"Hello," I said into the phone. I am calling from Hospice, to offer condolences on the death of your mother. "Oh, thank you, I suppose," said the man." But I expected my mother to die, after all. She was 93. But, perhaps you don't know this. My wife died two weeks before."
I asked him how he was doing and if he had thought to talk to anyone. After all, the purpose of my call was to make him aware of the bereavement program, which includes lectures, support groups and even one on one counseling. "Well," he said, "if someone could give me a clue as to how to rebuild my life, I'd really appreciate it."
How, in the face of what seems like insurmountable pain do we find a way to go on, let alone build a new life? Yet, most of us who are widowed do manage to find a way to live fully after loss. We get up in the morning, we eat, breathe, we pay our bills, we continue to raise the children, go to work, in fact, we live. In the beginning, we are often surprised at our ability to get through the day. We are shocked that the sun comes up every day. I was amazed for months that the birds sang in the morning, building nests, mating, feeding their little ones. Numbly, we float through, or we bravely plough through with tenacity. We really don't have a choice; after all, we are still alive. It would be prudent to live well. In fact, this is the highest honor we can offer our lost loves, to continue to live vibrantly, passionately.
This man, who has suffered two losses back to back, cannot see how he will accomplish this, yet I am confident that eventually, he will. It takes time and he is only in the first months. My motto in the early years was to "proceed as if." Even though I kept asking myself, "Whose life am I in," I went through the motions until the motions began to feel natural and part of me. I identified things I loved, activities that gave me joy and forced myself to participate in them.
The man said that he just wants everything to get back to normal. I told him gently that he would have to find a new normal and that I was confident he would, in time. I certainly hope he does.
The Karuna Project is dedicated to the process of growth after loss and how we transform traumatic events through perseverance, insight and creative expression. Karuna means compassion for all. How will you offer compassion to yourself, today?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Life of Peggy
For eight months, I visited a family in my town. A matriarch of 95, Peg had been admitted to Hospice for "failure to thrive," although she rallied with the wealth of services and support. Her 64-year-old son, a magnanimous, intelligent and outspoken man had returned home several years ago to care for her and his brother. The younger brother, a Down's syndrome man of 55 named Larry, liked hugs and often inquired if I was single, pointing at his brother with a sly look. I smiled, touching him on his rounded shoulder, saying, "Thanks for thinking of me."
When Larry was born, the doctors told Peg and her husband to institutionalize him immediately. They said he would never walk or talk. Her husband Ed said, "If he won't walk or talk, he can do that in our home." They nurtured him and fought to have him included in regular school classes. They created Special Olympic programs in which Larry was a wrestling champion. His brother said that he has no agenda, which also means he has no guile. A kind word, a smile and a hug go a long way with him.
Peg was frail but feisty, a strong character. I asked questions about her childhood, her marriage, children, and work. She worked in insurance agencies and for the FBI during the World War II. She was a member of the Fire Department Ladies Auxiliary,with whom she marched in the middle of the street late at night, after drinking through their meeting. In turn, I entertained her with stories of my children, of weddings, travel. When I went away, I sent back chatty emails for Ed to read to her.
I asked her if she would like to "write" a book, and scribbled as she narrated. She told me about her mother, who generously helped a family in need only to glance up in a mirror and find the woman stealing her rings. She told me that her mother stole ribbons from the cemetery because they were so pretty. She said a boy who stole her tricycle threw a "clinker" at her. When I asked her to define "clinker," she started to answer, then looked at me sharply. "Girl, don't you know ANYTHING," she snapped. We both burst out laughing.
Even as she and her sparse white hair grew thinner, whether in bed or in her chair, she continued to tell me stories for our "book." Ed gave me photographs to scan; there was a picture in a striped bathing costume, inner tube around her waist. There were dozens of pictures of her with girlfriends. They wore shirtwaist dresses, coats with fur collars, shorts and peter pan collars. They sat on blankets at picnics, next to men in uniforms. Unable to see the tiny faded black and white photos, she identified most of the girls as "Helen who lived in Iowa."
Memory is impressionistic, imprinted on our psyches with emotion. Years later, it is hard to separate fact from feeling. Capturing her stories was also impressionistic; time shifted. She would start to tell me a story of her childhood, then turn to her son to ask him about it. "Ed, remember when we…" she would query. "That wasn't me, Mom," he responded. I told her the problem was that she had too many Eds. Her father, husband, son, son-in-law, grandson…No one could keep all those Eds straight!
Peggy died peacefully, with her daughter next to her. Despite Ed's diligent care or perhaps because of it, she waited until he left the house for a rare errand. I arrived an hour later, and Larry wailed when he saw me. "My mother's dead!" he cried. "Can I have a hug?"
The Life of Peggy was pasted into a spiral notebook, along with photographs. I brought it to the funeral home and left it on a table for people to see. "Do you want to see my mother? I can't believe she's dead," said Larry, holding my hand. I patted him on the shoulder and told him how much she loved him. His eyes filled with tears. I thanked them for allowing me in to their lives, gave Larry one more hug, and left.
When Larry was born, the doctors told Peg and her husband to institutionalize him immediately. They said he would never walk or talk. Her husband Ed said, "If he won't walk or talk, he can do that in our home." They nurtured him and fought to have him included in regular school classes. They created Special Olympic programs in which Larry was a wrestling champion. His brother said that he has no agenda, which also means he has no guile. A kind word, a smile and a hug go a long way with him.
Peg was frail but feisty, a strong character. I asked questions about her childhood, her marriage, children, and work. She worked in insurance agencies and for the FBI during the World War II. She was a member of the Fire Department Ladies Auxiliary,with whom she marched in the middle of the street late at night, after drinking through their meeting. In turn, I entertained her with stories of my children, of weddings, travel. When I went away, I sent back chatty emails for Ed to read to her.
I asked her if she would like to "write" a book, and scribbled as she narrated. She told me about her mother, who generously helped a family in need only to glance up in a mirror and find the woman stealing her rings. She told me that her mother stole ribbons from the cemetery because they were so pretty. She said a boy who stole her tricycle threw a "clinker" at her. When I asked her to define "clinker," she started to answer, then looked at me sharply. "Girl, don't you know ANYTHING," she snapped. We both burst out laughing.
Even as she and her sparse white hair grew thinner, whether in bed or in her chair, she continued to tell me stories for our "book." Ed gave me photographs to scan; there was a picture in a striped bathing costume, inner tube around her waist. There were dozens of pictures of her with girlfriends. They wore shirtwaist dresses, coats with fur collars, shorts and peter pan collars. They sat on blankets at picnics, next to men in uniforms. Unable to see the tiny faded black and white photos, she identified most of the girls as "Helen who lived in Iowa."
Memory is impressionistic, imprinted on our psyches with emotion. Years later, it is hard to separate fact from feeling. Capturing her stories was also impressionistic; time shifted. She would start to tell me a story of her childhood, then turn to her son to ask him about it. "Ed, remember when we…" she would query. "That wasn't me, Mom," he responded. I told her the problem was that she had too many Eds. Her father, husband, son, son-in-law, grandson…No one could keep all those Eds straight!
Peggy died peacefully, with her daughter next to her. Despite Ed's diligent care or perhaps because of it, she waited until he left the house for a rare errand. I arrived an hour later, and Larry wailed when he saw me. "My mother's dead!" he cried. "Can I have a hug?"
The Life of Peggy was pasted into a spiral notebook, along with photographs. I brought it to the funeral home and left it on a table for people to see. "Do you want to see my mother? I can't believe she's dead," said Larry, holding my hand. I patted him on the shoulder and told him how much she loved him. His eyes filled with tears. I thanked them for allowing me in to their lives, gave Larry one more hug, and left.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Listening to the bereaved
Today I listened to a teleconference called Living with Grief. I found myself nodding in agreement many times as a panel of grief counselors, doctors and funeral directors discussed how best to help families and support their grieving process. Again and again, a central theme was expressed: let the griever lead. Encourage expression of feelings. Validate these feelings because it is normal and right to feel horrible when someone you love has died.
The important of stories was stressed as well. Telling the story of the actual event is helpful in releasing shock and disbelief, but more importantly, sharing stories about your loved one keeps the connection alive. Laughing with someone while remembering something he or she said or did is so important, even if it makes you cry. At my husband's Celebration of Life, one of my children spoke about an embarrassing moment that now actually emphasizes some of the unique qualities that Alby had – the ability to be completely at home in his body and to be absolutely silly with great dignity.
Often, after someone dies, friends and acquaintances don't know what to do or say. They fear that if they mention the dead person, they will upset us. And we, who are so bereft, long for normal conversation about our lost one; we want to tell the stories. We want to hear your stories. We want to give voice to the relationship, to express memories. We need to do this.
One of the most distressing things to me, especially in early grief, was to have someone say, "So and so wants you to know they are thinking of you." I would feel a flash of anger, then of extreme isolation. If they are thinking of me, do they not have a phone? Couldn't they pick it up, call me, and tell me themselves? Wouldn't that be a more genuine expression of friendship and concern?
Ignoring the bereaved, even if your intention to "not to upset" us, feels like invalidation of what we are experiencing. Instead, if you know someone who is mourning a loss, take a different approach. Pick up the phone and call. If you don't know what to say, try honesty. Say, "I don't know what to say, but I was thinking of you. How are you doing today?" Then, just listen compassionately. This is actually a very large gift to someone in emotional distress – to be heard and given an opportunity to express how they are feeling. If you have time, you could even offer to come over, have a cup of tea and shoot the breeze about that wonderful, quirky person who is now gone.
The important of stories was stressed as well. Telling the story of the actual event is helpful in releasing shock and disbelief, but more importantly, sharing stories about your loved one keeps the connection alive. Laughing with someone while remembering something he or she said or did is so important, even if it makes you cry. At my husband's Celebration of Life, one of my children spoke about an embarrassing moment that now actually emphasizes some of the unique qualities that Alby had – the ability to be completely at home in his body and to be absolutely silly with great dignity.
Often, after someone dies, friends and acquaintances don't know what to do or say. They fear that if they mention the dead person, they will upset us. And we, who are so bereft, long for normal conversation about our lost one; we want to tell the stories. We want to hear your stories. We want to give voice to the relationship, to express memories. We need to do this.
One of the most distressing things to me, especially in early grief, was to have someone say, "So and so wants you to know they are thinking of you." I would feel a flash of anger, then of extreme isolation. If they are thinking of me, do they not have a phone? Couldn't they pick it up, call me, and tell me themselves? Wouldn't that be a more genuine expression of friendship and concern?
Ignoring the bereaved, even if your intention to "not to upset" us, feels like invalidation of what we are experiencing. Instead, if you know someone who is mourning a loss, take a different approach. Pick up the phone and call. If you don't know what to say, try honesty. Say, "I don't know what to say, but I was thinking of you. How are you doing today?" Then, just listen compassionately. This is actually a very large gift to someone in emotional distress – to be heard and given an opportunity to express how they are feeling. If you have time, you could even offer to come over, have a cup of tea and shoot the breeze about that wonderful, quirky person who is now gone.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Listening to my body
This morning I feel odd, as if something is wrong. Yet, I know that actually, I am exhausted. I wonder how often we misinterpret the signals from our bodies – a need for more regular and healthy food or better, deeper rest? I tend to jump to a conclusion that involves someone else, an external search for blame when it is really the fact that I have been working 12 to 15 hour days, have been waking up way too early and pushing through each day without adequate nutrition!
There is nothing wrong with my emotional state, my relationships or anything else. I need more sleep. I need to relax. I need to take care of myself instead of hoping someone will do it for me. I live in this body and it is telling me something. Loudly.
I claim to want conscious relationship, yet I frequently am not listening to myself. There are so many techniques to alleviate the stress and exhaustion – a soak in the tub, a sauna and a relaxing shower, a walk in the Sanctuary listening to the birds and the wind. The birds are singing right now as they start their busy day, flying from tree to grass, seeking delicious tidbits to feed themselves and their little bird children.
I know what I know and yet I always forget. Rejuvenation is easy if we listen and respond to what the body has to say. Feed me. Let me rest. Take me somewhere pleasant and relaxing. Let me walk upon the earth and feel its cool power rising up through bare feet. Eyes, follow the flight of a butterfly. Ears, hear the rustling of leaves. Smell the loam, the faint perfume of flowers. Take a long, deep drink of cool water, laced with minerals from the well.
A massage would be particularly nice.
There is nothing wrong with my emotional state, my relationships or anything else. I need more sleep. I need to relax. I need to take care of myself instead of hoping someone will do it for me. I live in this body and it is telling me something. Loudly.
I claim to want conscious relationship, yet I frequently am not listening to myself. There are so many techniques to alleviate the stress and exhaustion – a soak in the tub, a sauna and a relaxing shower, a walk in the Sanctuary listening to the birds and the wind. The birds are singing right now as they start their busy day, flying from tree to grass, seeking delicious tidbits to feed themselves and their little bird children.
I know what I know and yet I always forget. Rejuvenation is easy if we listen and respond to what the body has to say. Feed me. Let me rest. Take me somewhere pleasant and relaxing. Let me walk upon the earth and feel its cool power rising up through bare feet. Eyes, follow the flight of a butterfly. Ears, hear the rustling of leaves. Smell the loam, the faint perfume of flowers. Take a long, deep drink of cool water, laced with minerals from the well.
A massage would be particularly nice.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Waiting
CS Lewis said that death gives one's life a sense of constantly waiting, a "provisional" quality. This has now become so subtly part of daily reality that I barely notice it, but it is an ever-present feeling of the breath slightly held, anticipating. What is it I am waiting for?
Sometimes I feel like I am waiting for my life to start up again. I realize, of course, I have been living all along, over, under and through this provision, this endless transition. I have been studying, learning and now have completed a major accomplishment. If I had any sort of plan, life has moved along with it. The connections I am starting to make should guide me in my new endeavors, get my new career off the ground somehow.
Last month, my family gathered to celebrate another graduation, this one from my son's university. The accomplishments of my children give me much pleasure; to watch them grow, think, act and design the lives they want to live is amazing; I have to put a hand over my heart and one over my mouth as I stand in awe. And it is strange, bittersweet, to know that Alby is missing yet another milestone. At moments like these, he is so incredibly gone, and my sense of injustice rises. How could he "leave" us alone like this? Friends and relations tell my son that he would be so proud, and we know this to be true. It doesn't help.
At the requisite Tent Party, with a delicious buffet of all my son's favorite foods, his friends laughing, drinking and partying late into the night, a close friend asked me a question. "Who will make you a party when you graduate?" she asked. Hmm, I thought, probably no one. To test this theory, I mentioned my own graduation, and while people said, well done, good for you, I was right.
My daughter would probably tell me to celebrate myself. Yet, after 25 years of making a celebration out of everyone else's accomplishments, I still find myself waiting, anticipating, my breath slightly held. What is it I am waiting for?
Sometimes I feel like I am waiting for my life to start up again. I realize, of course, I have been living all along, over, under and through this provision, this endless transition. I have been studying, learning and now have completed a major accomplishment. If I had any sort of plan, life has moved along with it. The connections I am starting to make should guide me in my new endeavors, get my new career off the ground somehow.
Last month, my family gathered to celebrate another graduation, this one from my son's university. The accomplishments of my children give me much pleasure; to watch them grow, think, act and design the lives they want to live is amazing; I have to put a hand over my heart and one over my mouth as I stand in awe. And it is strange, bittersweet, to know that Alby is missing yet another milestone. At moments like these, he is so incredibly gone, and my sense of injustice rises. How could he "leave" us alone like this? Friends and relations tell my son that he would be so proud, and we know this to be true. It doesn't help.
At the requisite Tent Party, with a delicious buffet of all my son's favorite foods, his friends laughing, drinking and partying late into the night, a close friend asked me a question. "Who will make you a party when you graduate?" she asked. Hmm, I thought, probably no one. To test this theory, I mentioned my own graduation, and while people said, well done, good for you, I was right.
My daughter would probably tell me to celebrate myself. Yet, after 25 years of making a celebration out of everyone else's accomplishments, I still find myself waiting, anticipating, my breath slightly held. What is it I am waiting for?
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Death and My Father
Karuna is a compassionate practice that sometimes calls you to drop everything and just show up. This is what my sister and I did last week, when we received the news that our 85 year old father’s wife had died. As a widow, I felt compelled to help him, although our relationship has been strained and nearly non-existent for a long time. There are many reasons for this, some of them older than I am. And while both of us might have differing positions on why there has been so little contact, a death changes everything.
This was the repeating statement in my head, moments after my own husband died. “Your life has radically changed,” said the voice. As I watched myself descend into a psychic chasm, as I watched myself sob on the floor, a calm, internal voice added, “now what?” With that same thought, my sister and I flew west at dawn, arriving at Dad’s apartment by 2 pm, Arizona time. He was waiting for us, suspended in shock, surrounded by the disarray of a recent move, his living room bare except for a couple of folding chairs, a card table, plastic bags filled with canned goods and a surprising number of small food processors lined up near the door.
“Hey, Dad,” we said. “We’ve come to help.” We started by asking him what happened. This is the primary thing to ask a person in grief; telling the story is necessary for many reasons. First, telling the story gets it out of the griever’s head, where the event of the death itself is replaying like some broken down, scratchy record on too loud a volume. Telling the story also helps the griever absorb the facts, which is particularly hard in an unexpected death. Even in an inevitable death, when you love someone, you hold out hope for a cure, a miracle or at least a little more time. When it finally happens, there is always a part of you that can’t quite grasp it, doesn't "understand." The mind goes into a self-protective denial. Telling the story of how it happened, those last moments, what you did, how you felt, who you called, what they said (if you can even remember) serves to ultimately convince your mind that Death has arrived and changed your life. There is an adage that you have to tell the story 72 times in order to heal, or as I discovered, until you can believe it happened. Telling the story until you get its reality leads you to that next question. Now what?
Initially, this is answered in small, practical things. In Dad’s case, we thought it prudent to organize the apartment he had just moved into. If he could feel like he was living in his home, instead of in chaos, he might begin to see a Now in his life, and then perhaps a tomorrow and a day after that. I started in the kitchen, and my sister started in the back room. We marveled at the amount of food everywhere; half opened bags of pasta, chips, crackers, lollipops were strewn about, neatly clamped with clothes pins. There were multiple bags, boxes and shelves of canned goods, mostly soups, gravies and sauces. A freezer stood in the corner, filled with meat, and though it needed some purging, there was enough food in his refrigerator to last a couple of weeks. As we put things away, tossed things, made a larger pile of items to discard, including the line of apparently broken food choppers, we also listened to him, encouraged him to mourn. We made some necessary phone calls, to Social Security, to the mortuary for an appointment the next day. We took a break and drove him to the bank. We sat with him quietly, on the folding chairs, nibbling chips and strawberries found in the depths of the fridge. We agreed that he and his wife loved each other over their nearly 26 year long marriage. He said, “She made me feel like my life was worthwhile.”
Two days later, after stocking his fridge with fresher things, taking him places he needed to go, arranging for cremation, cleaning up his office and finding him a source for free living room furniture, we sat on his “new” couch. In a short time, we had helped turn his chaotic living situation into something homey. Our fears that he would be paralyzed with grief, give up and die himself in short order were put aside when he hung his own paintings like a personal art gallery, during an hour when we left him alone. He thanked us over and over for coming to see him and said we had helped him a lot. When we hugged him goodbye, promising to call every day, he smiled through his tears. He said something I haven’t heard from his lips in more than 30 years. He said, “I love you.”
Death changes everything, but it can also reawaken the truth. Death can peel away the unimportant, petty squabbles, even some larger hurts and injustices seem ridiculous to cling to. Death strips us down to essentials, and love is the most essential thing of all. Since I’ve returned from Arizona, I’ve called him nearly every night, just to listen to whatever he wants to say. That’s all you can really do when someone is hurt by death – listen compassionately and say, “I love you.”
This was the repeating statement in my head, moments after my own husband died. “Your life has radically changed,” said the voice. As I watched myself descend into a psychic chasm, as I watched myself sob on the floor, a calm, internal voice added, “now what?” With that same thought, my sister and I flew west at dawn, arriving at Dad’s apartment by 2 pm, Arizona time. He was waiting for us, suspended in shock, surrounded by the disarray of a recent move, his living room bare except for a couple of folding chairs, a card table, plastic bags filled with canned goods and a surprising number of small food processors lined up near the door.
“Hey, Dad,” we said. “We’ve come to help.” We started by asking him what happened. This is the primary thing to ask a person in grief; telling the story is necessary for many reasons. First, telling the story gets it out of the griever’s head, where the event of the death itself is replaying like some broken down, scratchy record on too loud a volume. Telling the story also helps the griever absorb the facts, which is particularly hard in an unexpected death. Even in an inevitable death, when you love someone, you hold out hope for a cure, a miracle or at least a little more time. When it finally happens, there is always a part of you that can’t quite grasp it, doesn't "understand." The mind goes into a self-protective denial. Telling the story of how it happened, those last moments, what you did, how you felt, who you called, what they said (if you can even remember) serves to ultimately convince your mind that Death has arrived and changed your life. There is an adage that you have to tell the story 72 times in order to heal, or as I discovered, until you can believe it happened. Telling the story until you get its reality leads you to that next question. Now what?
Initially, this is answered in small, practical things. In Dad’s case, we thought it prudent to organize the apartment he had just moved into. If he could feel like he was living in his home, instead of in chaos, he might begin to see a Now in his life, and then perhaps a tomorrow and a day after that. I started in the kitchen, and my sister started in the back room. We marveled at the amount of food everywhere; half opened bags of pasta, chips, crackers, lollipops were strewn about, neatly clamped with clothes pins. There were multiple bags, boxes and shelves of canned goods, mostly soups, gravies and sauces. A freezer stood in the corner, filled with meat, and though it needed some purging, there was enough food in his refrigerator to last a couple of weeks. As we put things away, tossed things, made a larger pile of items to discard, including the line of apparently broken food choppers, we also listened to him, encouraged him to mourn. We made some necessary phone calls, to Social Security, to the mortuary for an appointment the next day. We took a break and drove him to the bank. We sat with him quietly, on the folding chairs, nibbling chips and strawberries found in the depths of the fridge. We agreed that he and his wife loved each other over their nearly 26 year long marriage. He said, “She made me feel like my life was worthwhile.”
Two days later, after stocking his fridge with fresher things, taking him places he needed to go, arranging for cremation, cleaning up his office and finding him a source for free living room furniture, we sat on his “new” couch. In a short time, we had helped turn his chaotic living situation into something homey. Our fears that he would be paralyzed with grief, give up and die himself in short order were put aside when he hung his own paintings like a personal art gallery, during an hour when we left him alone. He thanked us over and over for coming to see him and said we had helped him a lot. When we hugged him goodbye, promising to call every day, he smiled through his tears. He said something I haven’t heard from his lips in more than 30 years. He said, “I love you.”
Death changes everything, but it can also reawaken the truth. Death can peel away the unimportant, petty squabbles, even some larger hurts and injustices seem ridiculous to cling to. Death strips us down to essentials, and love is the most essential thing of all. Since I’ve returned from Arizona, I’ve called him nearly every night, just to listen to whatever he wants to say. That’s all you can really do when someone is hurt by death – listen compassionately and say, “I love you.”
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The smell of Amsterdam
We’ve invented a really good form of exercise: pack two large suitcases full of clothes that are for a climate other than the one you are in. Make sure that the suitcases themselves weigh at least 8 to 10 pounds, empty. Add extras for possible trips to wild regions where little modern services exist, packets of personal wipes, first aid items, a bed sheet, some pillow cases as a safeguard against questionable laundry practices. Also, while stranded and waiting for some sense of normalcy, acquire gifts for everyone back home, making the suitcases even weightier. Drag them, push them in front of you, preferably on cobbled streets. Book yourself on a couple of trains which will also require climbing up and down multiple flights of stairs, hoisting those pesky suitcases.
We took the train to Amsterdam, just to go somewhere else. I like trains. When I was young, my family traveled through Europe on trains. We had five children, the youngest of which barely two months old, plus luggage and a collection of musical instruments. My father developed a system. The train would pull in to the station and he would throw open the window, then run off the train. My mother and I, with the help of the other kids, would toss out the luggage, guitars, a banjo and autoharp, the frame to the baby carriage and sometimes the baby herself, asleep in her portable pram. As soon as every possession was out of our compartment, we would also dash off the train to help Dad pick up all of our stuff from the platform. The windows on the railroad cars no longer open in this way, but I smiled as we pulled into stations, remembering.
The only reason people seem to go to Amsterdam is to get high. I do not know why I did not realize this. My children certainly did and probably were wondering at our choice of cities to escape to. I knew that pot is legal in Holland, but thought it was confined to special shops. I was surprised to find hippie types staggering through the streets, and that pungent, recognizable smell permeating everything. We wandered out from the train station, pulling our luggage behind us and stepped into a side street, in search of a cup of coffee. Spying a sign saying “coffee shop,” I gratefully plunked down on the bench outside while my partner went in to get me a cup. The woman inside, noticing the handle of the suitcase, mistook it for a stroller and asked in alarm, “you don’t have a baby out there, do you?” This was how I realized that the coffee shop was of a different kind. Apparently you can buy joints of all kinds of strength, color and type of high in a “coffee shop,” but you can’t have children anywhere near them.
It’s a curious thing; since becoming a mother, I have objected to pot smoking on the grounds of its illegality, coupled with fear of the draconian Rockefeller laws in New York State. I have held the same line about underage drinking, even though it is now quite clear that my children did this anyway. Yet, in Holland, where it is perfectly legal, I was still very uncomfortable. Sitting on the grass in Vondelpark with blankets of young people smoking all around me, listening to hip hop music and speaking a mixture of Dutch and English (f-ing being the most prevalent English word) I felt disturbed. I was unable to figure out why. Perhaps it is because I myself am slowly rising out of a debilitating fog and dislike seeing others consciously put themselves into one? But that is very judgmental; I don’t really care what other people do. Go ahead, have fun if you like. As I watched a heron walk by, some white nosed coot families swim near some mallards, I relaxed. I don’t have to smoke the stuff if I don’t want. Let it be. Take a deep breath and smell early spring, the loamy, sweet scent of the mud on the bank. A breeze blows across my cheek, spiced with flowers and marijuana. Should I inhale?
We took the train to Amsterdam, just to go somewhere else. I like trains. When I was young, my family traveled through Europe on trains. We had five children, the youngest of which barely two months old, plus luggage and a collection of musical instruments. My father developed a system. The train would pull in to the station and he would throw open the window, then run off the train. My mother and I, with the help of the other kids, would toss out the luggage, guitars, a banjo and autoharp, the frame to the baby carriage and sometimes the baby herself, asleep in her portable pram. As soon as every possession was out of our compartment, we would also dash off the train to help Dad pick up all of our stuff from the platform. The windows on the railroad cars no longer open in this way, but I smiled as we pulled into stations, remembering.
The only reason people seem to go to Amsterdam is to get high. I do not know why I did not realize this. My children certainly did and probably were wondering at our choice of cities to escape to. I knew that pot is legal in Holland, but thought it was confined to special shops. I was surprised to find hippie types staggering through the streets, and that pungent, recognizable smell permeating everything. We wandered out from the train station, pulling our luggage behind us and stepped into a side street, in search of a cup of coffee. Spying a sign saying “coffee shop,” I gratefully plunked down on the bench outside while my partner went in to get me a cup. The woman inside, noticing the handle of the suitcase, mistook it for a stroller and asked in alarm, “you don’t have a baby out there, do you?” This was how I realized that the coffee shop was of a different kind. Apparently you can buy joints of all kinds of strength, color and type of high in a “coffee shop,” but you can’t have children anywhere near them.
It’s a curious thing; since becoming a mother, I have objected to pot smoking on the grounds of its illegality, coupled with fear of the draconian Rockefeller laws in New York State. I have held the same line about underage drinking, even though it is now quite clear that my children did this anyway. Yet, in Holland, where it is perfectly legal, I was still very uncomfortable. Sitting on the grass in Vondelpark with blankets of young people smoking all around me, listening to hip hop music and speaking a mixture of Dutch and English (f-ing being the most prevalent English word) I felt disturbed. I was unable to figure out why. Perhaps it is because I myself am slowly rising out of a debilitating fog and dislike seeing others consciously put themselves into one? But that is very judgmental; I don’t really care what other people do. Go ahead, have fun if you like. As I watched a heron walk by, some white nosed coot families swim near some mallards, I relaxed. I don’t have to smoke the stuff if I don’t want. Let it be. Take a deep breath and smell early spring, the loamy, sweet scent of the mud on the bank. A breeze blows across my cheek, spiced with flowers and marijuana. Should I inhale?
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