Bikes, Bikes and More Bikes!

I knew before we went to Holland that bicycles are very popular there, but no one could have prepared me for the sheer scope and number of them! 85 percent of the population own at least one bicycle. They use it regularly, most on a daily basis. There are about 16 million bicycles in Holland, slightly more than one for every man, woman and child in the country. It's cradle to grave biking; Whole families with the youngest child in a seat in front of the rider, and another child (or two!) in seats at the back. Business men and women in smart suits. Teenagers. The elderly.

From the first day of our holiday, I was fascinated and started taking pictures of bikes.

The multi-tiered bike parking garage near the train station in downtown Amsterdam. Never, in a million years, would I find my bike again if I were parked there!

Mother and children out on the family bike. This was a common sight in Holland.

There’s the wheelbarrow approach as well: a big bucket in the front. Great for hauling shopping and children.

Often we saw bikes decked out with a personal sense of style. We came across these on various walks in 'our' neighbourhood. Ariana thought they were very cool.

Mum perches at the back behind Dad.

I didn't see anyone, old or young, wearing a bike helmet the entire time we were in Holland. The laws there are very strictly in favour of the biker. In all cases the law says that if a vehicle is involved in an accident with a bike, it is ALWAYS the vehicle's fault for insurance purposes. Thus, drivers in Holland are extremely careful of the masses of bicycles around them. Also, there are numerous safe biking paths everywhere. We found that it's the pedestrians, who share the narrow streets with the bikes, who need to be especially careful. The first few days it was quite daunting. I clutched Ariana to me tightly at every step. Later, though, we became more comfortable and learned to nimbly and swiftly step out of the path of passing bicycles without a second thought.

A row of bikes, Ariana and I by the train station in Haarlem.

We watched in fascination the ingenius method for negotiating bikes up the stairs from the station; a grooved ramp alongside the stairs.

I took this picture of bikes silhouetted against the sky from a canal boat.

Gem's cousin's son, Marius, waves to us as he arrives home from work.

One lovely evening Gem called me out to the balcony of our hotel room in Haarlem. From there we watched as a couple, a beautiful young woman in a summer dress, her hair in a blonde chignon, and a handsome young man in a suit and tie, arrived at a restaurant from two different directions. They waved at each other and then got off their bikes. He greeted her with the bouquet of flowers which had been resting in the basket at the back of his bike. Obviously a date. It was like a scene from a movie, only it was real.

"Can you believe, we're really here?" Gem and I had said to each other at various times since our arrival in Holland. The romance and beauty of that moment spilled into the fragrant night and remains etched in my heart.

The House that Jack Built

The man is tall, burly, balding, in his early 40s. The woman, a little younger, has kind eyes and is heavily pregnant. "I want to buy the book, 'The House that Jack Built'", the man states, his voice deep, and a little gruff.

After consulting the computer, I determine that this book is not in our store but is available for order. The man carefully studies the images of the three available versions. "That one looks like what I remember from when I was a kid", he says, pointing. "I'll order that one. My Mum used to read that book to me when I was a kid. It's the only book I can ever remember her reading to me." He clears his throat. "She passed away last year."

The woman takes his hand and squeezes it.

"How lovely", I say. "You will be passing on something of your mother's love when you read it to your own child."

"Yeah. It's a boy. He's due in a couple weeks."

The woman smiles. "This is our first child and he's been a long time coming."

I hand the man the order receipt. "The House that Jack Built", he says softly, musingly. His words contain a benediction of hope.

I watch them as they leave, his arm guiding her protectively.

I am aware anew of how beautiful life's smallest moments can be. How they can fill us with drops of grace. These gentle flutters of the heart breathe a communion of contingency.

Cousins

This easter was a rare occasion when all our grandchildren, from three different families and cities, were able to spend time together. The moment they saw each other love rushed from somewhere undefined and settled deep. They shared a wonderful two days with us and each other; hiking, bowling, swimming, reading, playing, sleeping, eating meals, creating the connections which are both life-giving and life-long.

On our walks, trees, their new buds swollen with the hope of new life, mirror the children, whose greening hearts leap towards spring. Chattering, giggling, sharing tidbits of each others' lives, calls of "Nana, Papa, look!", abound. The boys get show-off silly. Ariana, physically only a month older than her considerably taller next in age cousin, grimaces indulgently at their antics.

Most of us are far better at affirming arrivals than departures. Saying goodbye is both difficult and painful. I stand waving, blowing kisses over and over again, blinking tears from my eyes. As each family drives away, my heart is pulled along with them.

James' Dollhouse

In the children's section of the book store where I work stands a beautiful wooden dollhouse. It is painted apple green with window shutters of white. Its six rooms boast simply fashioned wood furniture and appliances. Its inhabitants; doll Mama, doll Daddy, doll Girl and doll Boy, reside within in its walls in poses placed by the many little hands which visit the book store everyday. Sometimes they are joined by a litany of small plastic sculpted animals borrowed from a nearby shelf. This dollhouse is on display, an enticement for its more pristine neighbours who wait in boxes for flesh and blood families of their own.

The children's area of my book store is a place of enchantment. Shelves filled with books of every description, spaces to lie on your belly and read, or to cuddle and be read to, and wonderful toys; some to look at and dream, some to play with and discover.

As I work almost exclusively in this section, I have come to know several children and their parents quite well. For the past few months weekly visits by a little boy named James and his mother have become pilgrimages to the dollhouse. James, nearly four, is an endearing, quirky little guy with unruly dark blonde hair and animated features. Other children play with the dollhouse intermittently as other attractions beckon them, but he spends his entire hour on his knees in front of it, engaged in an elaborate play of his own creation. One day doll Girl is banished to the roof for being naughty, two plastic penguins visit the kitchen and entertain doll Boy, doll Mama sings as she dances around the livingroom, and doll Daddy emits a series of rich burps as he jumps from the diningroom chairs. James' mother is somewhat embarrassed by this and gently admonishes him.

At the end of each visit, James always asks the same question, "Can I have my dollhouse for my birthday?" I notice that he always uses the word 'my' when he refers to it. Clearly, despite often the presence of other children, a sense of belonging dwells in his heart.

One morning his mother tells me that James will soon be four and she's mentioned the dollhouse to his father, who is not very keen on the idea.

It is a rainy day and the store is quiet, when I am approached by a man I have never seen before. He asks to see the dollhouse. He examines it with his hands as well as his eyes, smoothing the wood with workworn hands.

"It's well made", he says, but I discern a note of reluctance. "My son wants nothing else for his birthday." There is a rueful smile.

"Oh, you must be James' father", I say eagerly.

He is surprized and I tell him how much James loves the dollhouse and the wonderful, creative play which fills and engages his little being.

"I wanted to get him a train set or some lego", he says. He stands for a few moments, lips compressed, heart and brain bespoken in a silent duel.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take it."

I smile widely as he hefts the large box into his arms. "James will be so happy!", I tell him.

"Yeah", he says, and grins. "That's the main thing."

The sweetness of that moment both nourishes and elates me. In the infinite abyss of love's hunger sometimes the greatest gift of all is simply to acquiesce.

New Light

Introducing our newest family member, gorgeous Calla Ruth, born December 12th, 2011, weighing 7 lbs, 6 ozs.

Calla, meaning beautiful, is a type of lily, which is also a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. The Romans associated the Calla Lily with winter solstice. The lilies bloomed indoors during the darkest time of year and celebrated the bringing of light. Indeed she is a bringer of light, and much joy, to her delighted and thankful parents and grandparents.

It's difficult to see because her hair is still damp and unwashed after her birth, but Calla has beautiful red hair. I feel awash with a passion of tenderness.

It's a subtle change like the scent of new snow, but I know the world has changed since the birth of this new little girl. I wonder what textures Calla will make of the mosaic around her. Right now she is the heart of life, around whose centre everything else is peripheral. The source of that love is divine, and gathers each of us into its blessedness.



(Calla Lily by Sarah Grangier.)

Jordan's Gift

Friday I received my first Christmas card of the season, one that has a very interesting and poignant history. The only time I connect with its givers is at Christmas and they always include a little letter telling of their latest family doings. This sounds very ordinary, but it has a far from ordinary beginning.

About ten years ago I was working in the emergency department one summer when late in the afternoon an eleven year old boy was brought in lifeless, the victim of a drowning. Heroic measures were attempted for well over an hour, but despite this, the boy died. As his heartbroken parents gathered his body into their arms, they told me their story in broken sobs. Jordan was their only child. After a number of childless years they had adopted him as a newborn infant. He was the joy and light of their existence. They were very cautious parents and had only just started allowing him a little more freedom. Jordan and his friend were rowing a rubber dingy in the lake when it capsized. For some inexplicable reason he had taken off his life jacket. His friend made it to shore. Jordan did not.

I spent several hours with Jordan and his parents after his death. When his mother cried and asked for blankets to warm his cold body, I brought them to her. When his father asked "why?" over and over again, I gave whatever poor comfort I could. When they asked that I wait until friends brought Jordan's favourite stuffed dog to accompany him to the morgue, I told them I'd wait as long his parents needed. Mostly, I just listened, helpless in the whyfors of such undeserved suffering.

I didn't cry until I was at home, the images of the past evening flowing through my mind endlessly. I thought of that beautiful child, so unmarred and peaceful looking. I thought of how his dark tendrils of damp hair had gradually dried. I thought of his parents' anguish and grief, of his mother's begging, keening wail, "Please tell me this hasn't happened!" I thought of all they must now go through.

Two summers later, I went into work one gorgeous blue and golden morning. I was working in the O.R. and as I looked at my slate list, one name seemed vaguely familiar; a woman to be prepped for a Caesarian section. As I pulled the curtains aside, her eyes met mine. The smile froze on my face. The last time I had seen those eyes was that sorrowing day in the E.R. wracked in anguish over the body of her little boy. She recognized me immediately. Instinctively, she held out her arms to me, and we hugged.

As she was prepped, with her husband now gowned by her side, she told me about their miracle. After twenty-one years of marriage, at the age of forty-four, she was about to give birth to her first biological child. She told me about how difficult it been after Jordan's death, how there had been times when they had felt they couldn't go on, that life had seemed hopeless and over for them. They saw this new baby not only as a promise of a new beginning but also as a precious cosmic gift from Jordan. Their excitement stretched like a tent over a framework of hope.

"Do you know what day it is today?", she asked with tears in her eyes. "It's exactly two years ago to the day since Jordan died." Then she added, softly, "It is only fitting that you are here today. It was meant to be."

I was immeasurably moved, and I stood with a very full heart as the surgery commenced. By now all the staff working the room that day had heard the story, and the hope and good wishes of everyone was palpable. A healthy, beautiful baby boy was born to collective sighs of relief and joy.

At the end of my shift I made a quick visit to the maternity ward. Baby Matthew's mother cradled him in her arms, her eyes shining with happiness. One of his tiny hands was clasped around his father's finger. Both parents faces were alight with love and the amazement of discovery. On the bedside table next to them rested a framed photograph of a dark haired, smiling boy; the big brother that Matthew will only ever know through stories and pictures.

Since that time, once a year, at Christmas, I receive a card from Jordan's family. Matthew is now nine years old, a wonderful, loving child, full of life and normal boyhood joys.

Life can indeed be mysterious. I had only worked in the Emergency Department for a short time choosing to return to my previous position in the Operating Room after only a month. The day of Matthew's birth, I had originally been assigned to another room but a colleague had asked if I would switch with her.

Through the loss of one child and the birth of another, I am enfolded in the love of a family who have been both scarred and graced. Jordan's gift is one of hope.

(Giovani Battista Salvi Sassoferrato, 1685. Madonna and Child.)

Tante Adrie

(Ariana is delighted to find that Tante Adrie has the exact same initials and last name as her own.)

Gem's Tante Adrie is the only surviving member of his father's birth family, his father's 'baby' sister. At nearly 90, she lives on her own in a little apartment in Haarlem, a beautiful old city about forty minutes by train from Amsterdam. We arranged a Monday afternoon visit for coffee. The logistics involved several calls to iron out the details, as her English is limited and Gem's Dutch only somewhat better.

The day before our visit, our cell phone rang. It was Tante Adrie. Our conversation went something like this:

"Yah, you come coffee (Dutch words). Appel coek. More Dutch words."

"Danku (thank you; one of the few Dutch words I am sure of), Tante Adrie. I'll get Gem for you."

Gem reassures her several times that, yes, we will be there at about 2 P.M.

The next morning the phone rings again. 'Are we coming? I am worried you will get lost." More soothing words from Gem.

We arrive, Gem, Ariana and I, about ten minutes late. Tante Adrie is standing on her tiny flower laden balcony eagerly watching for us. She is tall, big boned, smiling, her brown eyes sparkle with humour. Each of us in turn is engulfed in an enormous hug accompanied by the usual Dutch greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Her words flow in a kindly torrent. Gem picks out about one in four, but is able to make out the gist of what she says, and interprets for me. "We are to leave our shoes outside. We are to sit down. Gem looks so much like his late father, it makes her cry. How old is our beautiful granddaughter? Don't mind the dog."

The apartment sparkles with cleanliness. Elaborate doilies edged with scalloped lace, curtains and tablecloth, all snowy white, contrast with the dark, gleaming wood. Numerous thriving house plants in blue and red china pots vie for space with even more numerous knicks-knacks. Ariana is particularly enamoured of a china figurine of a lady in a pink china evening gown with roses in her china golden hair.

Tante Adrie won't allow any help, and we sit a little awkwardly as she ushers in cups of coffee, plates and forks. A plump apple cake sits in the middle of the coffee table next to a bowl of whipped cream. Orange juice is brought for Ariana. We are just about to tuck in when Tante Adrie folds her hands, closes her eyes and begins to pray. Our names are mentioned in the prayer.

The cake, served with lashings of cream, is delicious. The coffee is dark and luscious. A second helping of each doesn't take much urging. The dog, a fat puggish little creature, named Bepo, waddles over to Tante Adrie, who feeds him bits of cake. Ariana is soon giggling delightedly as he licks crumbs from her fingers, too.

Later Tante Adrie brings out old photos of Gem's father, and of other now deceased siblings, of her late husband, her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, most now residing in Australia. Snippets of stories are told, some understood, some not, but the love and warmth of them, their soul and essence, nourish without precise meaning. The tears and laughter of old forgotten joys and sorrows fill the room. Ariana reads her book for a time, and then wanders around the room delicately caressing various objects with the tips of her fingers.

Before we leave we give her our gift of a box of maple-cream cookies from Canada, and we take pictures. My husband, a big man and 6 ft, 5 ins, lovingly referred to by friends as 'the gentle giant', dwarfs most people but Tante Adrie holds her own next to him.

Last hugs, last kisses ... and last good-byes, for Gem and I both know that this is the last time we will see Tante Adrie. It is a final earthly farewell. I reach over and squeeze Gem's hand for I know his heart is very full. Having lost both his parents, he is once again dancing with the part of himself that holds all the love and sweetnesses of his childhood.

(Tante Adrie and my Gem. I love this photo!)

The Carols of the Birds

(From Google Images)

Often we walk with the madness of the daily news pounding in our heads. Sometimes it seems like all we hear is the hard news of our human condition, the bleak alarm of journalism. The bloodshed and brokenness breaks the heart. Peace stumbles on crutches. Fields of hope lie fallow. Griefs and forebodings seem to find an easy voice in us.

After listening to the noon news the other day, I went outside with glum forebodings of the world economy screaming in my head. I filled the bird feeders with seeds and nuts and then just stood still for a while in thought. Suddenly I became aware of a sound penetrating the tumult of my inner chatter. It was the loud, exultant wek, wek, wek of jay calling jay. Iridescent flights of deep blue flashed swiftly from tree to tree. Over the unabashed commentary of the jays, high above, something very small warbled and babbled cheerfully. One bird rested on a branch near me and scolded joyfully, proudly.

Once my ears were opened, I became aware of the sounds of birds all around me. It's hard to believe that birds speak only to each other. I think they must also speak to us. They call us out of our brooding numbness. They invite us to join in their ironic affirmations. They must know something we don't know.

Winter denies the ecstatic arias of the songbirds of summer, preferring the diminished recitatives of a chastened goodwill. Yet, these cryptic carols of the winter solstice are song enough to confront the gloom. At that moment, standing in a winter garden, it was enough to join the irrational delight of toughened blue jays screaming of a hope beyond reason. In their persistent carols, I found a moment of transcendence.

Of Books and Being

(The Painting, 'Reading Young Man' by Ignat Bednarik.)

My very first love was books. As a little girl I hauled books home from our small local library by the wagon load. The primary pleasure of my childhood was reading. I spent hours and hours laying on my bed reading, surrounded by a muddle of books. This is still the kind of muddle I like best.

I believe that books help to develop a sense of individual self. The introverted nature of reading ... you and the book, is part of its power. No one knows what you are thinking as you read. No one can see what changes might be taking place under the surface of your silent repose, and there lies the essence of its transforming power.

A month ago I was delighted to be hired part time at a lovely book store. My primary duty is to help people find the books they are seeking. Sometimes they know exactly what it is they want. Other times they have somewhat, or even a vague whisper of an idea. Besides the physical help in locating the book, many want advice or suggestions, and sometimes they want someone to listen to not only what they are looking for, but why.

This morning I had a young man of about twenty-five come up to me. He was tall, good looking, dressed casually in jeans and a ski jacket. I was a little startled by his first words. "I need to find a book that will teach me how not to be an asshole", he said bluntly. I must have looked a bit quizzical because he immediatly continued, "You see my girlfriend tells me I'm an asshole. She is threatening to leave me. My boss has told me something similar before and even friends. I know its true and I don't want to be that way, so I need a book. Can you suggest something? I don't know where to start."

After this candid confession, he followed me to the self-help section, and we continued to talk. After discovering a little more about him, I made two suggestions: 'Help Yourself' by Dave Pelzer, a book which encourages readers to find hope, courage and happiness by showing ways to eliminate the destructive baggage of their past, and 'Excuses Begone! How to Change Lifelong, Self-Defeating Thinking Habits', by Wayne Dyer.

"I'll take both of them", the young man said, after reading the dust jackets. "Thanks for your help". He then added, "Tell me, what do YOU think is the best way to start being a nicer person?"

Wow.

After a few seconds I replied somewhat hesitantly, "Kindness. Maybe you could just start with being kind. Speaking kindly. Giving small kind gestures."

"Yeah", he nodded.

"Good luck to you", I said. "And you know what, right here, right now, you've made your start."

"Maybe I'm not such an asshole", he said, and smiled for the first time.

The Spirit of Christmas

Every Christmas season my preparations begin with a reading of Charles Dickens 'A Christmas Carol'. There is something about Dickens which makes me yearn to curl up by a fire. I want the scent of game pies and thick meaty stews, mulled wine and tangerine oranges. I want to sip egg nog and break off bits of rich, buttery fruit cake with my fingers and pop them into my mouth as I read.

A Christmas Carol is a moral lesson in miracles. It teems and seethes with life. Sadness, fear, danger, loneliness, sacrifice, perhaps none of these are impossible to cope with, but bleak hopelessness, and the cynicism that comes with believing in nothing, are soul destroying.

Dickens hated sham and humbug. False feelings and false friends are endlessly exposed in myriad ways in his work. It's difficult sometimes, with all the rampant consumerism raging around us, to push the trivial aside, and connect with something deeper. The truth of my own intrinsic vitality and vulnerabilty cry out for hope, for communion, for miracles. 'A Christmas Carol' enfolds me in a mystery and compassion which stretches far beyond my own heart.

Christmas, of all celebrations, is a time for real feelings, real friends, real food, and real memories. Scrooge discovered it through the agency of a benevolent spirit. For me, its joy and good will are heralded by the company of a good book.