the random ponderings of an ordinary person
Tuesday 31 August 2010
Cats with special needs
I've never been a cat lover, but my friend needed a cat-sitter and I have no home. I've met Pan before too. That's not 'pan' as in the cooking implement, and neither is it 'pan' as in Spanish for 'bread' - it's the Pan of Greek mythology: the god of shepherds and flocks, of mountain wilds, hunting and rustic music, as well as the companion of the nymphs. I've always wanted to be a tree nymph so it seems fairly apt, really.
Pan, apparantly, has Asperger's and special needs. He is a bit special, but lovely. My friend also warned me about the little black and white ADHD cat that comes in - honestly this one ran in, ran around as if she was on speed, charged at Pan's food and started munching. Three times she did this. Each time I literally had to tear Pan's food away from her and give her the cheap cat food from the pantry, as instructed. I've not yet met the squirrel that I can also feed. This is not cat-sitting, this is catsquirrel-sitting.
My first night as a cat-sitter? I slept terribly. I was instructed to keep Pan in overnight as the foxes have been known to attack cats in the park opposite. Anyway, around 3am I was so hot, I had to open the window and the second it opened, Pan had squirmed out. He eventually trotted home, probably just excited by the novelty of being let out in the middle of the night. I was awoken twice by the feeling of a hundred feet on my body as Pan decided the spot where I was sleeping was the best spot to jump onto the bed. This morning he seemed fairly cheery to see me awake, and is now curled up on a cushion next to where I am sitting. He's quite sweet really. And you know what? Cat biscuits smell delicious - I really am peckish now and must get some breakfast.
Pan, apparantly, has Asperger's and special needs. He is a bit special, but lovely. My friend also warned me about the little black and white ADHD cat that comes in - honestly this one ran in, ran around as if she was on speed, charged at Pan's food and started munching. Three times she did this. Each time I literally had to tear Pan's food away from her and give her the cheap cat food from the pantry, as instructed. I've not yet met the squirrel that I can also feed. This is not cat-sitting, this is catsquirrel-sitting.
My first night as a cat-sitter? I slept terribly. I was instructed to keep Pan in overnight as the foxes have been known to attack cats in the park opposite. Anyway, around 3am I was so hot, I had to open the window and the second it opened, Pan had squirmed out. He eventually trotted home, probably just excited by the novelty of being let out in the middle of the night. I was awoken twice by the feeling of a hundred feet on my body as Pan decided the spot where I was sleeping was the best spot to jump onto the bed. This morning he seemed fairly cheery to see me awake, and is now curled up on a cushion next to where I am sitting. He's quite sweet really. And you know what? Cat biscuits smell delicious - I really am peckish now and must get some breakfast.
Friday 27 August 2010
The empathic civilisation
I have long thought that people are essentially good and wired up to love one another. Would love it if we (including myself) were all able to empathise with everyone else, seeing that each person is just another person - seeing the similarities among us, rather than the differences. Understanding that most aggression is defence, not attack, and feeling empathy rather than anger or hate. Since when did our own negativity ever beat or overcome someone else's negativity? Really. Certainly in my own experience, never. You haven't won if you beat someone in an argument; you have won if you don't need to resort to arguing in the first place. You're not fighting the other person; rather you are fighting your own ego, or maybe, your ego is fighting their ego - whatever is it, this isn't your true selves engaging in communication.
I would love for myself and everyone else to extend our empathy from those we love, or perhaps even those we see suffering on the streets in our home town, or seeing a small child cry afraid when it loses its mother, to the entire world regardless of race, religion, country or number of ears. A bit fanciful or unrealistic? Why not? Why couldn't it be this way?
Our brains fire up when we empathise as if we were experiencing the event ourselves. Most of us are wired up to feel what others feel - even those that struggle to see what others feel still get it, it's just harder for them to see. "We are not wired up for aggression, violence and self-interest, but for sociability, companionship, affection, attachment and the drive to belong." Do you believe that? I do. The first existential inklings of a child - that we are born and die with our own unique history - allow a child to develop empathy. Empathy is not necessary if there is no suffering or anxiety - it is about the ability to show solidarity with others who also struggle and fight for a good life.
As long as there is suffering and pain, we need to practice empathy.
Anyway, these rather random and perhaps disjointed thoughts came out of a short clip that a friend sent to me. It's a very interesting piece on the need for empathy in this world and is much better thought out than my writings. I have to apply for various placements and then take the rubbish out, before helping with plastering. Sorry I didn't devote more time to my logic and the development of my thoughts. Still, better something to make you think, than nothing, right?
This clip is only 10 minutes long. Check it out: The Empathic Civilisation
And apparently the Bible got it right - we did indeed come from one woman and one man. I wonder if they could see us now, whether they'd be proud of us or not.
I would love for myself and everyone else to extend our empathy from those we love, or perhaps even those we see suffering on the streets in our home town, or seeing a small child cry afraid when it loses its mother, to the entire world regardless of race, religion, country or number of ears. A bit fanciful or unrealistic? Why not? Why couldn't it be this way?
Our brains fire up when we empathise as if we were experiencing the event ourselves. Most of us are wired up to feel what others feel - even those that struggle to see what others feel still get it, it's just harder for them to see. "We are not wired up for aggression, violence and self-interest, but for sociability, companionship, affection, attachment and the drive to belong." Do you believe that? I do. The first existential inklings of a child - that we are born and die with our own unique history - allow a child to develop empathy. Empathy is not necessary if there is no suffering or anxiety - it is about the ability to show solidarity with others who also struggle and fight for a good life.
As long as there is suffering and pain, we need to practice empathy.
Anyway, these rather random and perhaps disjointed thoughts came out of a short clip that a friend sent to me. It's a very interesting piece on the need for empathy in this world and is much better thought out than my writings. I have to apply for various placements and then take the rubbish out, before helping with plastering. Sorry I didn't devote more time to my logic and the development of my thoughts. Still, better something to make you think, than nothing, right?
This clip is only 10 minutes long. Check it out: The Empathic Civilisation
And apparently the Bible got it right - we did indeed come from one woman and one man. I wonder if they could see us now, whether they'd be proud of us or not.
Monday 23 August 2010
London
London: parks nice, my friends nice, my sister's flat nice, transport horrid, rude people horrid, smelly armpits horrid, people who stand on my foot and don't apologise horrid, people who smack me in the head because I'm too short horrid, people who don't smile back horrid, man on tube who pressed his buttocks against my back probably also because I'm too short horrid, people who try to lean on me to create more space for themselves on the tube horrid, endless hours spent trying to get around London horrid.
Why do so many people glare at me when I try to smile cheerfully at them? Will I end up like that if I stay in Horrid Town?
I want a magic flying bubble full of sunshine, peace and love.
Why do so many people glare at me when I try to smile cheerfully at them? Will I end up like that if I stay in Horrid Town?
I want a magic flying bubble full of sunshine, peace and love.
Thursday 12 August 2010
The art of tree liberation
So I got the whole story from my Dad last night. When Tug was in primary school (about 60 years ago) he planted a mandarin pip in a plastic yoghurt pot, of which we no doubt had gazillions, yoghurt pots being one of the main items of it'll come in handy one day rubbish kept at home. He asked, in his little boy voice (not much different from his 47-year old voice) if they could take the seedling to Croatia to plant it.
It was duly planted, about 35 years ago (I imagine, though clearly I'm not doing great with numbers in this blog - this is probably the most accurate one) in a patch on soil known as The Little Garden next to The Shade. When The Shade was rebuilt, the Little Garden disappeared and Dad insisted on replanting the tree into the Main Garden, as he has done with a number of trees (or at least one) from his private Chester garden into the public general Chester area (to be shared by all visually, but harvested only by us, from number 24).
The little Mandarin Tree, now happily replanted was, however, being strangled by the new creepers in the also new Main Garden, so Mama had to engage in Tree Liberation. See below.
Once Tree Liberation had been completed, the Mandarin Tree was able to stand proud and tall (and visible as long as Mama held away the oleander tree which was insisting on being in front). You may notice that it is now almost twice Mama's height, which puts it at a wapping four foot!! :-)
Finally, I would like to add and clarify that this is Tug's Mandarin Tree (he expressed a certain possessiveness over the tree, so I thought I ought to clarify ownership, just in case he got upset).
It was duly planted, about 35 years ago (I imagine, though clearly I'm not doing great with numbers in this blog - this is probably the most accurate one) in a patch on soil known as The Little Garden next to The Shade. When The Shade was rebuilt, the Little Garden disappeared and Dad insisted on replanting the tree into the Main Garden, as he has done with a number of trees (or at least one) from his private Chester garden into the public general Chester area (to be shared by all visually, but harvested only by us, from number 24).
The little Mandarin Tree, now happily replanted was, however, being strangled by the new creepers in the also new Main Garden, so Mama had to engage in Tree Liberation. See below.
Once Tree Liberation had been completed, the Mandarin Tree was able to stand proud and tall (and visible as long as Mama held away the oleander tree which was insisting on being in front). You may notice that it is now almost twice Mama's height, which puts it at a wapping four foot!! :-)
Finally, I would like to add and clarify that this is Tug's Mandarin Tree (he expressed a certain possessiveness over the tree, so I thought I ought to clarify ownership, just in case he got upset).
Tuesday 10 August 2010
Saturday to Tuesday
Currently trying to check in online and infuriatingly, it's not letting me. Technology? Pah! Give me a village with no post office anytime.
The duck and the cat – Saturday
[I found this in an online book by Paulo Coelho and really liked it so I thought I’d share it with you all. If only I’d come across this years ago. Hope you like it too.]
“How did you enter the spiritual life?” asked a disciple of the Sufi master Shams Tabrizi.
“My mother said that I wasn’t mad enough for the madhouse or holy enough for the monastery,” replied Tabrizi, “So I decided to devote myself to Sufism, in which we learn through free meditation.”
“And how did you explain that to your mother?”
“By telling her the following fable:
Someone placed a duckling in the care of a female cat. He followed his adoptive mother everywhere; then, one day, they came to the edge of a lake.
The duck immediately plunged into the water, while the cat called out from the shore, “Come out of there at once, you’ll drown!”
And the duckling replied, “No, I won’t, Mama, I’ve discovered what is good for me and I know that I’m in my element. And I’m going to stay here even though you don’t understand what a lake is for.””
Paulo Coelho: Stories for Parents, Children and Grandchildren – Volume 1 (http://paulocoelhoblog.com/internet-books/)
Transgenerational trauma – Sunday
Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept waking, afraid in case there was someone in my room. I felt anxious in the blackness of the night. It doesn’t happen often these days, but it was common when I was a child. I have always liked to have my back to the wall (whether I was sleeping or sitting in a room) and to have all entry points to the room covered with my eyes. I’ve never liked sitting with my back to a door, because I’ve always been aware that someone could come in and stab me in the back without me seeing.
I remember an exercise we did in my counselling course a few years back. I can’t remember if it was the first or second year. We were told to stand in the room where we felt safest. We were given 10 minutes, I think, to do this, because of course your perception of safety is not only influenced by the physical space you’re in, but is also relational to where people are in your space. By the end, we were all standing where we felt safest. The door was on the opposite wall to the windows. The windows covered the entire length of the wall they were on, but only the top half. I was diagonally opposite the door, squatting under the level of the windows. When asked why, I replied, “Well, it’s so I can see if someone comes in, there is no chance for anyone to be behind me, and no-one can shoot me through the window because they can’t see me when I’m this low.” I didn’t know where these thoughts came from, but they’ve always been with me, ever since I was little. They weren’t always there, just from time to time.
Another episode, and it may have even been the same day, one woman was discussing atrocities done during WW2 to Jews – her family are Jewish – and I started to shake uncontrollably and I felt intense anger. Another woman, and I shall never forget this, came to stand behind me and she just put her hands on my shoulders to calm me, which it did and I am not sure what else would have done at that point. It was the strangest thing I had experienced and I couldn’t explain it.
I explained to my tutor how I’d felt and my confusion about what had happened and she spoke to us of transgenerational trauma. This is where children pick up fears and anxieties from an older relative, usually a parent, someone from another generation who suffered an extreme trauma. This is often the case with war experiences, for example. This made sense for me, with my family, but I never checked it out. Today I did and I think I now know where some of my irrational fears come from. Once they were not irrational, but absolutely essential to survival and so they were passed on to me subconsciously to ensure my survival too. I hope I never need to verify their use.
Incidentally, now it’s bright and sunny again I am cheery and relaxed, ready for another day on this beautiful and completely unthreatening island!
Mali Lošinj – Monday
Well today we decided to leave the village of Veli Lošinj and we went on a little adventure to Mali Lošinj. Not that it started off being an adventure – I was merely intending to accompany Mama to the police station to renew her passport.
We got up (hideously) early to catch the 8am bus, which, it turned out, had changed to the 8.15am bus. Mama had not been certain of the times, it turns out, just hopeful! No matter, except maybe I’d been able to have breakfast first (very important, as anyone knows who has spent breakfast time with me). This little minibus it turns out is a free pensioner’s bus, but thankfully they accepted people under the age of 60 for just 10 kuna…or 12 kuna if you want a ticket. ‘Entrepreneurial’ man. I was happy not having a ticket.
When we arrived at the police station, Mama was told that she had to fill in a form, go to the post office to pay and then return to submit the form and receive her passport. Easy. So off we ambled into the centre to find a post office. On the way, we stopped for strudel (me, apple; Mama, poppy seed) and a very excited man decided to tell us all about a car that had been driven by a drunk person into the water of the harbour and was in the process of being lifted from the harbour – presumably the car rather than the man, who I assume could swim. All very exciting for 9am in a sleepy town at the end of a very long island.
We headed for a café to get some tea and toast before continuing our journey. Most essential. After this I began to feel moderately human. Hurrah.
Mama headed back to the police station with her paid-for form and I wandered around for a while, purchasing minor items such as superglue, tweezers and a token gift for a good friend who’s birthday I have missed through being here. [Side note to lovely boyfriend – I have been looking for pressies for you too, but there is nothing here that would not come under the category of ‘house clutter’ so currently your only present shall be my return.]
When we met up again after my short successful shopping expedition, we headed back to the bus stop. Again, the timetable made no sense whatsoever and my Mama had a vague feeling (as she often does – vague that is) that maybe the bus didn’t stop at the stop, but somewhere half way up the road at a random point along the verge. We walked a little and it was unbearably hot. It was at this point that my Mama decided hitchhiking might be a good idea – not an idea that she has ever promoted to me, incidentally, in fact, one she has positively discouraged. She was not being overly assertive with her little hand waves, so I took over and stuck my thumb out purposefully. After being ignored by maybe two cars and a truck, one suddenly stopped. Lo and behold it was my cousin with her son. What chance and luck is that? Nothing could have been better, except perhaps a rich old man who decided I was the most amazing person in the world and the daughter he never had, who then died and left all his money and belongings to me. Slightly less likely, however, so my cousin, on reflection, was probably the next best option.
Of course, I am now home, ready to start writing again, with a huge pot of tea (in the absence of my father I am able to use this one!) and I am prevaricating by sharing my eventful day…and it’s only 11am. J
One last thing – my sun allergy seems to have returned after an absence of about 20 years (and oddly, it has returned this year to my cousin too) and rather than taking vile fizzy horse-sized calcium tablets (which used to take me hours to drink while I sat there miserably with a peg on my nose), I am attempting to soothe my skin with cold chamomile tea, which I have also decided is an excellent liquid with which to wash my face in the morning. If there are any other thoughts or suggestions, please do let me know. It’s a little itchy. Thanks! J
Oh, really one last thing. I have superglue on my fingers. It appears to be a fabulous way to stop fingertips hurting for novice guitarists. Why did no-one tell me this before??
---
It wasn’t the last thing at all – Monday evening we went to my uncle’s house in Mali Lošinj, so the story of Mali continues.
It was lovely and I felt part of this wonderful family of slightly crazy people. He was there, busy cooking, his mother-in-law, his wife and their three daughters with their husbands and children. Incidentally, I discovered that mother-in-law is ‘svekrva’ in Croatian, rather close to ‘sve kriva’ which means everything wrong. Any Croatian speakers, please feel free to correct me if I’ve made a mistake.
My other two cousins from Zagreb, who stay around the corner from our flat in Veli Lošinj were also there, one with her own son too. Finally, me and my mother. There was mainly Croatian spoken around the table, but also much Italian as my uncle is the head of the Italian contingent; and English, for those Italians (brought into the family by marriage) not able to speak Croatian to those not able to speak Italian. The children, in the main, were fluently bilingual, switching between Italian and Croatian with ease and a smattering of English. All except one, the adopted child from Colombia who spoke Spanish and Italian, but not Croatian or English. Apparently he understands a little Croatian, but won’t speak it – entirely comprehensible to me, as I remember having exactly the same reaction to Croatian as a child too.
We started, of course, with rakija, followed by the first course of pasta with meat, followed by wine, followed by meat, many veggies and more wine. This was polished off with second and third helpings of meat and then biscuits and meringues, as many as you could shovel into your mouth without others seeing, followed, if you felt sick and full, by more rakija – for medicinal purposes only, of course.
Yes, this is most definitely one of my many homes. :-)
Two days left (including this one, now almost half over) on this precious island and I intend to enjoy them with fullness.
The duck and the cat – Saturday
[I found this in an online book by Paulo Coelho and really liked it so I thought I’d share it with you all. If only I’d come across this years ago. Hope you like it too.]
“How did you enter the spiritual life?” asked a disciple of the Sufi master Shams Tabrizi.
“My mother said that I wasn’t mad enough for the madhouse or holy enough for the monastery,” replied Tabrizi, “So I decided to devote myself to Sufism, in which we learn through free meditation.”
“And how did you explain that to your mother?”
“By telling her the following fable:
Someone placed a duckling in the care of a female cat. He followed his adoptive mother everywhere; then, one day, they came to the edge of a lake.
The duck immediately plunged into the water, while the cat called out from the shore, “Come out of there at once, you’ll drown!”
And the duckling replied, “No, I won’t, Mama, I’ve discovered what is good for me and I know that I’m in my element. And I’m going to stay here even though you don’t understand what a lake is for.””
Paulo Coelho: Stories for Parents, Children and Grandchildren – Volume 1 (http://paulocoelhoblog.com/internet-books/)
Transgenerational trauma – Sunday
Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept waking, afraid in case there was someone in my room. I felt anxious in the blackness of the night. It doesn’t happen often these days, but it was common when I was a child. I have always liked to have my back to the wall (whether I was sleeping or sitting in a room) and to have all entry points to the room covered with my eyes. I’ve never liked sitting with my back to a door, because I’ve always been aware that someone could come in and stab me in the back without me seeing.
I remember an exercise we did in my counselling course a few years back. I can’t remember if it was the first or second year. We were told to stand in the room where we felt safest. We were given 10 minutes, I think, to do this, because of course your perception of safety is not only influenced by the physical space you’re in, but is also relational to where people are in your space. By the end, we were all standing where we felt safest. The door was on the opposite wall to the windows. The windows covered the entire length of the wall they were on, but only the top half. I was diagonally opposite the door, squatting under the level of the windows. When asked why, I replied, “Well, it’s so I can see if someone comes in, there is no chance for anyone to be behind me, and no-one can shoot me through the window because they can’t see me when I’m this low.” I didn’t know where these thoughts came from, but they’ve always been with me, ever since I was little. They weren’t always there, just from time to time.
Another episode, and it may have even been the same day, one woman was discussing atrocities done during WW2 to Jews – her family are Jewish – and I started to shake uncontrollably and I felt intense anger. Another woman, and I shall never forget this, came to stand behind me and she just put her hands on my shoulders to calm me, which it did and I am not sure what else would have done at that point. It was the strangest thing I had experienced and I couldn’t explain it.
I explained to my tutor how I’d felt and my confusion about what had happened and she spoke to us of transgenerational trauma. This is where children pick up fears and anxieties from an older relative, usually a parent, someone from another generation who suffered an extreme trauma. This is often the case with war experiences, for example. This made sense for me, with my family, but I never checked it out. Today I did and I think I now know where some of my irrational fears come from. Once they were not irrational, but absolutely essential to survival and so they were passed on to me subconsciously to ensure my survival too. I hope I never need to verify their use.
Incidentally, now it’s bright and sunny again I am cheery and relaxed, ready for another day on this beautiful and completely unthreatening island!
Mali Lošinj – Monday
Well today we decided to leave the village of Veli Lošinj and we went on a little adventure to Mali Lošinj. Not that it started off being an adventure – I was merely intending to accompany Mama to the police station to renew her passport.
We got up (hideously) early to catch the 8am bus, which, it turned out, had changed to the 8.15am bus. Mama had not been certain of the times, it turns out, just hopeful! No matter, except maybe I’d been able to have breakfast first (very important, as anyone knows who has spent breakfast time with me). This little minibus it turns out is a free pensioner’s bus, but thankfully they accepted people under the age of 60 for just 10 kuna…or 12 kuna if you want a ticket. ‘Entrepreneurial’ man. I was happy not having a ticket.
When we arrived at the police station, Mama was told that she had to fill in a form, go to the post office to pay and then return to submit the form and receive her passport. Easy. So off we ambled into the centre to find a post office. On the way, we stopped for strudel (me, apple; Mama, poppy seed) and a very excited man decided to tell us all about a car that had been driven by a drunk person into the water of the harbour and was in the process of being lifted from the harbour – presumably the car rather than the man, who I assume could swim. All very exciting for 9am in a sleepy town at the end of a very long island.
We headed for a café to get some tea and toast before continuing our journey. Most essential. After this I began to feel moderately human. Hurrah.
Mama headed back to the police station with her paid-for form and I wandered around for a while, purchasing minor items such as superglue, tweezers and a token gift for a good friend who’s birthday I have missed through being here. [Side note to lovely boyfriend – I have been looking for pressies for you too, but there is nothing here that would not come under the category of ‘house clutter’ so currently your only present shall be my return.]
When we met up again after my short successful shopping expedition, we headed back to the bus stop. Again, the timetable made no sense whatsoever and my Mama had a vague feeling (as she often does – vague that is) that maybe the bus didn’t stop at the stop, but somewhere half way up the road at a random point along the verge. We walked a little and it was unbearably hot. It was at this point that my Mama decided hitchhiking might be a good idea – not an idea that she has ever promoted to me, incidentally, in fact, one she has positively discouraged. She was not being overly assertive with her little hand waves, so I took over and stuck my thumb out purposefully. After being ignored by maybe two cars and a truck, one suddenly stopped. Lo and behold it was my cousin with her son. What chance and luck is that? Nothing could have been better, except perhaps a rich old man who decided I was the most amazing person in the world and the daughter he never had, who then died and left all his money and belongings to me. Slightly less likely, however, so my cousin, on reflection, was probably the next best option.
Of course, I am now home, ready to start writing again, with a huge pot of tea (in the absence of my father I am able to use this one!) and I am prevaricating by sharing my eventful day…and it’s only 11am. J
One last thing – my sun allergy seems to have returned after an absence of about 20 years (and oddly, it has returned this year to my cousin too) and rather than taking vile fizzy horse-sized calcium tablets (which used to take me hours to drink while I sat there miserably with a peg on my nose), I am attempting to soothe my skin with cold chamomile tea, which I have also decided is an excellent liquid with which to wash my face in the morning. If there are any other thoughts or suggestions, please do let me know. It’s a little itchy. Thanks! J
Oh, really one last thing. I have superglue on my fingers. It appears to be a fabulous way to stop fingertips hurting for novice guitarists. Why did no-one tell me this before??
---
It wasn’t the last thing at all – Monday evening we went to my uncle’s house in Mali Lošinj, so the story of Mali continues.
It was lovely and I felt part of this wonderful family of slightly crazy people. He was there, busy cooking, his mother-in-law, his wife and their three daughters with their husbands and children. Incidentally, I discovered that mother-in-law is ‘svekrva’ in Croatian, rather close to ‘sve kriva’ which means everything wrong. Any Croatian speakers, please feel free to correct me if I’ve made a mistake.
My other two cousins from Zagreb, who stay around the corner from our flat in Veli Lošinj were also there, one with her own son too. Finally, me and my mother. There was mainly Croatian spoken around the table, but also much Italian as my uncle is the head of the Italian contingent; and English, for those Italians (brought into the family by marriage) not able to speak Croatian to those not able to speak Italian. The children, in the main, were fluently bilingual, switching between Italian and Croatian with ease and a smattering of English. All except one, the adopted child from Colombia who spoke Spanish and Italian, but not Croatian or English. Apparently he understands a little Croatian, but won’t speak it – entirely comprehensible to me, as I remember having exactly the same reaction to Croatian as a child too.
We started, of course, with rakija, followed by the first course of pasta with meat, followed by wine, followed by meat, many veggies and more wine. This was polished off with second and third helpings of meat and then biscuits and meringues, as many as you could shovel into your mouth without others seeing, followed, if you felt sick and full, by more rakija – for medicinal purposes only, of course.
Yes, this is most definitely one of my many homes. :-)
Two days left (including this one, now almost half over) on this precious island and I intend to enjoy them with fullness.
Saturday 7 August 2010
Thunder in August
My sister has now gone (at 6.30am this morning, while I stood, wearing PJs, next to my Mama and waving her off). It feels a little empty and I am sure I will miss her when I am on the beach later this afternoon, but for now, me and Mama are sitting in the harbour drinking tea and eating apple strudel, while I stealthily use the next door cafe's wifi. :-)
I wrote this the other day for my blog, for when I next got the chance to write. I have another five or six days here before I head back to Zagreb and I intend to make the most of it and of my Mama. My skill at scrabble appears to have been beginner's luck, so maybe I can practice these skills in my remaining time too. :-)
Love to all.
*
It’s a long time since I’ve been to Lošinj in August, usually preferring the less intense heat of July where the sea is a cold contrast to the hot air and rocks and there a special kind of clarity to the light; or the mellow warmth of September where the sea, rocks and air have the same kind of gentle heat.
August brings me the Lošinj of my childhood – intense heat, somnolence of air and movement, where the essentials oils of the curry plants and pine fill the air and heavy clouds slowly build over days and eventually break, blissfully, to release water and fire into the air and also in people’s lives. There is a specific grumpiness present on this island in August, which I’d forgotten about until these last few weeks, which you kind of just have to accept and ignore, like an annoying little sibling, until it is released by the storms and the air becomes fresh and light for a few hours, until the somnolence starts to build again.
I am now sitting up in bed and its 8am. The room is dark and outside it is raining – a gentle sound of dripping on the leaves of the oleander, bouganvillia, rosemary and, of course, my brother Tug’s mandarin tree that he grew from a seed from the fruit he had been eating, when he was a still a child. The gentle dripping is starting to get heavier and the drips are coming faster. Every so often, the whole room shakes with rumbling thunder and I get a shiver of excitement through my spine. Oh how I love thunderstorms!
Yesterday, after a delicious seafood lunch with my Mama and sister at Mol in Rovenska, the smaller harbour, my sister and I ambled over to what we call the Hospital Beach, because it used to be for people with skin diseases to cure their problems in our magical sea! After an hour of snoozing, we chatted a bit, I read, then we noticed some rather threatening clouds – black and white scallops and swirls, looking for all the world like containers full of water, ready to spill. The air was cooler, but the sea and most of the sky were still light and clear. The air smelled of rain however, so we packed up and left. As we hurried as fast as our little legs would carry us around the island, back to civilisation, the sea turned black as I have never seen it before and white crests appeared on its surface. The sky turned black and the wind picked up. We could see all the boats returning to harbour too, a sure sign that a storm was about to hit. We arrived home just in time, as the rain started to fall and spent the evening playing scrabble.
Mama has also been telling us stories of her childhood, about chopping wood for the fires, about the places she lived, about her school days. She told us also about when she first came to this island, in her early 30s, as I am now, and about how she had many relatives and friends decamping from her home town of Krapina to this village every summer and I imagine how that might be for me now, and I wish I could bring everyone here to spend a few weeks relaxing, taking in the healing air and enjoying the feeling of the clean, clear healing seas on their skins.
I am aware I have just one week left here, one week having already gone. I could live here forever, I am sure, if only it were closer to the people I love. My only unmet desire is, as always, to bring all those people I care about to this special, magical island. Out of all the places I’ve been to, this remains my favourite.
I wrote this the other day for my blog, for when I next got the chance to write. I have another five or six days here before I head back to Zagreb and I intend to make the most of it and of my Mama. My skill at scrabble appears to have been beginner's luck, so maybe I can practice these skills in my remaining time too. :-)
Love to all.
*
It’s a long time since I’ve been to Lošinj in August, usually preferring the less intense heat of July where the sea is a cold contrast to the hot air and rocks and there a special kind of clarity to the light; or the mellow warmth of September where the sea, rocks and air have the same kind of gentle heat.
August brings me the Lošinj of my childhood – intense heat, somnolence of air and movement, where the essentials oils of the curry plants and pine fill the air and heavy clouds slowly build over days and eventually break, blissfully, to release water and fire into the air and also in people’s lives. There is a specific grumpiness present on this island in August, which I’d forgotten about until these last few weeks, which you kind of just have to accept and ignore, like an annoying little sibling, until it is released by the storms and the air becomes fresh and light for a few hours, until the somnolence starts to build again.
I am now sitting up in bed and its 8am. The room is dark and outside it is raining – a gentle sound of dripping on the leaves of the oleander, bouganvillia, rosemary and, of course, my brother Tug’s mandarin tree that he grew from a seed from the fruit he had been eating, when he was a still a child. The gentle dripping is starting to get heavier and the drips are coming faster. Every so often, the whole room shakes with rumbling thunder and I get a shiver of excitement through my spine. Oh how I love thunderstorms!
Yesterday, after a delicious seafood lunch with my Mama and sister at Mol in Rovenska, the smaller harbour, my sister and I ambled over to what we call the Hospital Beach, because it used to be for people with skin diseases to cure their problems in our magical sea! After an hour of snoozing, we chatted a bit, I read, then we noticed some rather threatening clouds – black and white scallops and swirls, looking for all the world like containers full of water, ready to spill. The air was cooler, but the sea and most of the sky were still light and clear. The air smelled of rain however, so we packed up and left. As we hurried as fast as our little legs would carry us around the island, back to civilisation, the sea turned black as I have never seen it before and white crests appeared on its surface. The sky turned black and the wind picked up. We could see all the boats returning to harbour too, a sure sign that a storm was about to hit. We arrived home just in time, as the rain started to fall and spent the evening playing scrabble.
Mama has also been telling us stories of her childhood, about chopping wood for the fires, about the places she lived, about her school days. She told us also about when she first came to this island, in her early 30s, as I am now, and about how she had many relatives and friends decamping from her home town of Krapina to this village every summer and I imagine how that might be for me now, and I wish I could bring everyone here to spend a few weeks relaxing, taking in the healing air and enjoying the feeling of the clean, clear healing seas on their skins.
I am aware I have just one week left here, one week having already gone. I could live here forever, I am sure, if only it were closer to the people I love. My only unmet desire is, as always, to bring all those people I care about to this special, magical island. Out of all the places I’ve been to, this remains my favourite.