Trip north

It takes 3.4 hours to get to where the small size of 'bus' arranged to take us into Pieterburen makes sense. At first we had been confused, having spent the good part of our morning on the criss-crossing train lines clanging through the countryside. But as we round a curve and head down the narrow track of gravelly dirt situated between stables and open farm land, we gasp at the sight of field upon field, trees gray in the hazy distance, and windmills turning in the wind unbroken by any natural form or fold in the seamless horizon. We are stunned by graceful expanses of quintessential Dutch landscapes, small crocks of houses spattered with greenery growing through and around the deep red bricks. Our small minivan with a 'bus number' situated in the window is all that can navigate these back roads.

Our driver is the most intimate connection we have had on this journey to the north of Holland so far. Train detours between Schiphol and Groningen delayed our track along a barge canal to get to this last outpost of a city close to the northern coast. We were happy to find a sympathetic and knowing driver who jostled us to the tiny town we asked for. Pieterburen is not known for many things. But people come to visit for two reasons, the zeehondencreche and wadlopen. After a few hours though, we found many more.

Situated 6 kilometers from the coastline where islands curve backwards like an arm's wave of protection against the North Sea, the town is an outpost for one of the few truly hikeable excursions of Holland... mud-walking. The wadden (mud flats) stretch open bellied for kilometers along this outpost coast. One is supposed to be able to walk from coastline to island and back again in the warmer summer months. A single small house with a trajectory of a tiny street points the way to the hazy distance where the mud flats will lie dormant for the winter. (Check out: www.wadlopen.com - while in Dutch, if you click on the yellow button on the right side of the page under 'klik op de button' you will see what wadlopen is all about.)

Our bus driver escorts us to the front door of the wadlopen society, its statue "Marietje" offering the last flowers of the season up in a final burst of glory. A man gardening salutes us and tells us to make sure we add our name to the story and any pictures we take. We turn from him and face the single curve that is supposed to lead to the zeehondencreche, the Seal Sanctuary... in the middle of... this town?

We made it around the corner a mere 5 steps.

Taking pictures of quaint country roads with a windmill down the lane will distract one from what is right in front of them: a riot of a bouquet of fur, cloven hooves, and bleating, wild-horned faces.

I swear to you that there are special angels for people who love animals, and these angels are active in Pieterburen.

10 steps beyond the goats and at the edge of a canal, a modern windmill churns in tune with the wind, silently directing the flight of seagulls, dipping down behind a low-slung building.One wonders how major marine operations are conducted from a tiny town in the middle of fields, ruled by four footed creatures, 6 kilometers from the ocean.

But, it turns out, seals only need one marked vehicle to make the transport from precarious situation to rescue operation- the Seal Ambulance, a minivan with a purpose. It transports seals from ocean front to veterinary services, and back again once a seal is ready to return to the wild.

We entered the building with curiosity high. From full-scale operations complete with quarantines, outdoor rehab pools, and fish kitchen, we were sucked into the world of seal rescue, animal and coast preservation. The Seal Rehab and Research Center began its life quietly in the nondescript style of a woman who had found her life's purpose walking the ocean flats and finding seals afflicted and affected to bring back home to her little town. Her backyard is now the backyard of a town all in on an incredible mission. (check out: www.zeehondencreche.nl)

Surreal and magical, the windmill in the sky, the cool air on our faces in the wane winter light. Children playing 'seal' outside and the adults also letting go as they pressed their bodies against holding ropes, against the floor, and tried to get close to these gentle beings. Seals spinning and diving, shavasina poses in mid-watery glide, sleepy infant seals with their ruffled fur in the sun, curious pups trying to have fun.

How easy it is for us to want to touch and feel an animal in this safe of a setting, so far removed from the reality that landed it here. Children collect stuffed toys, and we all buy postcards, but the day to day efforts of real people shaping animal reality goes on. And, we all have a part.

On our return trip down the single street, 15 steps, we stop for conversations with the sheep assortment. One black faced horned beauty bleats at me and paws at his pen. Their caretaker is out, parrot on her shoulder, talking about how she inherited these creatures, each with name, personality, and distinction. The cabeza negra and I have similar missions, and I soon find myself on his side of the fence, chatting with the caretaker while another sheep nibbles at my thumb.

You might think kissing sheep is a risky enterprise, especially when they are decked out in curley-cue horns... bt it's the burro one has to watch out for, sneaking up on the pony reaching for his own pat. Scampering across the pen, his black face nudges the pony out of the way and bites at his lips playfully as if to say, the only kissing around here will be done by me lady! I say- he looks like Pepe! And a quick glance at his name card reveals... there is something about that name. Pepes are pepes all over the place.

In the chandeliered romantic restaurant left over from the 1700's, we sip hot chocolate and cappucino while waiting for the return trip home. The milk of our drinks is slightly sweet, and I think: its either happy cows, or happy sheep. Or maybe its just me.

Still life images

If I could make a movie of Amsterdam for you, I would bypass the typical images.. all the famous buildings and swarms of tourists pale in comparison to the beauty of the average daily life found in the back streets of early mornings, late night wanderings, and catching the light as it glances off windows in a rare moment of October sun.

image 1...

5 a.m. and there is a sleeting rain. The cyclists move silently through the streets almost at dawn, navigating turns, sleeping parked cars, and blackened street lights in a danced choreography of immense proportions. My bike files in rank with others as we glide through slippery streets and feel the cool air wash out stink of bar, club, and cigarette gatherings. Through the drips, the singular procession out of the downtown club district gains speed, then abruptly stops. Bikes pile up in expectant silence, and, forced to stop myself, I wait with them on this dark street corner. Suddenly, a door opens, a light flips on, and the smell of hot loaves of bread direct from the oven wafts over our dripping faces. The first bakery is open on this Saturday morn, and club-goers are turned into children eager to take the first bites of warmth.

image 2...

October, and the cold rains give way to one day of blissful temperatures and succulent sun. People, ducks, geese and swans flock to the park to celebrate the warmth. In the park near our home, the birds understand that pushed prams and lovers in arms mean a wealth of treats for them. At the edge of the watery expanse of oceanic lake I run in stride with my heart beat and breath while the sun lights up my face. The wind at my back, I look up to see a flowing hijab heading for me. Into the wind, her face free except for a very large pair of sunglasses worthy of Fergie, the sight of a woman in full Islamic dress riding a bike is a sight well worth seeing.

image 3...

In a heavy mist resting over the city, trash trucks fight with bicycles to rule the road. Shops silent and waiting, only the hotel kitchens are open. My bike glides silently over cobblestone backroads as I navigate the fastest route to the school. On a deserted shopping street, a singular image. I catch his eye as I bike by quickly- one lone hairdresser standing in front of his store's large mirror, blow drying his curls into a flurry.

image 4...

When bicycles rule, and cars are luxuries, one learns to transport all sorts of things on two wheels. Imagine the crowded shopping street, bustling bodies trying to get home at 5 p.m. on a Friday. Children are tucked under arms, in baskets, buckets, or strapped to the back of bikes, sometimes 3 to a parental rider. Dogs peek out of saddlebags or front bike baskets alongside flowers and loaves of bread. A man in an elegant suit, coat open and flapping, balances an orange tree behind him. Wrapped in plastic to survive the wind, it shimmers and shines and together they move as if one tall wind-whipped giant through the misting streets of the October evening. The light glances off windows and slips down streets, glancing off buildings and resting in canals where a woman in a long overcoat holds the rudder of a boat in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. The lights of the city are just coming on, and the water ways illuminate while the city shudders into its alternate personality, finishing off the work week with a grande finale of city slicked cyclists heading home for dinner.

Spirits

There are spirits in the kitchen, she says, and it seems they like to cook at about 3 a.m. The amazing thing is, no food is missing, but a big mess is left.

Let's leave a letter, I say. We can thank them for visiting and cooking, but tell them we are going to hide the dishes if they don't start cleaning them.

These are the kinds of activities one gets up to when one lives in a house full of insomniacs. We are excellent stimulation for each other, but terrible managers of bed-time etiquette. At 12:30 p.m. the other night I had to silence the racket outside my door... but as my state of full dress and brisk working manner gave me away in an instant, I was immediately sucked in to their mid-hallway excitement.

Once the clock moves past about, say, midnight, it doesn't take much to be excited about anything. You just LOVE life, and anyone who is willing to share it...

At 1 am the other morning, I tiptoed down the hall and put my ear against a door... ha! She was up, the kitchen-watcher, and we exchanged a quick laughing hello as her call was put on hold and I waltzed through her door... reading, writing, these are all inspiring acts in the dark of night, as is typing on a computer!

My god-daughter caught me in the act of updating FB at 3:00 a.m. the other morning. What she didn't know was that I was waiting to review a paper, from my fellow light sleeper next door... 4 a.m. is her academic deadline, and I am her english language editor. A tough price to pay for amazing Thai dinners delivered the next day.

So how do you trap a sneaky kitchen spirit in a house full of insomniacs? If I did as the Irish, and put out whiskey each night, I might catch them singing. Or, maybe we'll all just join them for a mid- night gathering.

Storm

This is the country where the land meets the sky. Where there is no division for the eye. No interruption of mountains or undulating land. The clouds reach down, and then reach in. The water lifts its face and steps up boldly to meet the wind.

I dissolve here. I always did. Remembering long walks as a teenager among the dripping trees of the bosjes, the silences of pillowed damp land, ferns and bushes brambling over clay and sand, mushrooms sprouting in front of eyes, a faerie-land mystic paradise.

For a moment today, a clear sky. I grab my sweatshirt and shoes and run outside, and then, a break of drops on my head. I head to the bos, the 'forrest', near my home. A 6 kilometer jaunt around the man made lake left over from the creation of this polder, reclaimed from the sea in the 1960's. Yes, the land I live on has only been above ground 50 years, and is quick to show its watery face.

The downpour starts about 1 km in to the walk, but the paths that wander all of Holland through trees, along canals, have a life of their own. The drops change as they filter through the canopy. They condense or disperse and make music as they pummel me. A splash of thunder, a quickening pace, I watch the sky dissolve again right in front of my face.

A student today reminded me of a cloud experiment conducted in schools. A small layer of water in a big jar... sealed except for gusts of air projected in... at one point the molecules can not resist, and they burst into cloudy formation, scattering the jar's sides with misty droplets. This is a lot like these low lands... trapping water, trapping air, sending it up, bringing it back again. At one point, I can't tell where the drips begin. The trees have their own language of storm and whispering wind, the paths and canals, another rhythm.

By kilometer 5, the downpour was complete with thunder claps and lightning streaks. The multiple waterway storms whipping around me... and in it, serenity. The trees lifting tall trunks to meet the chaos and calamity. Their limbs open and welcoming, swaying effortlessly.

Can I meet the storms of my own life so beautifully?

Seeing...

"Seeing, listening, touching, recording, can be, if done with care and sensitivity, acts of fraternity and sisterhood, acts of solidarity. Above all, they are the work of recognition. Not to look, not to touch, not to record, can be the hostile act, the act of indifference and of turning away." Nancy Scheper-Hughes 1992 "Death Without Weeping"

Are we ready?

encouragement

The weather has everyone grasping for support. We are defeated in body and mind with unending grey and the cold that eats through bones. It was not raining, but I came home dripping wet, and shivering. I forgot about the fish-bowl effect.

Our kitchen, the place so daunting at first, has become a haven for us. We alternate cooking, and mothering each other. Today, our "Tante" made Thai soup, someone cooked rice, bread was brought out and greens. Apples and honey for dessert. We all sit together- emerging from our rooms and long hours of study, to eat and laugh.

We are planning our theses... the advisor list was sent out. Ideas are laid out on the table as part of the meal. Not many people are researching children, let alone education. And so I am once again asked to visit one of their nations- don't I want to go to South East Asia? Well, of course I do... but I have this other calling, too. There will always be children in need...

A trip to Utrecht today for encouragement. A message from a supportive professor: there is no one with your focus here- please do it! The anthropological perspective is needed in observing these things...Yes, I heard the same thing in the U.S., but without the 'please do it' part. I am boldened by this, and know that as much as I would love to be an anthropologist of the assumed exotic, my heart is still with my kids.

ADHD, the rise in learning disabilities in the U.S. and Western nations, the dissolution of techniques that actually HELP these kids... yes, there is a need. Instead, a focus on standardization, and marginalization... the acknowledgement of 'disease/disorder' is increasing, but so is ambivalence, and a trend for bandaid answers and blanket medication. This work could put me out on the edge... voicing for something different.

So I listen to my friends who will study disease, health, well-being, in countries full of mystery to me. But I will keep moving forward, even if groping blindly, to try to fulfill my calling.

For it is my own history, and the reason I keep going- that there is a voice for difference- in education, in child ability, in personality and 'the social fit' of being-ness. I hope I can be a voice for this, and then create offerings- something usable for change. Something that makes a difference... I believe they term this "applied" medical anthropology. I hope it can be applied, beyond my own using. It is a good thing I am used to being on the edge.

But the edge is where one catches the most interesting glimpses of beyond... and discovers new territory to explore. I will get lost to find my way, then forge the path for others.

"It is the return of the individual to (the society) from the peaks he or she has travelled alone which serves to elevate that society to new heights. In this way individual growth and societal growth are interdependent, but it is always and inevitably lonely out on the growing edge." (M. Scott Peck, 1978)

on writing

"Writing has not only influenced thought about the world, but also thought about who we are." Thomas Hylland Eriksen

Anthropology traverses the fine and delicate line between art and science. It dances through meanings, suspending belief one minute, entering into dialog the next, and presenting 'findings' for the world to digest. It is a craft of balance. A balancing craft.

Reading ethnographies laced with purpose, with insight into society, family, and culture, I am delighting in discovering a science full of poets. In the dry world of scientific reports, of psychological studies, and medicinal jargon, the writing of anthropologists comes as a relief.

And, I have some freedom here! We are being crafted into writers of ethnographies, observers of identities. Our own and the other. It is the beauty of showing, revealing.

Some years ago, lyrics were my written and realized voice. I sung my transformations of thought and printed them as poetry and art. Now my craft is changing in official papers, websites, blogs, but that can be rich with meaning.

If there is a way to affect change, it is in writing. In crafting to a page a voice for something. A voice for the voiceless. A voice for meaning. Sometimes, it is just a voice for me! But there it is fixed: a word, an expression, disembodied but yet suddenly available.

And what we write, gives shape to the world, and to ourselves in it.