new life philosophy.

Today I had what has become a typical occurrence: While walking on a new route I encountered a massively steep hill in my way. (I mean, practically vertical.)
When we first moved here, every hill was incredible. There always came this "this can't be serious!" moment. Now that I've been here a while, I find a massive hill in my path and readjust my bag, (possibly remove my jacket) and forge on, one foot in front of the other.
Today, as I leaned forward and looked at my feet (instead of the path ahead), I thought, this could be a metaphor for life and this is how I'd like to tackle them. A hill pops up in my way, I adjust, stay present and forge ahead.
Here's hoping!

Abara Kadabara

I've been writing 2 blogs at once the past 6 months. While this blog was helpful to me in Zürich for feeling connected to the states, http://deutlish.wordpress.com/ is a blog that I write with Ivo to connect to folks in Switzerland and I write an anonymous blog to connect with my emotions surrounding adoption and hopefully other people on that path. The private blog was alsp meant to prevent this blog from filling up with adoption stuff but I can't help myself and thus write this entry:


I believe in Magic; all kinds of magic. I believe in the good kind of magic like science and sports teams-induced superstitiousness. I believe in bad magic, like the stuff that fuels addictions. I believe in a magic that gets me through the day as well. I believe that little sparks of hope are like magic.


I'm currently experiencing a sense of magic that I acn't categorize. I fear that it may be in the center of a venn-diagram with addiction-magic and hope-magic (with a slight hue of sport superstition). No, it feels like betting magic, like sport/addict magic. Not sure. What I'm seeing are signs. They are fake signs that I make myself but knowing that doesn't stop them. I'll give an example of a sign-seeing internal monologue:

Will and Kate are getting married -= a royal wedding + I was born right after a royal wedding = my baby will come end of April


Another:


Jonas and Oli are coming in July + it'd be terribly inconvenient if the baby came in July = The baby will come in July


And another:
I last saw David Sedaris live when I was almost homeless + There, I met a guy who introduced me to my future housemates = I will get the call from the agency when I go see David Sedaris this April


and last of all
Our agency said that people often get chosen when they're out of the country + Ivo is in Russia = this'll take no time at all!


I think the last one is most dangerous. The others seem to fit the pattern of religious zealots who can be certain that the world will end on a certain date and then quickly rebound when that date comes and goes. The last one seems to set me up for disappointment. Luckily 3/4 of those above scenarios end with Ivo coming home, sane, lovely, supportive rationality-sharing Ivo.
I'm hoping that writing these down here will put them in a different place and might change my magical thinking. We shall see. Until then..... I'm off to bed on a unicorn's back. Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.

Asking and Telling

I have given my fingerprints and my academic history. I have listed every person with whom I have ever lived and in which cities we resided. I have described myself, given photos of myself, filled out questionnaires about the mental faculties and medical histrories of myself and my family. I have had two physicals, a TB test and discussed what an inability to reproduce means to me. So why is it, then, that our social workers blush, clear their throats and ask our pardon when they ask the question "So how would you describe your sex life?"
Our lives our open books and rightly so. We are adopting a child and the people responsible for attesting to our soundness want to know everything about us. Issues in our bed may well become issues in our home, so questions about our sex-life makes sense. When I apply for Swiss citizenship, bureaucrats will not only question myself and my husband, but also my references, friends and co-workers about my sex-life. This too makes sense. The natuaralizers need to know if my relationship is on the up-and-up and that I did not simply marry for the red passport.
I have never and cannot anticipate ever being in a situation in which my employer asks after my sexuality or sex life. When working with Planned Parenthood, the most intimate question was "do you feel safe in your home?". When working on a project for a domestic violence shelter for same sex couples, I was not asked about my sex-life or sexuality. So why do the government and the military feel that they have the right to make their employees sex-life their business. Why are they illegally ferreting out details in order to remove their soldiers from their posts?
Our California social worker has worked for the city for 30 years. In her daily attempts to help children live happier lives, I am sure that she has seen things that I would never let myself imagine. In removing children from homes and placing them in others, she has seen much that would typically be kept "behind closed doors". Nevertheless, she sat at our dining table and blushed from embarrassment, when asking about our sex life.
She needn't be ashamed. She is our social worker. I do, however, say shame on any government or military official, who would believe that the sex-lives of their employees is any business of theirs. Shame on asking, shame on telling, shame on the discrimination and bigotry that would stop Americans from serving their country.

over the hill and through the warnings.

It was winter. I was leaving work at the diner and was meant to head to Boston. My boss, a sweet, kind, caring fellow, asked that I please not risk the drive. This was good advice and I am glad that I followed it. As I slowly crawled home in my Saturn, the radio news told me that there was a huge pile-up on the highway. I headed through the east side of Providence and thanked my lucky stars that I would soon be warm and cozy at home.

I turned left onto the hill that lead to my house. A man clearing his driveway shouted and waved his hands. "Don't drive down there! It's never plowed!" This was true. The city nearly never plowed my neighborhood. "I'll be fine!" I smiled "I just live right there in the second road!" I confidently, though slowly and carefully, progressed further toward the downward slope. Just then, another man clearing another drive on the other side of the street shouted and waved "hey!" I lowered my window and affirmed that I understood his concerns about driving down the hill, and assured him that I wasn't headed down there. I rolled my window up, grateful for my caring neighbors, crested the hill and put on my turn signal for the turn into my road. As I turned the wheel nothing happened. I tapped the brakes and nothing happened - - I was headed down the hill.
I went limp, because I heard that that is what one is meant to do. It was taking forever, however and I couldn't maintain my limpness. Then I saw that at the bottom of the hill, there was a pile up. A car had hit a lamppost and dislodged another car that had hit the same post. A school bus had hit that car and the drivers were out of the cars and safe, but I saw that the bus was still full of it's little tiny passengers. Ack!
I tried swinging my wheel back and forth, hoping to hit a tree on the way. I pounded the brakes, ready to turn into the skid. No response. My plan to stay limp was failing, but luckily, my car just softly, smoothly and slowly inserted itself under the school bus. The children in the bus cheered.

I called my pal and neighbor on my cell phone. Her boyfriend answered. "Is Dacia there?" I panted. "Look in your back window." There, scooting, falling and finally sliding and paddling herself down the hill on her bum, was my buddy. "I'm coming!" she shouted.

I've told this story many times and it's probably fairly common. Today, though, as snow falls in other parts of this country and another, possibly on my loved ones who are far away, I am thinking of that day. I'm not thinking of the crash or the shattered car. I'm thinking of the snow shovellers and the woman on her bum. I'm thinking about the straining to go limp.
This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for all of my loved ones and all of my support. I hope that when they speak, that I listen fully. I hope that when they need me, I can scoot on my snowy bum and be with them.

like running at a wall....repeatedly.

In excited anticipation of the Harry Potter film, I am listening to the audio book of the 7th and final Harry Potter. When hearing the phrase "the dementor's kiss" I am reminded of a jolly young boy raising my chin and sucking at the air around my mouth like a little hoover, pretending to suck my soul like the prison-gaurds in the Rowling books.  I then walked into the DMV where the occupants resembled dementor's victims far better than I could play-act for  that enthusiastic little pal of mine.
There is no joy in that building, mostly just a lot of frustration and confusion. I wasn't even sure exactly what it was that I needed. I was told to get a DMV driving record, but do not have a California drivers license. I was then told that I could simply get a form stating that I have never had a CA drivers license and that that would be sufficient. I was so pleased to hear that there was something I could get, something over which I had control, that I sat happily. I waited more than 3 hours, knitting, listening to Harry Potter and the recorded voice telling which number was being served where.
It seems as if every step forward in the adoption process is met with a gigantic shove back. After completing all of our home-study information for our adoption agency in Oregon, we found an agency in California to do our physical home-study and home inspection. They were able to use about half of the forms we had sent to our agency but had a stack of more for us (which took forever to arrive). There were probing, prodding intrusive questionnaires, which we filled out to the best of our ability. There were forms in which we had to check boxes, explaining that we understood that children should not be abused, burned, neglected and more. There were forms stating that we understand that all of our firearms should be locked up and forms with which we agreed to make any children in our cars buckle their safety belts. These all made me feel quite sad and gloomy, but I was buoyed when I thought about the people working hard to ensure that children were going to safe and loving homes. Our forms are the same as those required for people being licensed as foster parents and are far less sweet and cuddly than are those that deal expressly with the adoptive parents at our open adoption agency.
We went for our second physical in 3 months. Ivo's TB test required a chest x-ray. We sent off form after form. We waited on things to be sent back from other people so that we could send them on ourselves. We got fingerprinted and waited for those results. We asked questions of the people at the agencies and waited again for their answers and finally, when there was nothing else, we waited at the DMV.
After my success, Ivo's failure to be able to even enter the DMV yesterday was a bit of a sting. (We were so hopeful to get all of our paperwork out by Friday that we forgot that it was Veteran's day.) Today, however, we got in. I met Ivo waiting outside the building and took his place so that he could go to a nearby coffee shop to work,  and resumed my knitting. All sorts of systems were down at the dept. today and the anger and frustration felt by the people being turned away, license-less was poisonous. There was much cursing and anger and sadness, but I thought that I was safe; we didn't need a license after all.
Though none of it makes much sense, Ivo is not allowed to have the DMV print-out that I have. Indeed, the woman at the entrance (the one who took my form and circled some something on it) said that I should never have been allowed to have mine in the first place. (I'm a bit ashamed at how pathetic I must have sounded as I whimpered "please - don't write on that any more.") Ivo was given a form that supposedly could yield some results in a few months or so. Our pleading questions for absolutely anything else that could be done must have sounded pretty lame. She couldn't have known that this sounded to us like preventing us from being parents.
Every chance to gain patience seems weaker with every barrier, but we seem to be taking the role of "morale-booster" in turn. This morning was my turn. I reminded Ivo that there was a way and that we need only find it. ("We know the destination, but not the path." has been an oft repeated refrain in the past year.) We took deep breaths and concentrated on the destination, thought on our tools and resources and gathered strength and patience.
This afternoon, however, I feel a bit gloomy again. I bought fire-extinguishers and a fire-blanket in anticipation of the home inspection (whenever that may be) and began to worry that maybe I'd jinxed everything. If only this process were so within my control that I could jinx it.
We're playing a dangerous game with time and I just can't see it working. I still see the destination but I'm sad when I think that we will not be able to have an open adoption in the States. Our agency typically places babies with couples between 9 and 11 months on average after they've entered the pool, but that is not guaranteed, of course. We will only be here another 10 months and have no idea when we will officially be in the waiting pool. I'm committed to staying behind in the States if need be, a month or two, if we don't have everything officially finalized but.........
...and here is when I give it all up. I don't give up, mind, I simply give all of the worry up. I look at the work and the worry and the things that we can do and the things that we can't, I collect our loving intentions and desires and will and put it all in a special place. I write it in a journal that I hope our future child will someday read, I send it out into the ether. I put it all together and call it love. I put it aside and hope that it remains and then surrounds our future child; a little cushion of love that will let our child know that he or she was wanted and is worth more than stupid forms and frustrations and obstacles. Most parents feel that they would walk through fire for their child. Before we have met, I will stand on line for mine.

Moving House: a recipe

Take two travelers, remove gall bladder. Add a sprinkle of apprehension and leave to rest 2 weeks.
Next, deconstruct bookshelf and slowly remove personal items. (Note: If removed too quickly, one of the pair will become dispondent. If this happens, warm gently and leave to rest.)
Temper expectations and continue packing.
Stuff with greens and add liquid throughout.
Reserve some books and clothes and stuff a storage space with the rest.
Mix well with friends and cool to room temperature.
Serve on a bed of someone else.

Old Folks

When my brother first visited Switzerland, my (at the time) boyfriend's grandmother wanted to meet him. "To meet the one of the other twins is fascinating." She said in English. She came to tea and while she was there, someone was pasting loyalty stamps from a store into a booklet. The stamps are to be collected and then turned in for free things. "I hate that. I never do that. It reminds me of the ration stamps." Everyone looked at her askance, knowing full well that her family made it through the war fairly comfortably, but she continued "You all would have gotten loads of dairy products, all these tall men." She came from a family of three girls, and we were meant to infer that they received less dairy products. It was all very interesting to hear a different grandparent from a foreign continent describe the hardships during world war II.
My grandparents are folks who save things and hate waste and we were always told that that was a hold over from the depression. I've also had depression-era cake which, I believe, is made without milk or eggs. Nevertheless I never heard in America, as I hear here, "We wouldn't see an egg for weeks on end." The narrative that I pretty much heard was "we went without, including stockings" and the ingenious tricks that folks thought up to deal with deficits.
The scarcity of eggs is one thing I hear more here, the other is bananas, which seems a strange thing to me. For some reason, hearing people from Eastern Germany talking about seeing their first lime or kiwi or coca cola in the 80s strikes a cord within me. I think perhaps that the banana scarcity seems especially strange to me because I don't care for bananas and can easily imagine a banana-less happy life. As someone who tries to buy local produce, bananas are off the shopping list all together.
This summer when I went on vacation with my in-laws, we stayed at a hotel in Süd Tirol, where my mother in law had summered in her childhood. When we arrived, the family who owned the hotel still remembered her almost immediately. The young daughter, who is 9 years my mother-in-law's junior, now runs the hotel and reminisced about bananas. Apparently, they'd had no bananas in the 50s while Süd Tirol was being handed back and forth between Italy and Austria. When my mother-in-law's parents booked their room from Zürich, the swiss hotel owner begged them to bring bananas. They smuggled in a crate of them and were searched at the border but somehow managed to sneak them in. This story touched me very deeply when I heard it, despite my dislike of the fruit.
This Sunday, while sitting in the sun and knitting, I was approached by an old woman who lives just down the street. She was intrigued by my "italian knitting style" (go figure). We sat and chatted and she managed to tell me incredible snippets about her life. Growing up poor in Appenzell, being in a yoddeling club and needing to knit the whole way there and back , in order to finish products to sell, her husband on the border in the war, her 5 sons and 1 daughter - "You must've gotten loads of dairy products", I interjected. "Indeed! We bartered with the neighbors and made out quite well." For some reason I was so pleased to be able to pull out this knowledge and insert it in our conversation. We carried on for about an hour just sitting and chatting on the bench, until she needed to head of to drop something at her garden. I remained on the bench and knitted, shaking my head in wonder at the different elderly folk in different countries and the wealth of information they have.
A quarter of an hour I rose from the bench and prepared myself for a little stroll in the cemetery before heading home. While still on the path that divides the school yard from the cemetery wall, the elderly woman returned, on her way home as well.
"Just quickly...you see this path here used to be part of the cemetery as well" she blurted out.
"Did it?" I asked
"Yes, but streams of water used to come down here from the big hill over there and would wash the earth away from the bones, which displeased the teachers and children, so they pushed the barrier back there. Well, have a nice day."
What couldn't I learn from that woman?