Kinder verteuern

This theme has been a natural background to my thoughts for the past nearly seven months, but has taken several steps toward the foreground in the last few weeks. I heard rumors that David C. formed many of his opinions about the way he wanted to raise his children while he was working as an au pair in France. I certainly have a different perspective now than I did before I came here. Previously, I assumed that I would be able to figure things out when I got there; that I didn't really need to work it all out right now; that of course, I'll basically just follow the pattern by which I was reared. I have also been theoretically aware that culture has a great and formative influence on our lives. This year is something of a cross between a training session, and an observation class in parenting, in culture, as well as in how the two interact. I have found the most dramatic representation of the difference between American and German styles of parenting can be demonstrated in the fact that spanking is illegal in Germany (as in many European nations). The reason I find this significant is because whether it is symptom or cause, it is representative of the German mindset regarding parenting. From what I have observed in both my guest family and other families I have encountered, German parents are very indulgent and maintain hardly any authority. Even the non-physical punishments that I have seen commonly applied in the US such as time outs, or revocation of privileges are virtually non-existent here. I find this harmful to both the kids and the parents because without authority and the freedom to enforce that authority, parents resort to trickery, manipulation, and yelling to coerce the children to obey. In turn the children learn to manipulate, trick, and yell. I awaken nearly every morning to the dulcet sounds of Carolin yelling at her mother because she doesn't want to do some thing or another; which sounds are generally repeated in the evening as Carolin fights against going to bed. Unfortunately, many of her sweet moments are also not particularly genuine because she has learned the art of manipulation is an effective tool in getting what you want, trumped only by crocodile tears. Really, it isn't spanking or not spanking that concerns me; the thing that is really saddening is the fact that I don't see the parents working to instill selflessness, kindness, and obedience in their children. It often seems that they are merely concerned with keeping them happy until they reach adulthood when they're on their own. All of these thoughts come at the tail end of nearly three quite difficult weeks and this space is severely limiting the scope and detail that this subject deserves, but nevertheless, I am learning to deeply appreciate you parents I know and see working so diligently to instill virtue in your children regardless of how difficult that task may be. Thank you especially to my own parents for working so hard and sacrificing so much for your children.

The hardest things...

...make us stronger, right? Well, there have been no monumentally difficult things such as me breaking up with a boyfriend, or family or friends dying, but rather the thing which has been continually difficult for me here is the solitariness. Not that I am alone. I am constantly surrounded by people, occasionally to my annoyance. No, the difficulty is having this "experience" that I know is forming my mind and life, and yet not sharing it with someone. If you ever move to a different country for a year, bring someone with you. I am at the point now that I am just looking forward to being home, hoping that things and people haven't changed too much in my absence. Will I look back on my time in Germany with a warm fuzzy feeling? Not immediately. I will always be grateful for what I have learned and experienced, but it has been a consistently difficult year so far. Six more months. Gestern bin ich alleine ins Kino gegangen, und das war ein bißen traurig. Das Film war toll aber ich weinte, weil neimand mit mir war. Experiences, both good and bad, are always enriched by being able to share them with others. That is partly why I blog, but it doesn't really scratch the surface of what I am doing here. So those are my thoughts which close the weekend, amplified by the fact that I watched a movie alone, and had my sister here for a couple of days two weeks ago; a reminder of how much I miss home, family and friends.

on Coloring and Drawing

The little-big man is sleeping and his sister is off riding horses with friends so I am taking this rare quiet moment in the middle of the day to finally share my observations on coloring. The theme has nagged the back of my mind for nearly five months now as the act of enlivening black and white pictures has again moved into a prominent position on the list of how I spend my time. Whenever I begin a picture I am laughingly reminded of how similar my style of filling in the white spaces is to how I live my life: very much between the lines. Whenever I begin a new section I carefully trace a broad line right next to the black to give myself a margin of error. I remember my older sister doing this when I was very young, although she did it for decorative purposes with the border being a dark line, and the enclosed area a tempered hue of the same. I do it so that I can fill the rest in quickly and not go outside the lines. I think that is why drawing has always been so difficult and so fascinating to me. There are no lines to begin with. You have to do all of your own thinking and most of all you must learn through experience where the lines fall to the best advantage. No wonder I find coloring so dull and drawing so frustrating. The one has little life in it while the other is a perpetual challenge. This is the time of my life that I am learning to draw. My pictures are often messy, beautiful only by chance or abstraction, yet every line I can claim as my own. That is the joy and the pain of artistry.

At home it is Thanksgiving. Here it is Thursday.

I can only imagine the abdominal pain caused by the ample mirth which the Fates must endure when they compare my romantic imaginings and plans for a day with their omnipotent schedule. In it's entirety the day was performed with a larger than usual helping of charm, and yet it was a mere tarnished silver reflection of the day that I had intended. Not that I complain. No, it would be unusually ironic of me bordering on sacrilegious to be anything but grateful on this particular holiday, so I will content myself with a narration of the day's occurrences interspersed with accounts of my thwarted intentions.

It has been the tradition of my family, since our uprooting and transference to Oregon, to make our way to the Pacific ocean for a weekend together every third weekend after the first Tuesday in November. In light of the difficulty of attempting to prepare an entire turkey dinner in a strange kitchen with or without the proper means, utensils, crockery and assistance, my family has also forgone the fowl tradition and replaced it with a main course of ham. So to keep with these traditions of untradtionalism, it was originally my intention to spend the day on the coast of Germany, which fortunately is not very far; frolic on the beach, watch the sun set, enjoy a personal picnic, and return home fully self-satisfied.
Last week, (or was it earlier this week?) I was asked if I would be willing to look after the little man for an hour or so while his mother kept an appointment with a client. Her assumption was that I was going to attend my language school in the morning and go to the coast in the afternoon; a question which I had not entirely settled in my own mind trying to balance my desire to attend class with the urge to flee the city as soon as possible. So, ever the one to bend unnecessarily far to maintain good graces, I agreed to leave my class half way through to watch der Junger.
The morning went entertainingly; I had to run the last block or so to catch my bus, much to the amusement of the driver and a cluster of three or four ten year old boys; I was early enough to class to steal my preferred seat which is usually occupied by Essofa, who could pummel me for the offense were he not rightly afraid it would come off as ungentlemanly; according to plan I left my class unfinished and rushing to Sabine's office, I quickly weighed myself down with a Baby Bjorn containing the aforementioned child, and stepped out of the office to explore the nearby bookstores; finishing her appointment rather later than expected, the three of us drove home making a pause at the grocery store and bakery to complete my requisite picnic expectations. By the time I had loaded my backpack, eaten my lunch, donned the necessary layers of warmth, and made my way to the bus stop it was almost two in the afternoon. My late start was further delayed as I, for the second time in one day, ran to catch my bus, this time missing it by fifty feet or so. Since the next bus was not due for another half hour, I decided to walk past the next three stops until I arrived at the fourth stop on my route (15 minutes or so) which is the junction of two bus lines. Fortunately, I had only ten or so minutes to wait for the next bus, and arrived in one sleepy piece at the train station where, having missed the previous train by no more than fifteen minutes, I waited over a cup of coffee for my conveyance to Wilhelmshaven. The ride itself was marvelous, an opinion I have come to expect from myself with respect to riding the train, but I found as I watched the sky on my journey that I had yet again miscalculated, this time assuming that the relative latitude of my former and current homes were more in accord with each other. Unfortunately, they are not so similar as I had assumed and the sun was set when I arrived at my destination. So I found myself a corner of the harbor in Wilhelmshaven, sat on a pile of what once must have been concrete blocks but now more closely resemble a pile of discarded building materials, and ate my dinner of salami and bleu cheese brie on baguette. Although sitting there watching the moon rise did not comply with my earlier imagination of watching the sun set over breaking waves from a sandy perch, beyond the shared presence of water, it was a charming meal. When I finished it I resolved to walk until I discovered the actual North Sea instead of the half-full harbor I had been observing. I have no clear understanding of either the time or the distance that I walked, but my sore limbs tell me it was certainly far enough. When I eventually found myself on a promenade, I mustered the courage to ask a kindly looking pedestrian gentleman where I could go to hear the waves. He chuckled and answered that there aren't waves in the area because there is not enough wind, and where am I from? This opened up a pleasant although short conversation about how I found myself at the end of the earth, to use his expression. Following his implications as to the direction of the shore, I clambered across some moss and muscle beslippered rocks and performed some tame frolics upon the sand finally closing my performance with a solo rendition of "Be Thou My Vision" under what appeared to be very nearly a full moon. I continued my exploration of the town by following the promenade for some distance then doubling back through the city on a different route to the train station. Along this previously untraversed ground, I happened upon an old and majestic church which was further enhanced in its appeal by the audible token of an organist rehearsing on a large instrument, and a cafe which was snuggled in the corner of a Vespa dealership the primary decoration of the establishment being several of the revered machines themselves on display in the window. I arrived in ample time to the station and entertained myself by wandering through the adjoining mall cleverly named the Northern Passage and reading the famous papers arranged by Mr. Boz; which latter event likely accounts for my observation of the ironic and humorous this evening. Such was my real and my imagined day which I leave, as it finally closes, quite tired and satisfied. I only hope that your holiday also went well.

The Air I Breathe

Weekend wanderings directed me today toward the Schlossgarten. I found a bench watching the pond and rested myself on fallen leaves and graffitied love. The lawn before my feet was still thick and green but spattered with brown, yellow and red tokens of the season. There in my wool mantel I watched in wondering numbness, my mind ambling from one thought to another as my eyes merely absorbed the charm in front of me. What a marvel that the leaves, who live in such understatement, bedeck themselves with such glory in their last days. Ahh the Autumn. Every year I watch the days change. The clouds reassemble in full strength after their summer of leave, the air barks its freshness into your face, and my spirits lose a bit of their perfect posture. It is not until the sun is obscured by the rainbearers that I realize how much I have love and need it. There are, however, cures which return my spirits to their former upright attitude; oh yes. These miracles consist primarily in warm beverages, good books, long walks, and the inspection of beautiful scenery, all things which are at amply at my disposal.

Of winter and warmth

As I am a native of the northern portion of the United States one would reasonably assume that I have, before this my twenty-third year, acclimated to cold weather. Unfortunately, I adapt much more readily to the warmth of the summers and the readjustment which is necessary around the end of September is slow and painful if it happens at all. In previous years, I have worked and lived in an environment which encourages and even pesters one to consume as many hot drinks as possible throughout the day. Now that I am in a position in which I pay for my own coffee habit, I drink far less and find that I must fall back on the time-honored method of fighting the cold by bundling up. This past weekend I accordingly began to fill in the cracks in my winter wear. Sitting on top of my suitcase, where they are quickly and easily accessible are now three different scarves (I brought two with me) to suit the different levels of dressiness, three different pairs of gloves (one pair for bicycling which makes me feel very athletic), and a stocking cap. Inside the wardrobe which stands next to the suitcase is a gorgeous new wool Mantel. I use the German word Mantel because it describes a long coat (at least to the knee) and implies that without it you will be cold. So now I am up to 4 different coats here (not including hoodies or sweaters) and I am still fighting the cold. It's coffee in the morning, wine in the evening, thick socks, four layers at a time and hopping into bet as quickly as possible. I think that my next adventure will be teaching English in the Bahamas.

Reflections on trains and my future

Bicycles, footpaths, and trains. When I say that I love to travel, I don't necessarily mean visiting distant places. This evening, on my weekly train ride back from Bremen, I was sitting in my corner of the bench reading with the late afternoon sun pushing its way between two clouds to make its final inspection of the fields. Often either by the morning train or my return in the late afternoon I am struck with the romantic history of riding in trains. Countless hours of scenery punctuated by rustic roads and the occasional town; no wonder authors traveled so much, it seems to evoke creativity and reflection. As I rode my bike slowly homeward past the river, I found myself savoring the quietness of a cool evening on the waterfront. The sun was just about to set so I left my bike in the garage and took my usual (though of late not so oft traveled) path through the neighborhood and toward the nearby wooded footpaths. There is a particular place almost directly across a field from the back of my house where the trees on the footpath break and you can wander through this charming field. The adjoining field is usually a fenced emptiness, but tonight they had opened the gate and let the horses wander into it. I sat down to watch the clouds color that vivid pink which I despise in nearly everything but sunsets, and found myself crying. Not that today was sad or difficult in any particular way, or even generally overwhelming. The downpour of emotion had something to do with the kind curiosity of the mare as she ambled toward my seat and the incredible uncontainable beauty that I was observing on the horizon both of which made me feel a little lost and a little alone. In coming to Germany I, for the first time, took very deliberate and even motivated steps. I don't regret being here at all. But in those moments when I try to imagine my future beyond this year I get anxious and bewildered. It is not that I have an absence of dreams or hopes. They are there; but I am so quick to criticize my own dreams as unpractical, silly, or even overly ambitious. Then the sun set, the mare moved back to her mate and my tears dried. I don't know what I will do with my life, but I do know that I will continue to search, to create, and to love those people I love ever more deeply. I know that I will because these things I cannot help but do.

Blasen

I have resorted to using a German title for this blog because it is all about bubbles, and I actually want you to read it instead of skipping over to another entry. But lest there be any confusion, Blasen is German for Bubbles.
Carolin and I played with bubbles this afternoon. It has been a very long time since I have done anything entertaining with bubbles other than gallantly spit them toward the bride and groom as they make their soggy way toward the getaway car. Years, I think, since I have actually taken the time to observe them as they make their graceful way to the sky and then, with an understated *pop*, cease to exist. I was thrilled today with the reflection that it is one of the most beautiful things to watch that stately progress from the initial formation of the bubble to its gentle termination. They are all purity and delicacy. If one looks very closely, one can see the soap on the surface cluster and swirl and eventually begin to dissipate. Not that you should begin a campaign to stem the tide of untimely bubble death at the undersized hands of our youth, for yet another of the many charms of the bubble consists in the very laughter that chasing the glimmering containers of air affords. They live the briefest and yet the most charmed of lives, and I will always be thankful to them for entertaining me and my companion for nearly a half an hour.
Ahh, how to end this eulogy? I can't think of a way at the moment, and alas, a moment is all that I have allotted to blogging for the evening. So there it stands. The End.

of mosquitoes

The other evening we had a delightful rain shower that began just as I was getting ready for bed. I have always adored a real rain. When I say "a real rain", I don't mean the sort of drizzle that hangs about Eugene from September to May, or the misty sprays of sea-side towns: no, I mean a the kind of rain that if you happened to live under a tin roof would keep you awake all night with its pattering. Those rains which are accompanied by thunder and lightning are especially treasured by me. So on that evening this week when such a rain was promising a lullaby for my slumbers, I opened my window to better enjoy the experience. As fate, that malicious smirker would have it, drifting through my window along with the smells and sounds which I loved so much was a mosquito. Everyone who has ever camped in a tent knows that mosquitoes have a particular MO. It is bad enough that they are out to suck your blood, but their manner of attack is downright torturous. They wait until all light has been extinguished and your pillow is particularly soft and then commence their circling. As soon as you hear them close to your head you do one of two unsuccessful things: you either blindly clap in the dark trying to kill the pest, or you turn on a light so that you can see where you are clapping. The only problem is that as soon as you turn on the light you are blinded by is brilliancy and are equally unable to terminate the winged thing. So I spent the first half hour of my delightful-storm-slumbering time alternating between the two unsuccessful methods until I finally managed to adjust to the light and kill my nemesis. What is the moral of this story you may ask (fully expecting something profound and allegorical)? It doesn't have one. I just had mosquitoes and that was one of the big events of the week.