The Summer of Cracks

It is raining…again…it is not the first time and it won’t be the last time. The thing is that the last few weeks it has been raining a lot and that if  you happen to have a lot of time to do those so much loved typical Summer related things but the weather seems to conspire against your intentions this is a bit annoying.  Still it is what it is.  I have given up and no don’t think I get to wear quite soon that one colorful dress or skirt that only matches with sun and blue skies.  When I look out of the window I try to come up with some positive side effects that rainy weather brings along.  Well, remember how our farmers in June were almost about to perform rain dances due to the dry weather.  They were predicting a harvest that would rocket prices into the sky and they said that in order to save their crops they were need of quite a great amount of rain.  Not that these hardworking farmers were calling out for thunderstorms and a few depression above the Channels islands.  Nope, if I understood all the info correctly they were asking for consecutive days of wetness and rain that was not always coming down in a deluge.  Well, one look out of the window and it seems exactly what is on the weather menu.  So somewhere there must be a very happy soul who looks up to the sky and whispers ‘thank you!’. 

Contrary to the rather cold and wet weather it seems to have rather a hot spot in many places conflict wise.  Does it affect my life? Do I even care? Even when I look at the ‘poffertjes’ I brought back from my very adventurous trip to Amsterdam I do wonder if they have used any eggs containing fipronil.  I take a deep sigh and then take a sip of very artistic coffee mug that I bought while being in Summer modus.  It is a wonderful item and made by the hands of a very talented Swedish potter by the name Åsa Olofsson. It was love at first sight when I did spot this mug amongst all the hundreds of beautiful objects produced by loving hands and creative minds.  I had set my mind on that one particular mug. 

As expected did the outstanding object of my affection came along with a very ‘nice’ price tag.  For a second I was in doubt due to the fact that I never ever had spend that much money on a mug.  Still I had that one perfect mug in my hands.  All the colors added up and the comfort my hands sensed while holding on to it was undeniable strong.  Perfection right there, to have and to hold on even on a rainy day.  Face it you can not drink Aperol Spritz every single day.  Coffee and tea at the other hand always goes along with any weather condition or feeling.  ‘You live only once and you never know if you will ever come back here’-excuse made me get out my credit card. The attentive shop owner did wrap the mug in some carton in order to let it survive the trip back home.   After all this is a fragile object and could end up breaking before we made it back to Belgium. 

Well, can you guess… nope it did not make it into my cupboard unharmed. When I unwrapped it after spending the rather very long trip mostly in my son his back bag I did spot a major crack and some chips of paint where missing as well. I stood there in the kitchen feeling rather awful and empty.  All my joy that I connected with that mug suddenly went down the drain and the fact that I was standing next to our colorful trash bin was also rather tempting.  Perfection gone…imperfection arrived once again. Outside it was raining and I did wonder if there was a conspiracy going on.  Still this was my mug the one that I had big plans for. The one that I wish to share the good and the bad days with.  Still, just throwing it out because of some paint that come off and a crack was perhaps a bit bit too harsh. 

So the mug was granted entrance and moved in with all the other mugs that already kept up with my existence and longing for caffeine.  The last few weeks the mug stands out in my cupboard and yes it helps to get it through on a rainy day.  It still does wonders in combo with some of that black liquid that I pimp with some foamy milk.   It helps to digest the news of an other very painful terror attack or to hear that there are street names and statues that need to be removed in order to make many people feel at ease.   And I do fill up with this mug while two political leaders have their fingers caressing the red button.   It does hang out with me while hearing over the news that binge watching creates tired youngsters or how a visitor stepped into an artwork by the French Artist Yves Klein who mostly paints with International Klein Blue or IKB. The unaware visitor of the museum left a blue trace through out the room ruining the perfection and leaving behind of a trace of imperfection. 

There is a lot of imperfection surrounding me and has even invaded my mind this Summer. There was even a news report the other day that most of the time our Summer memories are not matching what our summer holidays in reality were like.  It seems we play tricks on our mind when it comes down to traveling the world or when we take time off from our daily business. Hmm, not totally agree because momentarily I have claimed my money back from air flight carrier who managed not to bring us back on the promised time and I am about to list a few complaints about a hotel downgrade ‘due to the booking system granting five people to book the same room’-situation.  Plus not to mention some other unpleasant things I had to deal with. Some have created total havoc in my mental state and are seriously testing me. There are even a few ones that I am still trying to figure out what the best rules of engagement are for in order to deal with them.  No, not all my memories of this Summer will be nice ones.  There are cracks everywhere in my life. Some of them are tiny ones and a few ones are rather deep and very visible ones. 

The thing is that this Summer I more and more come to terms with the fact, or should I rather call it perception, that being ‘blessed’ or is it a rather cursed with a historical analytic mind set causes sometimes turmoil.  A few months ago someone told me that I am the odd one out in a room.  That I have to stop expecting that many think along with me when I watch and listen to the news. And you know what I believe this person. Last night there was a professor of History in a news program giving his opinion about why certain statues and street names might not be fitting anymore in our present day society. They seem to stand out to some of us who seem to feel offended by them for some very clear or even less obvious reasons.  

At a certain moment during the conversation the presenter  asked him if it might be a good thing then to organize a referendum to decide what to do with these street names or statues that cause friction amongst citizens or human beings.  His answer was no and that it should rather be our politicians that have to decide what to exactly with these confronting signs, statues and symbols.  According to them it is their responsibility.  They are the ones that have to open up a ‘healthy’ debate in which they can make the decision.

Well, I am not going to tell you what I at the point did think but it does come down to the fact that yes I do agree that you can not ‘fix’ or ‘justify’ everything by means of a referendum. In the last few years it seems that elections and referenda their outcome have even caused more chaos and insecurity than ever before.  Was this person then calling for a dictatorship or despotism? No, that was what he was after.  Our opinions will never all be in perfect harmony and what you like I might detest.  That we all hopefully after a peaceful society in which hate, contempt, bigotry, corruption and many more rather negative words are not considered as the ‘normal’.  Many are still holding on to common values or at least that is what I hope. 

The reality around at the moment is a bit different and sends out a total different message. I will now admit I have grown a bit tired of trying to keep up with what it political correct. That the National Dutch Railways have decided to stop using ‘ladies and gentlemen’ when asking for our attention and that in some lectures are expected to use rather 'a person without or with a womb' instead of 'a man or a woman' when teaching biology is for me honestly one bridge too far. It is like I am expected to be able to expand and adjust my daily vocabulary daily. I feel like I am walking out there in minefield and trying very hard not hurt someone’s feelings by using certain words or expressions. 

The trained history teacher I do think it is very important to name the facts and not sugar coat them. I have spend enough time in a classroom with young adults trying to teach them a few things about what the past had in store when it comes down to extremists and ideology that was after supreme leadership and dominating one group over the other one. As much as I like 'Game Of Thrones' I hope it will never happen in reality. Despite the Mother of Dragons and Jon Snow I don’t think that the non fiction ever can be replaced by the fiction. 

I have always hated labeling people. Labels can come in handy but they also cause friction and give you less freedom when dealing with individuals or even yourself.  Still I do believe in structure, order and common goals and values.  Plus evidence based facts I consider very important.  Surely we should be granted enough space and time to believe what we wish to believe but still there are limitations within this continuum. Yes, I have got my limitations and believe me there are moments that you can push all my buttons. Some of you have done and some of you have only done it recently. It stull hurts and it will keep on hurting but I try to deal with it. Momentarily I have got all my fences up and I refuse to be put into one specific corner and being labelled. Also for the moment it does seem that my beliefs, vocabulary, goals and many more of the rather abstract words that make up my mental state seem now under attack.  Not that I am after perfection…I drink my coffee out of a mug close to perfection with a major flaw that will constantly remind of that.  The perfect crack…that is what the Summer of 2017 has granted me and perhaps I should be grateful for that. 

P.S. While the rain kept us company I had time to read the following: It might help to get a grip on what is going on in the world and beyond.  But watching an episode of the X-files might never be the same after having read this.
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/09/how-america-lost-its-mind/534231/?utm_source=twb

PS: The first clip is by a lady who while I was in Sweden I did hear her music over the radio and although I do not always understand what is singing I will forever link her with the sun and the happy moments I was blessed with in Sweden.  The second is by Sting and due all the rain, the cracks and the rather gloomy thing that are happening around me I still believen in the power of that one feeling he keeps singing about as well. 

On the road to Passchendaele.

Grief…it is one of these words that can go to the core of my heart. It is one of these sensations that can fill me up with all kind of negative linked words. Words that evoke the worst side of being alive. After all it is one of these acts that only takes place when we humans are confronted with that one part of our existence that involves something that creates chaos and a lot of uncertainity. Surely many of you who read this modest blog know what I am talking about and I don’t need to go into more depth to explain what this act involves when it comes down to me.  Still, after this weekend and just having read the first few paragraphs of a specific news article I did feel the urge to write something about this word.

When my father died the first couple of weeks I don’t recall grieving.  That is something that only kicked in a few months later and then it fiercely attacked. It found a home inside of me where it seemed to feel very much at ease. The memories of that period of time are those that I consider very hard to deal with.  Nothing was certain and I was flying blind. It took me years to come to terms with the loss and the pain. I still have got days that I can curse while looking up to the sky. Not sure that I make sense but that is one of the things that I personally found out about grieving…it is a very personal thing.

I use the word thing and some of you might not even like me doing so.  Still I do it purposely. Like mentioned a few lines above did the first weeks my mind and also body seem to cope quite well with the loss of my father.  It was like an automatic pilot was active. I managed to do my job and I even can’t remember crying at the day of his funeral.  Yes, I have got very vivid memories of these first weeks leading up to him dying and being erased from our daily existence but tears are not one of them. 

One of the most confrontational things I experienced during that time was how my grandmother dealt with the loss of her son in law.  That was something I had totally underestimated. The day that my beloved ‘bomma’ expressed her personal opinion in a very open and straight forward manner my time stood still.  It was like a knife was planted into my heart and all the feelings I tried to keep under a lit of the boiling kettle suddenly were pushed out into the air. I will never ever forget that day when my 90 year old grandmother stood there in total defeat and her face reflected what she had just told me.  Her words were like daggers and landed into that one spot where some scar tissue was formed.   Believe me, she got her message across…very clear…

I have mentioned my grandmother before. She is one of the strongest people I have known in my life so far. The last few years I become more and more aware that what she managed to do was certainly not straight forward.  The war correspondence of my grandfather is one of those things that pointed out that my grandmother at numerous times must have been exposed to grief.  Did she ever talked about it?  No, she hardly ever told us something about that one person that we never had the pleasure of meeting.  Yes, there were pictures and in those we met up with a very good looking soldier in his uniform. Even in their wedding picture he was wearing that outfit. 

Neither will my mother tell us a lot about her father.  She was the youngest of 3 and was born after the second world war. The things she does tell us about him are mostly funny childhood memories. Even talking about how he died was done with not that many words. Like they all wish to tell us ‘less is more’.  I am never ever able to follow any of them there.  My grandfather stays an enigma  and only since reading those letters he wrote in prison I was able to feel some connection.  It was like a door was opened that my grandmother had kept closed. But it remains mostly firmly closed.

Yes, I did wonder how my grandmother had done that.  Why she never ever did think of handing us over those letters at a sooner stage in our lives. Why did we never ever had an in depth ‘meaningful’ conversation about what she must have felt when he was imprisoned, on the run and when he then finally died years later after the war… Reading those precious letters made something very painful clear to me and did also put what had happened between my grandmother and me in a meaningful perspective.  It did teach me something very important about life. Something that they write about in those self help guides dealing with depression or loss.  But let us be fair that what is written down on paper has never ever the same effect than what is spoken out loud. 


My grandmother had a lot of love to give and she shared in abundance what she had.  Many of our friends envied us and described us as being ‘cool’. To be honest at that time I did assume that all grandparents were like her. Was I wrong about that?  Still you only find out at a very later stage what the reality was.  That she in her darkest of her existence did express what she felt like must have been very hard on her. 

It is with this in my mind and all the things that I have been taught in history classes and English Literature lessons that I did watch the remembrance of the battle of Passchendaele. For those amongst you who ever been to Ypres and other spots where the first world war I guess you must know what I am talking about.  I was 14 when I did hear the Last Post playing under the Menin Gate.  I have biked and hiked and sat on the back of a motorbike while the landscape where many people gave their lives passed by.  I call these bitter sweet memories. For many reasons and even for the word grief that is. I was there with others but more importantly I was there all by myself.

The newspapers and many specialist have over the last few days expressed what the impact of that battle precisely is.  It is certainly necessary to repeat those wise insights.  The outcome is known. The effect of it speaks in the number of white crosses and the names of all these people that their life ended during that one battle.  And there are many rather invisible ones still at work.  But there is one thing that did make me dive back into my own grief, my own personal grief. Yes, I did put that one word purposely in bold here. Yes, I do think that word is vital in this context.  Why?

Well like everything in life are we always confronted with two sides of the medal. Even when it comes down to a medal that a soldier was granted post mortem/human or after the war he/she managed to survive physically. Nowadays social media and main stream media will gladly point this out to us.  I went on Twitter while the BBC and Belgian national television were broadcasting Helen Mirren bringing that one timeless poem about a certain flower. Overall many expressed their positive thoughts and opinions about this event.   But I did come across enough other opinions that did reflect the other side of the medal. 

Yes, it was very clear that this was a British affair and that even the Belgians were considered a foot note in all of this.  We were hosting and granted to stood along side all those people of a nation who 100 years ago had lost so many souls. All went smoothly and it was a well directed program of speeches, songs, poetry and evocation of a battle that has left scars on the should of many lives. 

It was also not very hard to notice that there was not a very meaningful connection with the German side of the grieving.  And in the view of our leading war historians the people responsible for organizing this they missed out on something vital.  Forty eight hours after the whole ‘pomp and circumstance’ I seem to read that many have not managed to make it even more meaningful.  Like we have missed out on building a bridge towards those others who have lost their lives in those fields.  Hmmm....not sure about that....but who am I?

Have you ever been in Tyne Cot and have ever stood under the Menin Gate on your own? All by yourself? In total silence...nobody around...and then closed your eyes...?  Just wondering?  I can tell you that when I stood there that I was all by myself. I don’t need speeches or a duke or a king who puts down a wreath of flowers to feel.  No, I don’t and even Helen Mirren did not manage to bring back what I felt when I did read for the first time ‘In Flanders Fields’.  I do think I have enough self criticism to know that there is not such a thing that will take away the grief of what happened there. The impact of that one battle is lingering around in the earth of those fields.

More and more we seem desperate to look for common ground in order to make sense out of the society in which we live. Unfortunate events seem to ignite always sensations that we are eager to share with others.  Hands are hold out and many hope to find an other hand which they can hold on to in order to make ‘sense’ of what they are experiencing.  It is like we are desperate looking for life lines that will show us the way out of the minefield.  When it comes down to grieving those that were taking away from us there are not suitable acts that we all consider well enough. It will never be enough.  When it comes down to grieving we walk alone…do we get lost and spin around in a minefield.  The moment you manage to leave that place and come across an other person who turns out to be grieving as well we do secretly hope he or she is holding out her/his hand. 

Last week while being in Sweden and having that one holiday that I had been so desperate after I ended up in a church yard. It was a glorious morning and the sun light created a certain glow that made me feel up with happiness.  The vitamin D was racing through my veins and I felt zen and then suddenly it was there.  In the middle of that church yard I was warped into that one specific spot. Right there in front memorial plaque of Germans…Germans who had lost their lives during the battle of the Aland Islands in the Baltic Sea. 

It felt awkward to find that memorial plaque in a such a place where only Swedish people were buried. But then this sea battle was between Russia (British were involved as well) and Germany. Sweden was neutral ground at the time. My Swedish friend C and I both expressed our ‘surprise’ while standing in front of it.  But then the names on that stone stand for so much more than a footnote in a sea battle.  The grief their mothers and fathers, children, family and friends must have experienced must have been as deep as the grief there is still for those that were buried around that stone.  I was sanding on neutral ground and I felt a shiver going down my spine.  Suddenly I imagined the ice cold water of the Baltic Sea, the screams, the explossions, the tears and so much more ignited by this act.  The moment I stepped away and turned away from it and was swept back into the sun light and the cheerful Swedish summer delights. But I had been there…I had found the common ground.

And so after this past weekend and all the articles I have read about Passchendaele 100 I just even more feel disconnected when dealing with grief and loss. Is this something bad and should I now panic about this? No…honestly I even changed channels last Sunday while watching the program. We still think that it is certainly is necessary to keep doing this.  But P and I had expected something else than what we got to see.  I did not even ask him what he had expected from it but it seemed not to be it what we were given. 

We did rather prefer that one program the Belgian national television called ‘Ten Oorlog’ in which three men travel along all those places where war took place. Humanity collided with havoc, disaster and loss. The stories that all these people told they did not needed any marching band or Hollywood rated actress to get their message across. It was sometimes in a smile, a handshake or even a deep sigh that they were able to suck us into their story. For a second they opened up their firmly closed door and gave us a peek into their sadness and their own history of loss. War stories are sometimes covered up by a blanket of heroism and tend to leave out what the deeper impact was over all.  Those stories were told by this format were told without bright spot lights and high tech effects.  They are pure and sometimes very raw...but that program still manages to do so much more...

No, I am not upset about last Sundays remembrance. Even the criticism that I get to read I find very hard try to ignore.  While changing channels it became so clear that I will never be able to share that one specific  feeling with someone else.  I just did recall standing in front of that one stone in Sweden..being on neutral ground and feeling connected in what many seem to have missed during this Remembrance.  Well, I did not…I found it within myself…deep down where nobody else can follow. Like my grandmother had pointed out so explicitly. 

Compassion is perhaps the closest we will ever come when it comes down to dealing with loss and grief.  In Flanders Fields I will forever find the constant reminder that being alive is so also about being on your own in a life where we are confronted with pain, chaos, blood, suffering, torture, loss and death.  The people who have lost their lives in what the British call ‘Dale of Passion’ in combination with what my grandmother taught me that is all it takes.

So no, I don’t agree with some of what people are now reflecting in newspapers.  I respect their opinion but then I am all by myself wandering around in those fields where crosses are planted and were poppies are wielding. You don’t need to follow me there…and chances are likely that I will not follow you when it comes down to this. Not sure if I make any sense…but that is okay… I can live with that… I can grief and mourn with that…  So next time your life is touched by 'a poppy' know that many are around…but that you are likely on our  own and personal walk of grief and remembrance.  Luckily there is that one flower to remind us of the fact that we more than once are all ‘on the road to Passchendaele’.

FYI: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_%C3%85land_Islands
http://www.passchendaele.be/en