quick look ahead

this morning: belgium.

this afternoon: germany.

tonight: austria.

tomorrow morning: throwing myself down the the dolomites of italy.

i think they call it skiing….

a few jumbled praises (amsterdam part one)

Van Gogh, you ridiculous mad man, you!You remind me of a dear friend unaware of his talents and blind to the possibility of greatness. Be strong young soldier. Fear not. Your works ignite inspiration and create the desire to love deeply, to live richly and overcome this chaotic mess we are given. With tears, I thank you.

Anne, I ran my fingers along the bookshelf that protected your family for years. On the ascent to the annex I hit my knees on each of the twelve steep stairs, I still have bruises to prove. In this place once called a home, I seeked to feel some connectedness. Instead, I only felt distant and weak. More small and trivial. The stench of humanity seeped out of my pores begging to surrender. It was through images and words I witnessed your childlike innocence and womanlike strength. The aroma of your will, far sweeter.

Sinterklaas Kapoentje

We were eleven when we debuted our finest dutch tune. Murial and I. To our private school class of six.

As I prepare for Amsterdam tomorrow, It’s impossible not to recall that silly little tune:

Sinterklaas kapoentje,
gooi wat in m’n schoentje,
gooi wat in m’n laarsje,
dank u Sinterklaasje!

Though out of season; when walking the streets of the ‘dam this week I will be sure to sing these words proudly remembering that performance, among many, and the endless stories of life once lived amidst the canals and cannabis.

pocket change

It is 9am on a foggy Belgian morning. I am sipping hot water peering out of the kitchen window onto the uncultivated cornfield just feet from the house. I have spent the last fifteen minutes digging into the corners of my mind trying to come up with the words to appropriately tell of my time spent in Paris last week. I don’t quite now how to recap five days of non-stop happenings into a few neatly composed paragraphs. But,well… I suppose here is some sort of an attempt.

I have dreamt of Paris since I was a little girl. I have always said that before I die I will have to live in Paris, NYC or London, and I think that somewhere in the back of my mind I have created a small belief that if non of these destinations are fulfilled my life amounts to nothing. That is crap. Sometimes my thoughts are ridiculous. Most times… Paris was fun. It was not as magical as I had always expected it to be. There were no Gene Kelly’s dancing down the sidewalks, or the sounds of accordions filling every neighborhood. The croissants, baguettes and éclairs were not to die for; though I did feel as though I was going to, for personal wheat-free reasons… As most people do-I loved the art, the people, the history. But perhaps my most favored memories of the trip include cooking meals and catching up with Joey at his Paris home, the bike rides through the heart of the city and the perfect patch of daffodils found after my first encounter with Miss Eiffel…

In Paris I expected heartbreak and jealousy, it was not aroused. Lesson learned: My final wanted destination is not Paris. Nor NYC or London.

…And now, here I am, back in the kitchen of my small village. The fog has risen and the weather is perfect. Sort of similar to Seattle, minus the intense rain and constant bone-chill. I am back to eating the vegetables and unknown meats placed in front of me at dinner time by Jeanine, the household babysitter/cook. My recovering vegetarian, post-anemic body is happily and tastefully nourished. I am back to the kids Lode (11), Emma (5) and Lukas (3). I am back to being best friends with you a 3 year old who has an extreme temper and speaks absolutely no English, and yet somehow he remains to be the most darling, precious creature. I am back to being entertained nightly by neighbor kid Ken who comes to play with the young ins. The only English he knows is “I’m too sexy for myself, too sexy for myself, oh so sexy” and “I got it from my mama, yeah!”. Hilarious.

I am back to my daily schedule of awaking to the sound of my alarm clock at 7:57 and rolling out of my bed directly onto my yoga mat by 8. At 8:45 I wander downstairs to a breakfast consisting of hot water, an orange and a nutella slathered rice cake. I open the kitchen blinds and sit with open books and an open heart willing and wanting. Most days I listen to NPR and the wise words of Piper or Cho. In the afternoons I venture by bike to neighboring towns. Somedays I attempt to play piano or sew. Mostly though, I read and listen.

I work two days a week in a small remote village in Belgium. My only friends are between the ages of 3-11 and 43-65. My life is simple, some may find it boring, but for me- it is exactly what this soul needed…

It is now 9:45 and I am on to my third glass of hot water. After this, I am cut off. (got to take it easy, you know?) I am going back to the day of my life in the village. I am going back to my reading, my listening, my learning. I am going back to my laughter and my little friends . I am going back to the warmth of this home, of this village and to enjoy the last two weeks that remain in this quiet sacred place.

when the night comes falling from the sky

outside the small apartment window the tower is shimmering in all her glory. i prop myself on the ledge to feel the downpour, to know that the sounds pitter-pattering on the roof top are nothing of mere imagination. i reach my arm out. the air is warm. the breeze is slight. the drops wet.i fall asleep tonight with the sounds of dylan and the light of the eiffel peaking in.

tishmel -