Saturday morning.
Awakened by the door buzzer. Jehovah's witnesses. They want to show me a video.
"Uh," I mumble, full of mouth-guard and squinting at the light edging through the black-out curtains to guess the time. "I'm not up for it today. Thanks."
Probably not going to affect my chances at heaven. They only get 144,000 and the place is probably already full.
Everything hurts. Not from over-exercise, but from long days of intense work, no time to bicycle or run, and short restless nights this week. There is a heaviness in my legs and belly. God, I must be getting old to feel like this in the morning. I've missed the 10AM yoga class.
Willem sits across from me at the breakfast table, vaping his 70% propylene glycol, 30% vegetable glycerine and "pas de nicotene". A smoker since the age of 14, he's been scaling back on the nicotine for months. No pressure...but he wants to quit and he might just make it this time. This is his waking-up ritual. I'm itchy for information and stimulus but we don't watch the news because it interrupts the gradual process he has for coming into his body. Later, when he's arrived, we'll go for a run.
It's been a strange week. Yesterday, I sat at lunch across from the woman who has made my life hell for the past year. She was all smiles and interest. Is it fear of me that makes her pretend or, perhaps, she is disarming me in advance of a strike. In any case, I smile back, unwilling to let her guess my distrust. "Yes. Thanks. I'd love to have a bite of the cheesecake."
I've been working the unreasonable "on call" hours that (among other things) make the job so difficult. Early morning reports, late night phone calls and meetings. In the morning, as I prepare the daily report on the bus, I notice that I stop breathing. I'm very tired. Nearly two weeks ago I finally disclosed to upper management the workplace abuse that has harangued me for nearly a year - and others for nearly a decade, I feel simultaneously relieved and afraid. Relief makes me tired, and the fear no longer has the power to shake me. I told myself once I wouldn't be driven by fear. But when you lose everything once, you understand the probabilities of the impossible.
Willem and I take a run through the woods after Willem fixes us porridge for breakfast. Porridge: a Fairy-tale food. Willem's Goldilocks porridge has to be the "just right" ratio of 1:4 oats:water. He doesn't like cinnamon or raisins but definitely a dash of salt.
We run and walk through a day of rare sunlight and I start to feel good. The trees are slender and green, smooth trunks gaze nakedly at us, their summer clothing lying dried and crumpled at their feet. A flock of fat grey pigeons rise up as we approach, then settle into the carpet of brown and gold dry leaves. We walk past Japanese gardens, closed for the winter, and Willem does push-ups on a bridge while I stretch my knotted hamstrings. We wend our way to his parents' house where his mother greets us with a huge grin, feeds us tea and bread and cheese, tahini with honey, and shows me video of a concert in Bulgaria where she performed on the accordion and enthusiastic dancers with long skirts and headdresses dance. I love this lady and, like everything else broken and tentative in me, some fragile hope creeps out of hiding and says, "this love. this acceptance. this warm and welcoming environment. may I keep these?" Who knows the answer in my own heart but hers is an unabashed, "yes!" and she squeezes me tight as we prepare to leave.
At home, eating sushi, there is a knock on the door. Upstairs neighbors whom I invited for drinks in a moment of good intention and high stress. Can they return in half-hour? Yes. Quick clean, shower, and foraging for food and drinks. Willem still has half-a-bottle of rum; there's a bottle of cheap wine, and a bottle of Vin Santo which I got during Corinne's visit to Italy in 2012. I pop popcorn, and we chat into the night.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Preparing
I'm supposed to compile a list.
To deal with the past, you have to return to the memory. What triggers? Where is the grief? Where is the suffering? Here, let us precisely remove the pain. Desensitize you.
But there is no specific place where I may return. Not one event. One trauma. Just the gradual realization, tiny sparkling frozen crystals settling out of the air on your face and hands and coat until you are frosted over, that everything you loved, everything you thought you knew, is changed. Altered. Lost.
I've gotten better at managing pain. Certain things hurt too badly and I folded them neatly, tucked them out of sight.
The trauma and grief come - not to recall the revelation, the moment of awareness, but remembering the thing you loved, the hope and future, and compare it to the reality of now. Not trauma in a single incident. Not a frightening noise. Just the hollow and empty corners where there should be joy.
To deal with the past, you have to return to the memory. What triggers? Where is the grief? Where is the suffering? Here, let us precisely remove the pain. Desensitize you.
But there is no specific place where I may return. Not one event. One trauma. Just the gradual realization, tiny sparkling frozen crystals settling out of the air on your face and hands and coat until you are frosted over, that everything you loved, everything you thought you knew, is changed. Altered. Lost.
I've gotten better at managing pain. Certain things hurt too badly and I folded them neatly, tucked them out of sight.
The trauma and grief come - not to recall the revelation, the moment of awareness, but remembering the thing you loved, the hope and future, and compare it to the reality of now. Not trauma in a single incident. Not a frightening noise. Just the hollow and empty corners where there should be joy.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Le Carre's tunnel
It was well below freezing and dark by the time I took the 6 mile bicycle route to the train station at 1940. As usual, I listened as I rode. Maybe it's better to stay aware and in the moment (as I've promised myself), but I take too much pleasure in reading audiobooks with my ears and listening to the news. Now, I'm listening to "The Pigeon Tunnel", the memoir written by novelist and former MI-6 agent, John Le Carre. The title refers to a disturbing sight he witnessed when he was young: birds bred in the tunnels beneath a Monte Carlo casino to be the fodder for sportsmen's bullets. In spite of the danger, the birds, true to their pigeon nature, always returned home to the tunnel, only to be target practice again the following day.
Le Carre writes that all of his novels have, at one time or another, carried this title. And no wonder. It is in the nature of covert intelligence work to risk everything as you fly abroad, but you are bred to return "home" every time, only to be sent out again, through the same perils, regardless of how senseless or doomed the mission. This truth was borne out repeatedly in the stories cited by Le Carre. He writes about the World War II Englandspiel, or "English Game", wherein more than 50 Dutch agents working for the Special Operations Executive (SOE) may have been sacrificed as part of a complicated "double double agent". Documents released by the British Archives in 2004 reveal that the agents, trained in Britain to carry out sabotage, were parachuted straight into the arms of the waiting enemy, which had penetrated the entire SOE network in the Netherlands. Almost all were subsequently executed in concentration camps. He also writes about the U.S., Britain and Germany's counter-terrorism efforts and large-scale privacy invasion following the 9/11 attacks, and the plight of an innocent man imprisoned in Guantanamo for five years. His message is not to condemn the intelligence service, but rather, to insist that they not be given a blank check - that they be scrutinized in the same way we demand scrutiny of any other organization acting in our name.
Of course this is a message that resonates with me. I have often felt deeply sorrowful by the way Sjors ultimately complied with the unethical and senseless orders of his puppet masters. For years I have grieved the loss of a future with him, the love we would have shared, and the children we would have raised. It is also a profound grief that I have lost my work and livelihood and all the contributions I may have made to national defense and partner capability if MIVD had not attacked my reputation and career to protect itself from possible embarrassment.
I felt angry when I arrived at the train station, my fingers numb and frozen inside their thick gloves, and toes like pebbles in my shoes. I wore a long woolen undershirt and underpants, with layer upon layer, but the cold bit through me and I felt that I was swimming in a cold lake. When I spoke with Willem on the phone, my anger briefly transposed to him but I restrained myself from acting on the urge to shout. He can hardly be blamed for the low-grade infection of grief and rage that flares up occasionally, blinding me with the pain.
I meditated on the train, but this didn't alleviate the suffering. There is nothing to be done for it, I know. I have tried for years to ease the pain through running and bicycling and meditation, through reflection and self-examination, through good relationships and the reading of books, but the pain and grief is always there. It always returns.
Willem would greet me at home, and I knew I would harm him if I couldn't diffuse the suffering. On my way from the station, I stopped by the liquor store. Armed with a bottle of single-malt scotch, I bicycled home.
Le Carre writes that all of his novels have, at one time or another, carried this title. And no wonder. It is in the nature of covert intelligence work to risk everything as you fly abroad, but you are bred to return "home" every time, only to be sent out again, through the same perils, regardless of how senseless or doomed the mission. This truth was borne out repeatedly in the stories cited by Le Carre. He writes about the World War II Englandspiel, or "English Game", wherein more than 50 Dutch agents working for the Special Operations Executive (SOE) may have been sacrificed as part of a complicated "double double agent". Documents released by the British Archives in 2004 reveal that the agents, trained in Britain to carry out sabotage, were parachuted straight into the arms of the waiting enemy, which had penetrated the entire SOE network in the Netherlands. Almost all were subsequently executed in concentration camps. He also writes about the U.S., Britain and Germany's counter-terrorism efforts and large-scale privacy invasion following the 9/11 attacks, and the plight of an innocent man imprisoned in Guantanamo for five years. His message is not to condemn the intelligence service, but rather, to insist that they not be given a blank check - that they be scrutinized in the same way we demand scrutiny of any other organization acting in our name.
Of course this is a message that resonates with me. I have often felt deeply sorrowful by the way Sjors ultimately complied with the unethical and senseless orders of his puppet masters. For years I have grieved the loss of a future with him, the love we would have shared, and the children we would have raised. It is also a profound grief that I have lost my work and livelihood and all the contributions I may have made to national defense and partner capability if MIVD had not attacked my reputation and career to protect itself from possible embarrassment.
I felt angry when I arrived at the train station, my fingers numb and frozen inside their thick gloves, and toes like pebbles in my shoes. I wore a long woolen undershirt and underpants, with layer upon layer, but the cold bit through me and I felt that I was swimming in a cold lake. When I spoke with Willem on the phone, my anger briefly transposed to him but I restrained myself from acting on the urge to shout. He can hardly be blamed for the low-grade infection of grief and rage that flares up occasionally, blinding me with the pain.
I meditated on the train, but this didn't alleviate the suffering. There is nothing to be done for it, I know. I have tried for years to ease the pain through running and bicycling and meditation, through reflection and self-examination, through good relationships and the reading of books, but the pain and grief is always there. It always returns.
Willem would greet me at home, and I knew I would harm him if I couldn't diffuse the suffering. On my way from the station, I stopped by the liquor store. Armed with a bottle of single-malt scotch, I bicycled home.
Monday, January 2, 2017
Year's end
Here we are at the end of the year and sloshing into the next. There are good things here. Particularly when I consider what my life looked like last year at this time. I was living with my brother and his family. I was spending time with his boys. I spent Christmas with Corinne and her girls and then flew back via Washington DC because I needed to get my masters' diploma out of storage because I had the tantalizing promise of a job where I could escape and make a new shift in my life and I needed all documentation. I remember feeling hopeful and tired. Ready to move on to living again. I remember feeling grateful for the extra time with my family, and tremendous sadness that I did not have family of my own. I was injecting myself with hormones three times each day so I could retrieve eggs and freeze them: some hope that I would be able to have children. I used to want children so badly that it physically hurt me to see an infant or toddler. Now, I've come to accept that life is not what we wish it to be. I still want children, but it is the echo of a desire that had to die so I could survive.
I have friends. I have people who love me. Significantly I have Willem to put his arms around me, to love me when I do not love myself, and this eases the pain.
Been a strange few days. Tomorrow morning, I head back to work.
Yesterday I took a yoga class where I danced to loud Indian music and then laid on my mat and "set my intention" for the year. What to think? What to do? Where do I put my intention? I'd like to create a life that makes a difference, that feels right and meaningful. But there is a disconnect between where I am now and where I feel I ought to be. It's difficult to reconcile the two. My future and some unbreakable hope is tethered to some moment in my past when my feeling about the future was so clear and beautiful: where I was doing my work in Africa and had the promise of a life with Sjors. I cannot, for all my logic and reasoning, allow this dream to die because it was the only thing that has ever felt absolutely right to me. I've never loved anyone so much, never wanted anything so much. Of course Sjors must die for me, but not now. Not yet. I'm not ready.
I've decided to set my intention in the present. Be present every day - not constantly looking behind me, hungering for something I will never have - not practicing mental gymnastics to escape the mind-crushing, relentless misery of my daily work. Here. Now. This is what I have. This is my life and I only get one.
Yesterday I visited a market two miles south of where I live. It was very large - spanning several city blocks. The patrons were primarily immigrant: women with headscarves and heavy coats and men with beards. The market was a crowded bonanza: fish, meat. vegetables, fruit, nuts, olives, spices, cheese, roots, leather and vinyl purses. cheaply-made underpants, sweatshirts, bras, socks, scarves, shoes, pajamas, hats, scarves, tableclothes, jewelry, makeup, counterfeit perfumes, tea kettles, electronics, pans, kitchen knives, suitcases, toys, fresh-baked bread, grilled corn-on-the-cob, and garbage. In every other market I've visited, the heat was sweltering. Here, my toes and fingers froze. I bought a hemp-sack to carry the vegetables, fish, and bread-loaf I'd purchased. The fish-monger was Moroccan, and cleaned my Dorade for me while I waited and watched, then wrapped it in paper. We talked about how Casablanca reminded me of Utah where I grew up - minus the Mosques. I still have the robe I bought in Morocco, and a pair of pointed orange slippers which I can never really wear anywhere.
Last night, I visited Willem at his house, bicycling across the railroad tracks, past the megastores, and fire station. The air was thick with gunpowder-smoke and, all around, fireworks shot low into the sky, celebrating the season. Willem's been sick for some time, and I didn't like the thought of him being alone for new years'. Frankly I didn't like the thought of being alone myself on new years. I love Willem and take comfort from his presence even when he's grumpy with illness. His place is cold but I reminded myself that it's a little like camping and wore a stocking cap and woolen socks to bed.
We sat serenely on the couch together. Or, at least, Willem sat serenely on the couch. Nothing about my internal life is serene, although I try to hide it. I suppose this is what I hope for 2017: that I may find peace. Live right now. Find peace right now. Happy new year.
I have friends. I have people who love me. Significantly I have Willem to put his arms around me, to love me when I do not love myself, and this eases the pain.
Been a strange few days. Tomorrow morning, I head back to work.
Yesterday I took a yoga class where I danced to loud Indian music and then laid on my mat and "set my intention" for the year. What to think? What to do? Where do I put my intention? I'd like to create a life that makes a difference, that feels right and meaningful. But there is a disconnect between where I am now and where I feel I ought to be. It's difficult to reconcile the two. My future and some unbreakable hope is tethered to some moment in my past when my feeling about the future was so clear and beautiful: where I was doing my work in Africa and had the promise of a life with Sjors. I cannot, for all my logic and reasoning, allow this dream to die because it was the only thing that has ever felt absolutely right to me. I've never loved anyone so much, never wanted anything so much. Of course Sjors must die for me, but not now. Not yet. I'm not ready.
I've decided to set my intention in the present. Be present every day - not constantly looking behind me, hungering for something I will never have - not practicing mental gymnastics to escape the mind-crushing, relentless misery of my daily work. Here. Now. This is what I have. This is my life and I only get one.
Yesterday I visited a market two miles south of where I live. It was very large - spanning several city blocks. The patrons were primarily immigrant: women with headscarves and heavy coats and men with beards. The market was a crowded bonanza: fish, meat. vegetables, fruit, nuts, olives, spices, cheese, roots, leather and vinyl purses. cheaply-made underpants, sweatshirts, bras, socks, scarves, shoes, pajamas, hats, scarves, tableclothes, jewelry, makeup, counterfeit perfumes, tea kettles, electronics, pans, kitchen knives, suitcases, toys, fresh-baked bread, grilled corn-on-the-cob, and garbage. In every other market I've visited, the heat was sweltering. Here, my toes and fingers froze. I bought a hemp-sack to carry the vegetables, fish, and bread-loaf I'd purchased. The fish-monger was Moroccan, and cleaned my Dorade for me while I waited and watched, then wrapped it in paper. We talked about how Casablanca reminded me of Utah where I grew up - minus the Mosques. I still have the robe I bought in Morocco, and a pair of pointed orange slippers which I can never really wear anywhere.
Last night, I visited Willem at his house, bicycling across the railroad tracks, past the megastores, and fire station. The air was thick with gunpowder-smoke and, all around, fireworks shot low into the sky, celebrating the season. Willem's been sick for some time, and I didn't like the thought of him being alone for new years'. Frankly I didn't like the thought of being alone myself on new years. I love Willem and take comfort from his presence even when he's grumpy with illness. His place is cold but I reminded myself that it's a little like camping and wore a stocking cap and woolen socks to bed.
We sat serenely on the couch together. Or, at least, Willem sat serenely on the couch. Nothing about my internal life is serene, although I try to hide it. I suppose this is what I hope for 2017: that I may find peace. Live right now. Find peace right now. Happy new year.
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