:: on hope and inner work ::

After my post yesterday on how my teaching job has changed over the years and how I changed and seemed to have lost my passion, I have been thinking a lot. I felt exhausted and did not know exactly why. Then it dawned on me: what I wrote yesterday was honest. For the first time I have been absolutely honest with myself, and searched for the reasons, the real reasons that made me a less motivated teacher.

The thing is: once you stop looking at the factors ‘outside’ of your own head and behavior (even though there are quite some), it becomes possible to change. When I believe people can change their behavior, and sometimes by that, change their inner convictions, my attitude towards school work can change too. When I believe, and I do, that teaching goes two ways and I can learn a lot from my students, it’s time to work on that. To recreate that openness and find ways to involve them the way they deserve, I need to be prepared. Better than ever. Only when I have my canvas laid out and sturdy, they can play and build on it, and, with their help, I can change patterns or even deconstruct some pieces as we all see fit, without losing myself somewhere in the process.

So it’s back to the drawing board for me. I have 2,5 months left in which I have more alone time than usual. I’m going to read until my eyes fall out. I’ve already asked my school for a digital newspaper subscription in the target language, so I can make decent course material. I’ll refresh what I have learned about language acquisition and I’ll try to read on immersion (because that is what I am going to do – immersion teaching. With one big challenge for me: the language in which I’ll teach is one I know thoroughly, I have the needed certificates too, but it’s not my mother tongue. I feel like that makes a lot of difference. An awful lot, especially since I’ll have some native speakers in my group).

The whole soulsearching thing also made another question pop: I need my home to be a safe haven. What does it take to make my home a safe haven, not only for me but also for my loved ones? If I am going to properly invest in teaching again soon, I’ll have to maintain that family time at home is sacred. Not only sacred though, but peaceful too. I have been quarreling with the kids a lot lately and it doesn’t do us justice. They are tired from school and I am tired of things not going like I had in mind (see a theme here? Things in my mind always are better than in reality. I need to see the beauty in the real again). We all lose temper. We all feel like home is not what it could be.

So I’ll work on that too. 10 weeks and a lifetime to go!

:: Grey day and reflections on work ::

You know that feeling? On the verge of a great carrot peeling session, but wanting to write, telling your days, documenting and trying to grasp time before it inevitably flees. And after you finally made the decision: this morning I am going to write, you feel like you have nothing to say. Heck, you can’t even go outside to take some nice picture of what’s in my garden. Everything is grey. The flat kind of grey: no rays of light that illuminate the passing clouds. There is daylight but barely depth. A bit like how I feel right at the moment.

I am home. I have been looking forward to this, a repeat of the four months I took for my boy, but now with two kids in school. I can’t seem to find peace of mind though. Last June I was so glad it would be over for 6 months. I thoroughly enjoyed the supper holidays with my family. I decided to take September completely off and do nothing in preparation for school. And now… I feel like my job is whispering in my ears and I don’t want to hear it. I used to like taking my time to write course material and look for good articles and interesting topics. Now I’m tired just thinking about it.

My sister-in-law even suggested: maybe it’s time to find another school. Of something completely different altogether? The idea scares me. Being a teacher was the only future I really saw myself in. Right now, I just want to be home. I fill my days with reading and doing little things in the house. Trying to clear out the attic. Doing laundry. Cooking. Ironing when I feel like it, listening to an audiobook in French, to keep in touch with the language.

If I’m really honest, that’s what I want, what I’ve always wanted: books being the center of my life (along with my family of couse). They were my first true love. Building my days around reading and reflecting on what I’ve read. I used to find ways to combine that with being a teacher and it was the best. Lately I have the feeling I can not anymore: I don’t have the energy to read, let alone to implement what I’ve read in what I teach. Maybe that’s precisely where the passion was lost.

The last few years of teaching were heavy. Combining a family with small children with a fulltime teaching job was a lot harder than anticipated. I decided to declare my time at home sacred and try to avoid any school work there, or limit it to the absolute minimum. I managed, but I was a lesser teacher for it. Add my tendancy to procrastination: not the best combo. I always ended up overwhelmed with all the correction and prep work. I recycled (good) old parts of course materials without really updating. It worked, because it was good stuff to start with, but I never felt actually on top of things. I used the time at school and in between lessons not efficiently enough so I would get behind. A lot.

There are some other factors that make me doubt: the atmosphere at school was changing. We had over all more challenging groups of students. We had some good colleagues falling out and deciding to stop altogether. We had a few changes in the head master department. (The biggest one is one I have not actually ‘lived’ as it started in September). Things didn’t always change for the best. I felt pressured, along with many colleagues. My way of dealing with pressure? Stop trying to keep up at all. Not feeling good about it though. With three months of ‘no pressure’ paternal leave to go, I’m dead scared for that moment in January whan I return. That’s not a good place to be in.

I have still a few months left. I might find back some of my passion. At least enough to start with a smile and keen on making something out of it. If it gets worse, then there will have to be some heavy thinking and some tough decisions to be made. Getting this down on this little piece of the interwebs that I call mine helps in some way. The word is out, the challenge on.

And now I’m going to mindfully peel some carrots.

:: On life, and the inevitability of its ending ::

What is there left to say when life seems to crumble down in ways you never thought would be possible? Now, after more than a week, I finally turn to this space where I find comfort once I get down the words. Not that I feel capable of finding them.

Yesterday my youngest brother, who gets married in a few days wanted to comfort me, wisely sending me that death is an inevitable part of life. While I think that’s true, at least for our beloved family dog that we had to put to sleep yesterday, it is also cruel and rude an the biggest lie ever when it comes to a 15-year-old student that did not survive an accident last week.

He was one of my students. Statistics came way too close. It has been a week of disbelief, of trying to support his grieving classmates, giving other students the time they needed to come and write a word for the family. The death of a peer makes them feel so incredibly vulnerable. Makes us all veel so very vulnerable.
I did not know the boy well. I had only seen him for two hours a week in my class. That doesn’t matter. He feels like one of mine, like he did for the colleagues who did know him well. It’s my teacher’s heart that bleeds. My mother’s heart that bleeds.

So no, little brother of mine. There, you are wrong. Death is not and will never be a part of the life of a 15-year-old that crosses the street at night. It’s just the ugliest case of bad luck ever and something that does not ring true, that does not makes sense in any possible way.

Today, I spent the day at home. Feeling sad and exhausted. The sound of the washing machine makes it as if our little furry friend is still with us. Harsh truth there too: she isn’t. It’s but a picture and some memories of going through her ever shedding hair, feeling the warmth of her body, the beating of her heart.

While her death was way more anticipated than the one of my student, it also hurts. And she is missed in all the little ways a family pet can be…

:: Songs of home, again ::

Do you know Down to Earth? It’s a blog by Rhonda Hetzel. I follow her blog since the very beginning of my blogging adventures. During our holiday in France, I finally got to read two of her books: Down to Earth and the Simple Home. While the contents were no surprise and not really new to me, they were fulfilling and in a certain way energising . Suddenly I remembered that the very name of my blog was inspired by how she talks about life at home. It made me crave that kind of contentment. Not in a bad way, but in all the good ways.

The thing is: I never liked chores, I am a project starter, but I hardly ever keep going, I am as disorganised as can be, mainly because I procrastinate on almost everything. But every time I read one of her posts, I feel like I’m slowly but firmly driven in the right direction again. Even if I don’t know what the right direction is, she makes me feel like if I just keep going and doing my best, I’m on it. No judging.

I’ve been mentally writing so many blogposts lately. And then deciding not to put them on screen anyway, because … I don’t know actually. I was thinking about what way I want to take this place, only to figure out I have no clue. So now it’s summer holiday, and I have quite a few weeks to root, to find out, to try and try again. That’s what summers have looked like the last few years. I don’t even find it frustrating. I like how those two months off give me the possibilities to potter around and to enjoy it. Not striving for perfection this time.

Not that I would be able to. The next two weeks, both of the children are home with me. Our boy, five and a half years old, is getting way too much screen time and I am determined to lessen it a little. His dad is not too helpful though (but he’ll be back at work tomorrow). His little sister, almost 2 years old, is just as addicted… to me. Really, I can’t even go to the bathroom for a second, and taking a shower when my husband is not around to carry her out is almost no option. Hopefully I can encourage some proper independent play, for both of them, so at least I can get food on the table.

We’ll see how that goes. I’ll remember to enjoy, to take it easy, to regroup often. Hopefully find the time and the peace of mind to write about it more often. Songs of home, as was the intention from the start.

::choices, a therapist and cake::

These are the last days of 2017. And in my head, I’m constantly thinking: I should plan, I should make lists, I should revive the bullet journal, I should pick a word for the year, make resolutions, setting up for the best year possible. I can imagine A, the therapist I’ve been seeing only twice, observing me. Pointing out what I am doing. She told me 2018 could be the year without resolutions. Without setting standards so high they’re impossible to reach. Even if I’m accepting the fact that it won’t turn out as planned. Those mental standards seem to drain all my energy.

The ending of 2017 has been rough. Meeting A was, to say the least, confronting. Helpful, in a way that she made me voice what I was truly thinking. When I was with her I heared myself repeating over and over how much I love my job. As if I had something to prove. We talked about my thousands of journals. Starting from scratch seems to be one of my hobbies. But, now I’m looking back on it, it’s also an addiction. I can easily give up, abandon, buy a new journal and do it all over again.

I have the choice: accepting that I am that way. Idealistic, a kind of perfectionist (even if the mess at my house doesn’t really bother me – my perfectionism resides in the internal vision board that just has too much vision on it…) Accepting to abandon and start over. All the time. And have peace with it, maybe find a way to turn it into something powerful and good.
Or I decide that this is way too tiring. And I have to change, the babysteps kind of way. Get rid of that crowded internal moodboard. Let go. As in: really let go. Be humble about it, embrace the space and time and rest it will bring my mind and soul.

I’m not sure. I’m really not sure yet. Probably I won’t be sure of it in two days either, with those beautiful 1’s on the calendar. If I know myself well, I’ll try to do both. Have my cake and eat it all. So if I hope anything for 2018, maybe it’s just that.

 

Let there be cake. Lots of it.

:: last day of summer ::

Today is the last day before school starts again. It has been a long, hot and busy summer. A special one too, our last one with the three of us. (Although I must say our daughter made sure we didn’t forget about her presence already).

I’m convinced that those mixed feelings of relief and regret are well known to all parents who had to entertain their children during eight weeks. Eight weeks is long. I wouldn’t want it to be shorter, as it gives me the chance to reload, to dive into my creative mind and gather new ideas as a teacher, but for those little ones… rather long. I have been doubting if I would bring my boy to some great summer activities organized by the town we live in. There was a really amazing and affordable summer program – with one week-long themed camps or afternoon activities. I had indicated a few on the calendar, and then never used them. Next year I might probably do so.

But I’ve had help. A lot of help. First of all: my husband took up a n awful lot of days off. And on those days, he didn’t only work in the garden or the house, he made sure to get our son involved. I must say, those two had a real bonding thing going on the last two months and it just makes my heart jump when I see them working together pulling out weeds and then my husband asking our son to come along to the container park… the look on that face: glowing of pride and responsability. Just lovely. To me it seems our little kid has grown a lot during this holiday and I’m convinced his dad has a lot to do with that.

And then their was Auntie. Auntie (as I will call her here) is the youngest aunt of my husband – the youngest sister of his deceased mother. While it feels strange that his mother isn’t around anymore, there is also a kind of mental rest that came with it. For her, days that revolved around her grandson were the only days that really mattered, but physically she couldn’t really cope well anymore with those. So it was a constant exercise in allowing her to spend time with him and being on the lookout to not let dangerous situations happen. That had been hard, and it was mentally exhausting, for everyone involved. The day she was buried though, was one of the first times our son saw Auntie. And it clicked. Right away. Auntie doesn’t have children. Her mother told me that the moment “children” became a possibility, she was already 35, and she and the doctors didn’t think it was wise to start at that age.

Auntie spent most of her life with a man about whom I cannot say much (I don’t know him really), but it was a relation in which he took the absolute lead. In many ways he isolated her from her family. I remember that we had to come over to invite them to our wedding, otherwise he wouldn’t have come (and not allowed for her to come either). When her sister was ill and in the end died, he first gave in a bit more, but after a week or two he began commenting again about how much time she spent with her family. And then, for her, something snapped. She made plans to leave him and the moment she found an appartment she could afford, she did. For him, that came as a total shock. They are still on speaking terms, trying to handle it as friends, but I don’t think he fully realizes that for her this is definitive.

She immediately offered help though. As there was a clear connexion between her and our boy right from the start, she told us we could call her anytime needed. If he was sick, she came babysitting, which was just great as my own family lives quite far from here and is certainly not a last minute option. This summer, she came by about two afternoons a week to give me some time to do my own stuff or to rest. And since she installed a car seat, she already twice picked him up for a special day full of fun. They are both tired to the bone after such days, but it’s great to see how they enjoy each other’s company. I’m thankful that out of all the sadness and tears something beautiful like this came up. She really helps us out a lot and that has totally made my summer.

There were days at the beach, where father and son enjoyed themselves thoroughly. I love the sea, but I’ve never been a beach-kid, so my husband is very happy to pass on this tradition he knows from very early age. Looking for shells, splashing in the water, catching crabs, building fortresses and digging holes… all the classics were there. Auntie came over a few days too, so I really had my rest.

There was also a week spent in France, with my parents and siblings. A lot of special attention, a lovely garden to explore, walks around the house and a huge trampoline. There was a little plastic pool as it was hot hot hot and luckily the home was cool and cosy. I think it’s a bit of a pity we didn’t explore the surroundings more but I really suffered from the heat so couldn’t do much.

I think we had a good summer. Lots of play and fun times, and help when needed. I boy who seems to grow before your very eyes, erasing the last toddler traits and changing them for big-boy smiles and expressions. He owns my heart and he knows it. Can’t wait to see what the future holds for him, for us all.

:: nostalgia ::

We had a difficult night yesterday. Although very tired, our Little Boy didn’t want to go to sleep. Kept running away, making a fight of putting his pajamas on. It might have been the heat, it might have been one of those weeks in the life of a toddler when sleeping is not appreciated… anyway, it was not the most peaceful bedtime ritual we ever had.

My husband was very irritated, feeling it as a kind of personal attack. He had done the best he could to be at home on time, only to find his son hyper and not very willing to cooperate. He was ranting about staying later, just to avoid that stress and that it would be our boy’s own fault. My heart broke a little as he continued how other couples had sweet children, not making problems about bedtime, sleeping in, or getting ready for school (our son loves school, but getting him there is quite a thingy).

He had a bad day at work. Temperatures didn’t help. And later that night I showed him some little movies I made a few years ago. Our toddler, not yet being able to talk, only a few words. That didn’t stop him from telling the cutest stories. Playing with his cars, babbling all the time, cute puffy cheeks and the most wonderful smile on his face. My husband looked at me, a bit sad, and told me he regretted how many of those moments he missed. That it would never be the same with a daughter, and that he missed quite a lot of those cute toddler years of his son. Partly because of work, partly out of ease and not seeing the need to invest time.

Time is precious and the only way to capture it, is to grab the moment with both hands and fully live it.

 

 

My heart broke a little again. It’s something I told him all the time. Not to blame him, but because I knew this moment would come. That at the age he felt he could really connect, like now, he would regret everything he missed. Time is precious, and despite tons of pictures and other possibilities to document it, the only way to capture it, is to grab the moment with both hands and live it.

Today I’m watching my son. Yesterday he discovered a bag of marbles and today we are watching how they work on his train rails. I cut him a few holes in a cardboard box, he decorated the whole thing and he has already spent two hours playing with the marbles and the box. Outside it’s hot, but we might pick up some supplies and create something together. Maybe make some chalk paint and decorate the tiles outside, if it’s not too hot. He’s a very strong-willed boy, but he is very sweet too. As all kids do, he likes new things and he likes spending time with us.

I’m tired and I wish I could just sit back and relax. But then again, I know these moments, just before his little sister arrives, will matter a lot. Time is the greatest gift I can give him now.

:: home ::

 

Despite the very high temperatures outside, I’m curling up inside, only slightly cooler. Little Boy doesn’t feel like facing the heat either so we’re spending today quietly together. Watching him play with his cars and dinosaurs, occasionally putting on a favorite show on television, it makes my heart sing. And inside my belly, there is another tiny dancer, letting me know she’ll join us soon.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I want to save these moments, turning them into a chronicle of simplicity and joy, documenting our life in words and pictures. I always keep coming back to this place, it’s why I keep it. My nesting happens here, rather than in our house.

Once it became clear that we’ll share these last weeks of pregnancy with a very friendly builder turning our office space into a baby room, rectifying as many little building mistakes that came with the house as he can along the way, I’ve settled for this slightly chaotic place. My husband does the best he can, trying to get everything sorted out, but this messy state of things makes him nervous – he needs structure and a good amount of clean. I know he would want to move if the money was there. He thinks the house is too small (and I know he doesn’t trust these walls like I do). We don’t have the place to get as organized as he would want to. To me, it’s a question of perspective. The more room there is, the more stuff gets put away (and forgotten about). Mostly my kind of bad habit, but one I should be able to break.

So while he makes this work as well as he can, my mind is doing the nesting thing that all women go through at some point in their pregnancy. And it keeps going back to what I recently read on the beautiful, heart-written blog of Mr. Home Maker. : Houses are aplenty in our society but homes are becoming much thinner on the ground.

Houses are aplenty in our society but homes are becoming much thinner on the ground

 

It’s what I want for this house. I want it to be a home, a good place, where there is always someone available to listen to stories. I want it to be a place where those stories are created and fully lived. I want it to be warm and cosy because of the people who share a life together. I want people that pass by to feel the warm welcome of a place where they are safe and appreciated. I want there to be food on the table and music in the souls.  There are probably plenty of toys and books, but I mostly want my children to play and to read and to be happy doing so. I want them to go to bed, knowing that their parents love them dearly and they mean the world to them, whatever has happened during the day. I want my husband to come home after work feeling happy to pass the doorstep even if there might be some chores to do. I want to come home after work, see the place and instantly wear a smile because I know: this is it. This is home.

 

Imaginary self

I’ve always been a girl that has a double life. One for real and one in my head. Sometimes it’s an escape, quite often it’s just a challenge. There were always mental images of myself leading that life, and they didn’t always coincide with reality.
I think the strongest image up til now is one I came up with when trying to write a fantasy novel (very much inspired as I was then by David Eddings and similar universes). I’ll never ever finish that novel. I’m not a fiction writer. But, the main character stuck.

 

I pictured a young woman, alone, living in a large sed, surrounded by nature and animals. She knew a lot about herbs and was creative and self-sufficient. She loved foraging, and making everything she needed. I know I know, that’s a very romantic picture of a probably very hard life.

What makes her more interesting nowadays, is her personality. She has a calm nature, is quiet without being timid, chooses her words wisely, doesn’t ever get tempted to gossip and doesn’t yell. Ever.
She finds peace and contentment in the simple things, loves cooking and baking and does so without making messes (how on earth does she manage to do that?). She folds laundry like a pro, she doesn’t mind cleaning, her beds are always fresh and fluffy. Television never gets turned on, she’s always happy to get out the art supplies, including paint, can play for hours with little cars and dinosaurs and never tires of playing hide and seek.
She waits happily for her husband to come home from work without falling asleep, and she engages with him an interesting and passionate conversation  about whatever subject seems right at the moment.

Yes, she sounds annoyingly perfect. But having her in my mind gives me rest. Because she exists, somewhere in my head, somewhere in my heart, somewhere in my soul. And because I admire her, and she is kind and sweet and compassionate and close, her presence doesn’t drag me down, but lifts me up and inspires me.
And for that she can be as annoyingly perfect as she likes.

Do you have an imaginary self?

About Life and Death – and the fine line between them

And then we found out we are expecting again. We found it out with a rush to the toilet on New Year’s morning. The start of a very different pregnancy so far. Whole day lasting morning sickness. Exhaustion. Food that wouldn’t be bothered to stay where it was supposed to be.

A little boy that of course didn’t stop asking my full attention and the going back to work that resulted to be completely messy and unorganized due to the hormones and sickness kicking in all the way. But it’s starting to get better and Easter holiday is there to calm my nerves.

It’s slowly starting to sink in. We’ll be a family of four. This baby was most welcome, we talked it through and decided to go for it, in some way counting on the fact that it could take a while. It didn’t and then suddenly I realized that I wasn’t all that shiny and happy as I was the first time. I was thankful but apprehensive at the same time. I worried. I felt guilty not to jump on that pink cloud again. I felt guilt towards my oldest son.

Good thing a pregnancy takes nine months. We will adjust. And our little active happily waving wee little one will be as welcome as little boy was. We’ll find a rhythm that works for us.

It will be different though. A week after we told my husband’s mother, she suddenly passed away, completely unexpected. Her death left us shattered with grief and disbelief. Our daily routines have been picked up again, but there are many, many moments I think about her. We had a difficult relationship the last two years. Our little boy was everything to her, but I felt suffocated by that. Especially since at the end I didn’t trust her enough to let her watch him (nothing to do with her love, but her health was not always stable and she had lied about that before…). But then again, we worked it out, and she managed to ease that painful situation by acknowledging my decision, accepting it and telling me that. She gave me the opportunity to open up again, because I could let go of the guilt and the hide-and-seek playing. She was one special woman and she will be dearly missed, on many many occasions. The first weeks of September won’t be the least of them…