only once before, ironically with two other Dutch- American couples and their half-Dutch, half-American offspring. The nine of us spent four days in Mammoth Lakes over Christmas 2009. It had been dumping the week before we arrived and the world of white outside the car window suggested that all those Christmas story books about Santa coming to snow covered houses in the middle of pine forests are true.

We took the gondola from the base of the mountain to the upper village and out of the glass box in the sky we saw a winter wonderland unfolding beneath us. Sixty foot pines stretched into the air, their branches heavily weighed down with snow. Each house and condo building had the requisite 4 inches of snow covering the roofs, lining the balconies, windswept into the corners of the wooden stairs.

The children jumped in the snow, fascinated by the world of white. Ezra was the youngest and not yet ready for skiing, but would be happy to let you pull him and his little friends Jan and Sky around in the sled for four days straight. Jan, a natural athlete just 6 months older than Ezra was already up on skis. Sky was six at the time, and loved barbies and princesses. She also enjoyed making snowmen. Ezra enjoyed knocking them down. This compromised their relationship for a bit, but they got back on track when it was time for hot chocolate and other indoor activities where Ezra was less prone to search and destroy. Ezra loved the snow.

Thus, when we arrived in Holland on the cold damp of New Year’s eve, Ezra was expecting snow. It certainly felt cold enough to snow. Where is the snow? This question came again and again over the last 7 weeks. “When will it snow mommy?” I had, after all, promised snow. We regularly watched the news forecast, and although the little snowflake appeared over other countries in Europe, we had yet to see it placed over Holland. Until this morning.

I was getting Ezra into the shower when Arie Jan casually mentioned that it was snowing  outside.

“What? Snow?” I said excitedly.

I ran to the kitchen window to look outside, Arie Jan’s voice trailing behind me;

“Barely snowing, just a little” he said. There it was, light, tiny flakes drifting downward, falling onto the tiny white blossoms of the winter garden. An outside table had a thin prickling of snow on it’s surface, but the snow was clearly wet. I knew I had to get Ezra out here to see this before it stopped. How do I get Ezra out of the shower? He loves the shower. Then it came to me. I simply had to play one of his favorite games; Emmet.

Cousin Emmet, who is 7 months older than Ezra, is the love of Ezra’s young life and his greatest regret about leaving California. Thus, when we play Emmet, I get to do things like make farting noises and say things like “I’m older than you and I can run faster than you,” or “I want that toy. Why don’t you play with this one?” It’s an opportunity for me to let my inner almost 5 year old out, while also demonstrating  ways to share and negotiate. I also try to imitate Emmet’s almost 5 going on 10 vocabulary and ability to cram 30 words into one sentence. It’s a bit tiring. Even when you’re just pretending to be Emmet. I have no idea how he keeps it up 24-7.

So, by the time Ezra was dressed and ready to run to the kitchen window, I was almost certain that the snow had stopped. That I would once again have an unfulfilled promise suspended in a raindrop. Yet there it was! The tiny flakes floating, darting, blowing through the sky. Ezra pulled on the door and we both went outside. We reached our hands upward, trying to catch the baby snowflakes, which melted upon contact with Ezra’s hot little hands. Within a few minutes our hands cooled in the frosty air and one or two snowflakes stuck just long enough to see their whiteness. Ezra jumped up and down in a happy dance, running in circles trying to catch more snowflakes.

“It’s snowing Emmet! It’s snowing!” Ezra called out. I suppose this is the period of life where glee can be a daily experience. We lasted another 5 minutes before heading back indoors. By the time we bicycled to church, the little flakes had diminished and the dusting of snow had melted back into the soggy Dutch landscape.

There will be no snowmen today. But it did snow. And we danced in it.

Thoughts on Egypt and their Military

Over the past few weeks, I have skimmed articles in Dutch newspapers about Egypt. The pictures speak a thousand words, but in this case, I had one thing wrong; I had envisioned the high number of injuries as a result of brute military force. Yet, the pictures did not show a line of soldiers with riot control gear. My mind just filled in this information as status quo.  I know. I’m giving away my state of ignorance on longstanding world politics and affairs, but I am struck by what I learned today.

I finally picked up an English paper and was surprised to learn that the military was actually shaking hands with the anti-Mubarak forces, and standing aside during the clashes. The Egyptian military is approximately 500,000 strong, according to a Financial Times article, and has an image of a respectful institution that watches over the Egyptian population. Although the upper echelons of the Egyptian military are reportedly aligned with Mubarak and have much to gain by keeping him in power, they are reluctant to order the soldiers on the ground to fire against the protesters. Hmm? Isn’t this the military? Aren’t soldiers supposed to follow orders regardless of their personal convictions?

Apparently, this particular military construct recognizes the complexities of the human condition, and in this case, the fact that many of the soldiers, who are poor, share the same social frustrations as the anti-Mubarak protestors. Thus, they would be hard pressed to pull the trigger against one of their countrymen rallying for change they recognize as valid.

As the rallies get more intense and more violent, the army is “stuck between a rock and a hard place.” 

Apparently, that stance of military neutrality also applies to attacks on the press. Seeing Anderson Cooper’s video of being attacked by angry Pro-Mubarak supporters, while the military did nothing to intervene shows that such a hands-off approach will only turn more deadly, and perhaps lead to shutting the world out through lack of news coverage–a position that would not benefit anyone but the pro-Mubarak side.

How long can the military maintain it’s position of neutrality? Perhaps as I write these words, the answer has already unfolded.

Coming up next: An Ugly Crack in Dutch Hospitality to Asylum Seekers

An Ugly Crack in Dutch Hospitality toward Asylum Seekers

Wednesday in Dutch class, the teacher circulated copies of a daily newspaper, and in pairs, we chose articles to read from the paper. Each pair was to give a summary of the article to the class and share five words they found moeilijk (difficult). Sounds straightforward enough.  Although two women chose a harmless article about a new housing community named Groene Lanen (green lanes) most everyone else went for the meaty, tragic stories that filled the paper about Asylum seekers in Holland. 

I paired up with a large, vibrant pregnant woman from Togo and we read about Louisa  from Angola who had been in Holland since 2001 as an Asylum seeker. Over the past 10 years, Louisa had given birth to two more children and all three of her children were fluent Dutch speakers,  only familiar with the Dutch way of life.  Asylum seekers are not allowed to work. So, you can not earn a living, but must live off of government subsidies. Now, after 10 years, the Dutch government has refused her an extended right to stay in this country, and she and her children must return to Angola.

“Ik heb geen toekomst in Angola en mijn kinderen helemaal niet,” she is quoted as saying. She and her children have no future in Angola. Her children don’t speak any Portuguese and the Angolan culture is completely foreign to them. It seems that receiving Asylum in Holland is like entering a strange state of purgatory; you are in a foreign land, safe from the warfare and turmoil of your home country, but suspended in a bubble of ambivalence in your host country. You can not work, you are isolated in government supported project housing for refugees and your children are required to go to the Dutch schools. Thus, the children become completely immersed in Dutch culture, emerging as fluent, literate members of society with a Dutch mindset. Then, these children, regardless of being born in Holland, are  returned to their “homeland”, which is the equivalent of Mars to them. It was unclear in the article if the parents are also given Dutch courses or information about integrating into society. I don’t imagine they sit in the government housing all day long, wiating for their children to return.

Everyone in the room, except perhaps me and the teacher, either had personal experience with this conundrum or had friends undergoing a similar situation. I don’t have any answers. I don’t know how it could be different, except for the idea that once you receive Asylum, you have an option to become a citizen of that country, with the rights to earn a living and become a contributing member of society. Otherwise, what is the Dutch government doing to these people by welcoming them to a land of promise, full of education, jobs and human rights, immersing their children in this mindest and then throwing them back onto foreign shores?

Of course they are protected from the atrocities of their homeland during their asylum. And, I suppose this state of refuge gives them the opportunity to see the world through the eyes of Dutch culture, perhaps creating the potential of being catalysts of change once they assimilate back into their original cultures. Or, is this just a romantic notion?

Coming up next: A trip to Amsterdam and free facials

Vicarious epiphany: Insights from The Art of Living and the process of letting go

Okay. The process of letting go is far too complex to be solved in any one blog post. Yet, I feel compelled to share with you what I experienced a few days ago in an “Art of Living” based meditation http://nl.artofliving.eu/

I was provided a little bit of wisdom that is already working wonders in my ability to breathe deeply, consciously smile and let go. Although I think this is something that most likely needs to be experienced first hand, I know that the written word is also a strong catalyst for change. Thus, I will humbly attempt to pass on the wisdom I’ve gained on the off chance of vicarious epiphany.

I attended a gentle yoga course followed by a guided meditation. The gentle yoga helped us all feel grounded in our bodies so that when we sat down to meditate, wrapped in wool blankets, we could do so comfortably. We closed our eyes, and listened to the gentle, soothing voice of our instructor.

Step one was to observe the sounds around us. We all listened to the little creaks and pops from the heating system, the distant sounds of traffic, another classmate adjusting her blanket. “Just observe the sound, without judgement. Acknowledge it’s presence.” Step two, we checked in with our bodies. Step three, our thoughts, step four our emotions, and step five, peace and joy. Problem was step three. Some of the thoughts that came pouring into my mind in this idyllic setting were far from idyllic.

I thought of a friend who had betrayed our entire circle of friends. A friend who obstinantly defended her lies, deceits, betrayal, cover ups and other atrocities for the sake of love, and I felt anger welling up inside me at the thought of it. Step four: Emotion. Strong emotion from the past. From thousands of miles away. Fresh and raw. I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind, and instead of going on their merry way down the river and out of site, they grew stronger as my mind aggressively collected more offenses.

The happy, profound and simple end of the meditation, we are all peace and joy, was almost lost upon me, but then I spontaneously thought of my son and his sweetness, and suddenly she was gone. Swoosh. Down the river. I observed her flailing along, hanging onto a board. Then, she climbed upon the raft and peacefully drifted away. I observed her departure with a strange lack of emotion. There it was. The key: If you try to force something away from you, you give it power. For me, this felt like a profound revelation.

I know, I know. For many, this is not a brilliant new insight. Yet, insight only becomes insight when you are ready to simply observe and release. Not push against the universe. That night, I was able to observe, which lead to peace and joy.

Today, I awoke with a peacefulness that seemingly belies my current, untethered stat of no job, no home of our own, no foundation. Yet, how completely untrue. How completely ego of me to think in such terms. We are staying in a beautiful residence with family and being given an opportunity to develop a friendship and understanding with that family that only comes through living daily with one another. Peacefulness, inner calm. That is where home is. A home that can exist in any setting.

Another beautiful, yet simple thing the Art of Living practitioner shared was that when we are angry or pissed off, we take short, quick inhalations. When we are happy and relaxed, we take deep, long breaths. You can’t really be pissed off when you take in a long, deep breath. Just as when you really give into a smile, it is hard to be angry. Thus, control of your breath can help you control your emotions. If you find yourself in a happy state of mind, your thoughts tend to follow suit. Hot damn!

This morning, all three of us in our little gezin (immediate family) started the day out feeling calm and happy. It seemed the universe had been observing our struggles and as we finally acquiesced, it acquiesced through a series of provisions: My son actually WANTED to go to school and we observed two little friends hugging him in the classroom, our son giggling with delight. I did a simple yoga practice in the morning and when I went online,  discovered over $200 worth of new orders for my company Lime Green Monkey www.limegreenmonkey.com . My husband, who had felt almost angry at the universe the day before was also calm and relaxed, and I kid you not; The telephone rang and it was someone calling him for an interview for one of his most preferred jobs. 

Throughout the day there was a flow so evident in it’s stark contrast to the preceding couple of days, that we could not deny the difference. Thus, the benefits of engaging in the art of letting go and surrendering to the universe are so profound, it seems silly to firmly grasp onto that egoic notion of being in control. And, I must point out that surrender is totally different than giving up. Surrender is all about accepting that higher powers are at work in the universe, and the ability to trust and surrender to that higher power.

Now, can anyone tell me how to hold onto this provision? Oops. Did I just really ask to get back on that merry go round? Just kidding universe! Ha ha. I surrender!