Some thoughts on two friends who have gone to heaven

Posted on February 6, 2015 by Allison

Heaven must be a little more crowded these days. Two saints passed from this life to the next in the space of the last month. Both were friends and both remarkable people, beloved by many and respected by all. Both were born 80-plus years ago, so they lived long, fruitful lives—but still taken too soon. I wish I’d had more time with both of them.

John Kroeker was a member of my church. He had a warm smile, a lovely baritone voice and a crown of thick white hair. One Sundays he wore bolo ties and a blue suit jacket. John was always there. He had been a member of the church for more than 50 years and knew everyone and everything. He was as confortable talking about the day’s sermon as he was fixing a leaky pipe in the church basement. For years he and his wife Evelyn served as unofficial caretakers both of the church building and the congregation. He would keep tabs on people and forward their prayer requests, even years after they had moved away.

John had been a schoolteacher before I met him and I’m sure he was quite good. Retirement didn’t slow him down. Into his 80s John and Evelyn still walked to church on Sundays and John liked to ride his bike. The day before he died John came to church, like always, and since he sat on the same side of the church as I do, he turned around after the service and asked me about my family (they weren’t there that day). “Where are the boys?,” he said, always interested in the lives of other people. Later, I would learn, he had complimented both the pastor and the musicians for their efforts, something he did regularly. In fact, he told the pastor that day that the sermon was one of his top ten favorites. I liked it a lot too. (You can listen to it at http://www.berkeleycov.org/audio/sermonMP3s/2014_12_28_Christ_the_Redeemer.mp3. Don’t be put off by the long scripture reading at the beginning.) It had to do with the grace of God and his inclusion of seemingly wayward people into the family of God. John had a real heart for including everyone in his world too, from the recovering alcoholic who had been beaten up by life to the pastor’s eight-year-old son who enjoyed John’s corny jokes. As one friend put it, John had the kind of character we all aspire to, the kind Paul writes about in Corinthians: love is patient and kind, not envious or boastful. Additionally, John was curious and I’m sure that kept his mind sharp. A man in our church who teaches classes about the intersection of science and religion shared that John never missed one of his classes. In fact, John studied at Cal and at seminary, but he rarely mentioned this. He was humble, yet always had a wise word.

Shirley Bechelli started off as a client of my husband’s tax practice. Over the years, however, she became a treasured friend. She already had four grown sons of her own, but for some reason she and her husband Joe loved my husband and adopted him into the family. They joked that he was their “fifth son.” We attended their family weddings, Christmas parties and birthday parties, along with their sons, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, Family was central to Shirley and even into her 80s she hosted parties in the garden at her and Joe’s second house in Sonoma.

One of the most striking things about Shirley was her keen interest in the lives of other people, not unlike John. Shirley was a tiny woman, with short-cropped grey hair, snazzy brightly-colored glasses and a calm smile. As soon as she saw you, she motioned for you to sit beside her, and her body language told you she was completely focused on you. She wanted to know everything that was going on in your life, as if you were the most important person in the world. Even the last time I saw her, in her hospital bed at UCSF, the last day of her life, she brightened up when she saw me and she asked how the boys were.

Like John and Evelyn, Shirley and Joe had been married for more than 60 years. Shirley and Joe did everything together, from host parties, to play with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, to enjoy annual trips to Hawaii. Every spring they both came from San Francisco to my husband’s tax practice for their yearly tax meeting and then lunch. Every summer we would take them to a Giants game, which they loved. They would take the bus from their home in Marina and meet us at Amici’s pizza across the street from the ballpark. They preferred that to the ballpark food. We always had a good time.

Neither John nor Shirley were attention seekers. They were attention givers. And they loved life and loved God. They were grateful for the good things they had and sought to share it with others. I will remember them both a long time and the example they set as people true to themselves and faithful to God and others.

At Shirley’s funeral, my husband read the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi’s. It was a fitting poem for such an active life of compassion. (Incidentally, the name of this blog, “La Clochette,” came about when I saw some of the words from this prayer tatooed on the arm of a waiter in San Francisco. Going home to look up the prayer, I discovered it had originally been published in a French magazine called “La Clochette,” which means the little bell. I liked the name. And I really like the prayer, which follows.)

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

The Wonder(ful) Years

Posted on January 4, 2015 by Allison

The photo on my desk is about 13 years old. In the photo my smiling husband holds my two smiling sons, ages 1 and 4. They are all wearing pajamas. The boys have on their one-piece footie pajamas and I remember the fuzzy texture of those pajamas well. I remember holding them in those pajamas as I read books at bedtime, as I helped them brush their teeth, as we cuddled on the sofa.

The photo was taken in our kitchen, probably on a Saturday morning. When the boys were little we always had pancakes on Saturdays. They loved our ritual. Pancakes rolled up with sugar and butter inside. Some with blueberries and syrup. Others with chocolate chips. It was Daddy’s specialty.

Saturdays then were filled with family activities. In those days before any of us had smartphones and Facebook we spent the days playing at the park down the street, visiting the Little Farm up the hill or going to Grammie’s house. The boys were happy, everything was new and although there was the occasional tantrum or timeout, the problems were relatively small and manageable, like spilt milk or bruised knees.

Now my sons are teenagers and some nights they tuck me into bed. One stays up late texting friends and the other stays up late playing games online. Most Saturdays they no longer request pancakes. One would rather get to the golf course early and the other wants to be with friends. When we do spend time together we don’t go to the park. If we’re lucky they’ll agree to see a movie with us or go out to eat. For Christmas they request money instead of toys.

A lot has changed in 13 years and sometimes I wish I could go back in time. I would love to cuddle up to that 4-year-old in the red-footed pajamas for just five minutes. I would love to see the look of delight on the toddler’s face when he learns to jump for the first time or draws a picture.

Still, I tell myself, every age has the potential to be filled with wonder. Maybe it’s not so dramatic now, but my kids are still impressionable, curious and tender. Late at night, when I manage to stay up with them and they’ve disengaged from their screens, they ask for backrubs. I sit in their dark room, scratching their backs, and we talk about things of no consequence, like what exactly “swag” means or what would happen if you put dry ice in a hot tub.

And if I doubted their ability to show affection, I would look no further than the family dog. Two years ago we got a puppy and he’s become a focus of attention. When the boys come home from school the first thing they do is shower him with kisses and hugs. “Isn’t he the cutest dog in the world?” we ask each other day after day.

I don’t know what life will be like in another 13 years. My mother tells me you never stop being a mother. I wonder what the boys will be like as adults. What will we talk about? Will they have jobs they like? Will they have girlfriends or spouses? What will grab their attention? I could guess at these things but I really have no idea.

Maybe knowing them another 13 years will bring us both closer to the core of who they are, who they’ve become as adults. Maybe it’s like opening a present that contains another smaller present that contains yet another smaller present. As I get to know them more I uncover the essence of who they are and how we relate to one another. And the whole thing is something I knew was coming but is still a surprise.

Love and loss

Posted on December 20, 2014 by Allison

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Most of us would agree with Alfred Lord Tennyson. Love is a precious, valuable commodity in a world filled with fear and loathing. Who would deny themselves love just to avoid loss?

Certainly Tsukuru Tazaki would agree. He’s the protagonist of the latest Haruki Murakami novel, Murakami being the Japanese writer with a cult-like following. Tsukuru is portayed as an ordinary man whose most meaningful experience was his relationship with four friends in high school. This little group shared a close bond and did everything together. Unfortunately, the friends rejected Tsukuru during his second year of university and he never found out why. He was so devasted by the loss of his friends that he almost commited suicide. Even 16 years later, when the novel takes place, Tsukuru feels loss. Only through the suggestion of his girlfriend does Tsukuru finally decide to contact his old friends and heal his wounds. What he finds surprises and disappoints him. Clearly though, Tsukuru was profoundly shaped by the love of these friends. He knows what it means to be loved and continues to search for this intensity of relationship again and again. And if he could go back in time he probably would have chosen the friendships despite the pain they caused.

When I entered high school I had a close friend too. Kim and I had been friends since fifth grade and we spent most weekends at one another’s houses. We swam in her pool, watched TV, shopped and attended birthday parties together. Then one day, the first week of high school, Kim dropped me. We were boarding the bus together to go to school and she decided to sit with another girl, Niki. Niki was extremely popular, beautiful and talented. From that day forward Kim cultivated her friendship with Niki and not with me. I felt loss and spent most of my freshman year alone. However, even in my loneliness I knew that if I could go back and change things, I wouldn’t. I would still have chosen my friendship with Kim. I had enjoyed too many things with her and I had learned what a good friendship was like.

So many times we must experience the absence of something to appreciate its existence. The emptiness can be a teacher. After my friendship with Kim ended, I made friends in the middle of my sophmore year with another girl, Tammy, and I was keenly aware of the gift of friendship. I enjoyed much of the same closeness with Tammy as I had with Kim. We liked the same kinds of subjects in school (English and history) and we listened to the same music, even creating a list of our favorite 100 songs. (It’s hard to believe we knew 100 songs.) We took a few classes together and we studied for the SAT together the night before the test. I still remember that fateful night because I locked my keys in my car and had to call AAA for the first time in my life. Upon graduation Tammy and I went to different colleges. I remember feeling hopeful that I could find someone to take Tammy’s place. No one did. But the emptiness taught me to be grateful. I was grateful for the friendship I had enjoyed and I knew from experience that loneliness would not last forever.

Sometimes love is just for a season of our lives, like my friendship with Kim. Sometimes it is for a lifetime, like the love I have for my family and certain friends like Tammy, who I still see at least once a year. And sometimes what appears as loss is only temporary. Tsukuru finds his friends after 16 years and each reuniting is all the more powerful because of the time that has passed. The most poignant scene comes when Tsukuru travels all the way from Tokyo to rural Finland to track down one of the friends. There, in a quaint village by a lake, Tsukuru learns some important lessons about love, life and loss.

Throughout Murakami’s story about Tsukuru is the question of whether he will stay with his girlfriend, Sara, the person who has urged him to look into his past life. Somewhere along the way we realize that this question is not as important as the fact that Sara has changed Tsukuru’s trajectory forerver. Without her nudging, he wouldn’t have tried to resolve his past. And this is what we can say about love: It changes us like no other force can. Whether it be temporary or lasting, love is never really a loss. Our friends influence us, change us and inspire us. We are more human and more ourselves because of love.

Dreams and visions

Posted on January 16, 2013 by Allison

Until the age of 8 I lived in a suburb of Chicago. It was a typical suburb, with tract homes in various models, nicely kept lawns and safe streets. Our little community was full of kids. It seemed that everyone who bought a house in our neighborhood had young kids so there were lots of choices of playmates. I could ride my bike up to the cul-de-sac and back and find other kids out playing. We had a nice yard, with a swing set and flower beds designed by my parents. I suppose our neighbhorhood had been farmland before it was turned into housing. It was perfectly flat and the only trees were the young ones planted by all the new homeowners.

In 1977 we moved from suburban Chicago to California. My dad had a new job. All our neighbors were envious of us and the truth was, we were happy to be going to warmer weather and my mother was happy to be free from the confines of our old neighbhorhood, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Our new home in California couldn’t have been more different than our old one. It was built on a hillside with about an acre of land around it. We could hardly see our other neighbhors. There were very few kids in the neighbhorhood. In fact there were more deer grazing the hillsides than kids. My brother and I were happy with the arrangement though. We loved to have free reign of the hillside. There was a seasonal creek running through the property and lots of old oak trees to climb in. Our neighbhor had a goat they kept penned in a shed and we would bring it apples to eat. I spent a lot of time wandering through the open hills, exploring the stream and the flowers. Around the age of 12 I had my first real sense of God one day as I sat on the hillside taking in all the beauty. I just somehow felt God’s presence and an overwhelming sense of peace. I still go back to that spot from time to time and remember that moment.

There was not much danger on that hillside except for possibly the deer. Some of the deer had huge racks and they could be scary up close. Once a deer had kicked my dog in the mouth and it lost a tooth. One day my brother and I wandered far down the hill of our property and climbed through some thick underbrush. There we discovered where the deer slept. Under the shelter of some thick low brush were swirls of matted grass, evidently the place where deer bedded down at night. Even in the daytime this place was almost totally dark, like a cave, and the darkness scared me. I couldn’t wait to get out of that cave and back into the sunlight. I never again explored the deer cave but I had recurring dreams for years about it. In my dreams I would be playing happily and somehow I would end up in the darkness of the deer cave.

When I went off to college, back to Chicago, I missed the beauty of my Californnia home. I missed the sound of the stream outside my window and the way the fog would create different views. One night I was up late studying and dozing off and on in my little apartment when I was awakened by what I thought was a fog horn. We could always hear the fog horns from our house. But how could I have really heard a fog horn in Chicago? It sounded exactly like one to me. Was it a dream or was it real? I’ll never know.

Years later I moved into my own home. It was quite a big step, owning a home for the first time. It was an even bigger step given that when I moved into the house I was three days away from giving birth to my first son. The boxes had yet to be unpacked when I went into labor at 7 am. My water broke as I woke up in bed, soaking an entire towel. It was clear we needed to get to the hosptial. That morning, November 26. 1997, was rainy and we had to drive all the way from Berkeley to Walnut Creek, where I had planned to have the baby. I remember the discomfort of sitting in the car with the driving rain storm creating traffic in the tunnel. Once I got to the hosptial I was checked in and began the process of managing the contractions. I walked the halls of the hosptial for as long as possible believing this might speed things up and then I got into the shower. The shower was the best thing. I spent what seemed like hours in the shower. Finally it was time to push and I hated having to lay down. It didn’t seem right to me but I did it anyway. The pushing was the hardest part and I went through a mental list of all the women I knew who had given birth as a way to encourage me that this could be done. At the last minute, the vital signs on the monitor were going down and they didn’t know why. They said I needed to push harder. As it turned out the cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck and they deftly clipped it off just in time. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon, not a terribly long labor, but I was exhausted. I spent one night in the hospital learning how to breastfeed and hold my baby and feeling overwhelmed by my new responsibility.

Driving home the next day it was sunny outside and I felt awkward getting out of the car with a car seat in hand. Since it was Thanksgiving, my mother had prepared a dinner for us but I didn’t really enjoy it. All I wanted was to lie down in bed. I couldn’t quite believe that I was now responsible for the life of another human being. How could I manage that. Perhaps out of my concern, that night I had the most memorable dream of my life. I dreamt that I was in a boat with my brother and mother and we were being ferried through a great channel. We had come out of a tunnel in our boat and were now trying to make it to the other side. We were in the River Styx and I worried where our destination would be. Suddenly the boat image disappeared and I was floating in a light-filled chamber. Above me was Jesus, with his arms outstretched. The chamber was the most still, quiet place I have ever experienced. There was no noise of any kind and the filtered light felt like the light that comes through stained glass. It was as if all time had stopped in this chamber. Just as I floated up to touch Jesus, I woke up. I was convinced that I had seen Jesus for real in that otherworldly space and, on further reflection, I decided he had given me that vision as a comfort. No matter how worried I might be about taking care of this new baby, Jesus would be there for me and would not leave me. I held onto the memory of that dream for a long time.

Since that time I have hoped for other visions of Jesus but none have occurred. Maybe God knows when we need these kinds of visions and maybe some are meant to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. In the meantime I treasure those times when I simply feel the presence of God, which is usually in nature, just like that first time when I was a child sitting on my hillside.

Celebrations in everyday life

Posted on December 11, 2012 by Allison

At this time of the year, we celebrate a lot of things. It got me thinking about celebrations and when I think of the word celebration, big events come to mind: Christmases, my wedding, my husband’s big surprise 30^th birthday party, my 40^th birthday party, friends’ weddings and vacations. These events are memorable and exciting and generate lots of photos, but I think just as important are the many smaller celebrations in life. Sometimes those smaller moments can be even more special as they are more spontaneous and relaxed.

Lately I’ve taken up the game of golf. I can’t really say I play so much as I try to play. I got into the game because my older son loves it. And he especially loves when I come with him. For my birthday last year he bought me a set of ladies’ leftie pink clubs. They say “Golf Girl,” on them, quite a name to live up to. In any case, going out with my son has been a good way to spend quality time together. The course where we play is pretty, with rolling hills and views of the bay. Even when I’m doing badly the walk is nice. Celebration enters the picture every time I hit the ball somewhat decently. When I don’t shank it or miss it altogether, I’m pretty happy. My son, who is very good, is always encouraging. I try to encourage him as well and celebrate his good shots. Then there’s always the drink or lunch after the game, which I enjoy just as much as the game itself.

My son and I have also been cooking together a lot recently. He loves to find recipes on the internet and make out shopping lists for me to buy. We’ve had many successes, like Asian-spiced chicken thighs and honey mustard chicken and a few failures, like the brownies that we overcooked. Each time we find a good recipe, it’s like a little celebration that the whole family gets to enjoy.

My other son has recently started a new tradition with my husband. About once a week they get up early and go out to breakfast before school. This has been a great time for them to connect, away from the TV and video games. I would even call it a celebration of sorts, celebrating uninterrupted time together.

Recently a new member of our family has arrived and he’s created his own set of rituals and celebrations. He weighs 5 pounds and he’s three months old. He’s a miniature schnauzer. After not having had a dog for 4 years, Romeo is adding a lot of life to our house. One of my favorite rituals is our daily walk. There’s nothing more fun than watching Romeo bound up the street, alert to every sound and sight. Whenever a person passes, he’s unsure of what to do so he just sits down and waits for them to pass. Encountering another dog is pure joy. He bouncing up and down wanting to play with them. Another favorite ritual is sitting at my computer at the end of the day and watching Romeo curl up at my feet, sleeping contentedly. On the celebration side of things, potty training is the order of the day and each time he have a success outside, he gets a reward and we feel we are one step closer to reaching that goal.

Another low-key kind of celebration in my life right now is my weekly coffee date with my friend Camille. I’ve known Camille since we were in 6^th grade but for a long time we lived in different parts of the country. Two years ago she moved to the Bay Area and so we could resume our friendship. After all these years we’re still basically the same people. There is something comforting about being with someone that has known you that long, has been in your wedding, has watched you evolve as a mother and knows what makes you tick. I consider it a great blessing to have Camille back in my life.

Maybe I could say I even prefer these small celebrations to the bigger ones. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but one of the best memories of my wedding was leaving it. I’m not a gregarious person and the pressure of having to smile and greet hundreds of people was somewhat stressful. I’ll never forget the great feeling of climbing into our car at the end of the wedding and driving away to a little bed and breakfast in the city. As soon as we arrived we ordered Chinese take-out, since we hadn’t had time to each much, and we watched TV. It was bliss.

Memories of Grandpa

Posted on November 14, 2012 by Allison

The year is 1974. My mom, in a bright red matching skirt and sweater and huge sunglasses, and me, in a white poncho sweater and flared pants, stand in a sandy construction lot in Sun City, Arizona. Behind us is Mimosa Drive, the street my grandparents would live on for the next 30 years. In the background there is more sand and a line of palm trees bordering the site of a future golf course. Not yet in place are the saguaro cacti and colored rocks that would dot the front yards along with street.

My grandparents moved to Sun City to escape chilly Chicago winters and to find a more relaxed style of life. In both respects, they succeeded. In my growing up years I remember visiting them and noticing my grandfather’s year-round tan and muscular frame from daily swims and bike rides. Every time we came, Grandpa enjoyed taking us to his community recreation center and recounting the story of Del Webb, the famed businessman who had created this new kind of retirement living—a dream for those who wanted warm weather, a sparkling, planned community and low property taxes.

My grandfather was committed to Sun City 100 percent. He served as part of the Sun City Prides, a volunteer group that swept city streets, picked up leaves and fallen oranges and did whatever else was needed to keep the city clean and neat. Grandpa would swim most mornings and then load up the big basket of his special three-wheeled bike with a rake and other tools. Whenever we visited, the bike became the prime entertainment for my brother and who would take turns driving and sitting in the basket and cruising up and down the manicured streets. We would often get lost on the bike, as the streets and houses all looked similar, and we’d spend half our time trying to figure out how to get back to Mimosa Drive, hopefully just at the end of cocktail hour and just in time for Grandma’s dinner.

Grandpa’s passion for Sun City was just one example of how he viewed the world. If he believed in something, he committed his whole self to the cause. He was a lifelong churchgoer, faithful church volunteer and Bible reader. He was a devoted husband and father to his two boys. And he and my grandma were also frugal to the extreme. They had lived through the great depression and waste was a four-letter word. Whenever Grandpa visited our house in California, it was almost as if it were 1930 again. Grandpa scolded us for leaving lights on in rooms we weren’t in and we were urged to join the “clean plate club” every night at dinner. Grandma saved paper napkins that had been only lightly soiled and we were shown how to save our chewing gum on a little plate for after meal time. In addition to these ideas, Grandpa had some strong ideas about hygiene. We were told to chew our food 32 times and when we were younger, but probably almost to our teenage years, he tried to get us to keep a chart of our bowel movements. I still remember the famed “bm chart” taped to the refrigerator.

For all the discipline though, living under my grandparents rules included a lot of fun. Instead of TV after dinner, they would teach us dice and card games. And Grandpa always had a joke to share, usually off-color. At night before bedtime, he taught me how to say the Lord’s prayer.

My Grandpa and Grandma took care of my brother and I quite a bit when we were growing up and my parents traveled. Grandpa would not only lay out the rules, but he made our house his own. No sooner had Grandpa arrived than he had changed all the radios to the big band station and he had found a slew of house projects that my parents didn’t even know had to be done. His nervous energy kept him moving all day. Grandpa had worked in the laundry business most of his life–first for his parents’ laundry on the south side of Chicago, then managing laundries around the Midwest and finally owning one of his own in South Dakota–and he was meticulous about cleanliness. I remember him spending a lot of time in the garage cleaning things. At his home in Sun City, he was the one, not my grandma, who did all the laundry.

When Grandpa got sick in his late ‘80s, it was hard to watch his decline. His vibrant, healthy body lost more and more weight and he was unable to keep busy and do all the activities he loved. His pain affected his mental state and he said hurtful things to my grandma, things he would have never said before, even though they did more than their share of bickering as a couple. I remember my last visit to see Grandpa in Sun City as a sad one. At the time I was in a year-long study of the Ignatian Exercises with my church at home. When I got back from the trip and described the grief of seeing my diminished grandpa to my pastor, she said perhaps this was my cross to bear at this time in my life.

Grandpa lived to be 89. He was one-of-a-kind. I’ll never forget his zest for life nor his commitment to the things he believed in. I didn’t always agree with him, but I’ll always respect the way he lived his life.

A home of one’s own

Posted on November 3, 2012 by Allison

Two years ago I embarked on a year-long house exchange with a total stranger halfway around the world—well, almost a total stranger. We met online through a house exchange web site in December of 2009, set up a Skype call to talk live the next week, and then I flew out to Madrid in March 2010 for a few days to see the apartment. The apartment was impressive. It had been recently renovated and was updated with the latest in European style…all sleek surfaces, lots of glass, stainless steel appliances and modern paint treatments on the walls. On top of that the second floor had a wrap-around patio with a view of downtown Madrid. It seemed like a good trade for our traditional Berkeley bungalow.

Living in someone else’s house took some time to get used to. The first week I felt like I was a guest intruding on someone’s private space….sleeping in their bed, using their fancy bathroom, and attempting to cook with their ultramodern European appliances–with little success. By the second week, though, I had settled in quite well and very soon became comfortable with the surroundings. I worked up the nerve to examine the book collection, pulling out a few to read, the CD collection and take a peek at the liquor cabinet. I noticed a stack of family photos on an upstairs shelf but I never cracked those open the whole year. That felt too intrusive. They (and we) had put away our personal photos along with our clothes and a few other valuables.

After my initial settling in, the smallest of things became my focus, much to my surprise. It wasn’t the style of the house, so different from mine, that drew my attention—in fact that was a thrill. It was that fact that there were no wastebaskets in any of the bathrooms. How do you live with that? They did have a maid that came every day, but still, where do you put garbage for even a few hours. And in the kids’ bedrooms there were no bedside reading lights. This was a necessity. Granted, their kids were younger than ours, but our kids have the habit of reading before going to sleep. Their whole nighttime ritual would be thrown off. Other small things bothered me. Where were the small knickknacks that one buys on vacation and places on a kitchen window sill? I knew they hadn’t put these away in storage because I hadn’t seen them when I visited the first time. And the kitchen was sorely lacking in many ways. Despite the high-tech touchscreen stove that beeped and lit up (and which took us no less than two weeks to understand), there was no measuring cup or measuring spoons. How can you cook without these things? I later learned that for one thing, Spainards don’t bake at home and for another thing they cook much more by feel. So I guess that explained that.

Needless to say, I became very familiar with the local ferreteria (hardware store) across the street. I bought tiny trash cans for the bathrooms, bedside reading lamps for the kids, measuring spoons and cups and a few other kitchen necessities. Unfortunately the ferreterria was always closed for the siesta so I became quite adept at visiting the store before 1 and after 4.

Knicknacks were a problem easily solved. Since we traveled much during the year, we amassed a large collection of small souvenirs and placed them on bookshelves and windowsills. I especially liked a particular long postcard of a medieval townscape and strung that along the living room shelf. Above all, those things, which cost next to nothing, made me feel at home.

My biggest addition to the house during the year was a Picasso poster I bought in Barcelona. It is a painting of a window looking out at the sea. I put that poster up in the stylish kitchen nook and it comforted me. You see, Madrid is landlocked. We had a wonderful view from the apartment of the downtown area, including the Royal Palace. But there was no sea, the only water in the city a pathetic little river that trickles around the old town. I missed the sea, the large expanse of water, the wind and the fog. I’ve only lived in three places other than Madrid in my life and they all were next to water. Some days walking around Madrid I felt like I was trapped in a gargantuan metropolis dry and cracking from lack of water. So my Picasso picture comforted me. I could look at it every time I ate my American cereal for breakfast or tried some new Spanish confection in my superfashionable kitchen.

At the end of the year it was time to pack up all our belongings we had accumulated. Ridiculously, I packed every trinket, every brochure from every excursion and even the small plastic toys the children had purchased. I knew I would throw much of it away but it seemed like a big part of me by then. The house looked sterile again once our bags were packed. I did leave the trash cans and reading lights of course. I wonder if they kept those things. As far as the measuring spoons I gave those plus my collection of Betty Crocker baking mixes to a friend who likes American baking.

When I arrived back at my Berkeley house I was initially surprised to see how cluttered it looked. I wondered how our house exchange family had lived with my knickknacks. I actually disliked the look of it and wondered if I should streamline things. I went to an open house one Sunday not long after returning and feel in love with the house– a brand new modern place free of clutter and with sleek, modern countertops and furniture. For a time I thought maybe I should change my style. Maybe I had grown to like the pared-down style afterall. I made a few changes to my own house. I rummaged around and threw a lot away, especially the junkier souvenirs from the trip. My family is still a little upset about some of the stuff I got rid of.

Now, another year later, my house looks pretty much the same as when I left for Spain. I have my knickknacks and I’ve even added more stuff, like an old pew I found at a rummage sale. I like to sit in the pew and watch neighbors walking by. I can’t see the sea from my house but I feel the fog rolling in and I know that I’m home.

Adventures in getting lost

Posted on October 5, 2012 by Allison

From the day we arrived in Madrid for our yearlong stay, we felt lost—lost in a great expanse of tangled roads, confusing signs and maze-like street layouts. The day we drove into the city for the first time we got a ticket (unknown to us at the time but received in our mailbox a month later), because we drove down a street restricted to residents only. Evidently, in our quest to find our rented apartment, we hadn’t noticed the restrictions posted on the entrance to the street (along with several other signs), nor the cameras mounted above the sign which had captured our license plate. In many ways, the city seems to have a split personality—on the one hand there is an overabundance of regulations and rules and on the other hand there seems to be a complete lack of planning.

Confusing streets and signage are not unique to Madrid. Many European cities, because of their age ad development, have equally challenging layouts, especially for Americans, but Madrid presents something unique. Madrid is more or less flat and landlocked, expansive, and lacks obvious landmarks by which to locate yourself. Even the locals admit that it is hard to find your way around and often aren’t very helpful in giving directions. Using the metro, for all the conveniences that presents, adds another problem. When you enter a station and spend your time traveling underground, you lose your sense of direction quickly. Many of the stations are two, three or four sets of escalators deep. You descend, you turn this way and that to go the right direction, you change trains and go up a level to get on the connecting line. When you finally exit and ascend back to the surface, you have to spend a few concentrated moments reorienting yourself and studying where to go. Many times I started walking the wrong way out of a metro exit and, after 5 or 10 minutes, realized my mistake and turned around.

I decided early on that the best way to figure out the city was to explore it without a map. I urged my husband to put away his street map and walk around familiarizing himself with buildings and streets. It wasn’t easy for him. He loves maps and doesn’t like to waste time so my method went against his nature. Eventually though I won him over. Some of our best times were spent getting lost. And, thanks to getting lost so much, by the end of the year we knew Madrid better than some natives.

It strikes me that trying to find your way in a new city is a lot like trying to find your way in life. Our road maps for living are of limited use. We may only have a vague sense of where we should go next. I’m surprised that this sense only gets vaguer for me with age. Old friends move away and I make new friends, one career is unsatisfactory and I start a new one, old interests fade and new ones take its place. More and more the only thing I know for certain is that God is unchanging and that he somehow has me in his hands. In fact, I think God must want a certain degree of change in our lives so that we come to depend more on him. Maybe we must undergo a process of constant renewal and change to contain the life God wants us to live. We are like the new wine skins awaiting new wine. Each day is new territory. Each day demands creativity.

Fortunately God is partners with us in this creative task of living. When we arrived in Madrid I assumed I wouldn’t find very many protestant churches, let alone one close by or that I might really enjoy. I imagined that I might spend the year worshipping in a Catholic church, which was OK with me. As it turned out though, thanks to Google, I found a wonderful protestant church five minutes away from our house. The church’s style of worship was similar to what I was used to and the preacher spoke slowly and clearly so I could understand his sermons. Over the course of a year I became friends with the pastor and his wife and count them as some of the best friends I made in Madrid. It was as if God had arranged this connection just for me and my family.

Looking back at my year abroad I see many such connections. Perhaps just like the road map I didn’t want or need, I don’t want or need a road map for life. In fact, if everything were laid out for me ahead of time I would take much for granted. The surprise of finding the wonderful church or of finding new friends leads me to be thankful. I think this is just where God wants me to be.

Lessons in writing

Posted on September 19, 2012 by Allison

Children are among the best teachers. I have two children, and, though they have the same parents and live in the same house, they have very different personalities. One tends to be a perfectionist, with an ability to focus and pay attention to small details. He is the kind of kid who enjoys spending hours following the dozens of intricate steps involved in putting together a Lego kit. We have a small city of Lego buildings proudly displayed in our family room. I can identify with this personality. I like to work hard on a demanding project and I like to save it. I still have a few old papers from college stashed away in my basement. Why? Have I ever re-read them? No. But somehow I couldn’t throw them away. My other son enjoys building things too. But he has no interest in following directions. He would rather build something from scratch and play with it as soon as possible. And even when he does spend long amounts on his creations, they are purely utilitarian. When he’s done playing he’ll smash his object with no regrets. I can’t count the number of times I’ve screamed, “no,” when he’s about to rip up a special drawing or a story. In his mind, he’s done with the art or the story and I read it; why save it?

Several years ago a group of Tibetan monks visited Grace Cathedral in San Francisco and they offered a class on making mandalas, geometric designs created with colored sand. The mandalas took several days or even a week to make as the students had to pour sand through little tubes to create the intricate designs. Once the the mandalas were finished and displayed they were destroyed. This was done to emphasize the transitory nature of our existence.

If I ever teach a writing class, I think I might start with a mandala exercise. Writing is often about letting go. We write, create, we cut, reword, throw out. I often become so attached to an idea, even when it isn’t working, that I am reluctant to leave it. What if, as an exercise, we went to a class, worked hard on something for an hour, and then (without knowing this ahead of time), were asked to crumple that writing up and throw it away. I often think (mistakenly) that everything I write has value and should be saved. Hey, even if I don’t want to save it as a finished work, maybe I’ll need it for the ideas it gave me. Perhaps it’s the journalist instinct in me to save notes and scraps, just in case. But I could benefit from a freer hand.

In Febraruy 2010 I visited Valencia Spain to see the Fallas, a gigantic street party in which the whole city spends an entire year building dozens of sculptures that are displayed on street corners for a weekend. The sculptures represent various vices. There was a 3-story Formula 1 race car and driver, a woman dancing and a man drinking wine, and a woman on a wave, representing people surfing the internet. The high point of the festival comes at midnight on Saturday when all the Fallas are burned to the ground. Huge crowds wait for hours to see the burning and the city’s fire department is on hand for emergencies. I’m not sure how seriously people take the meaning behind the fallas, but there is something about fire that attracts humans. It is the power of life and destruction in one. On the one hand the people must feel a bit sad about burning their creations but on the other hand they are freeing themselves from the past year of work to begin anew.

Next time I get stuck writing I need to remember the lessons of the mandala and the Fallas and the power of starting over. I might not burn my drafts but I can hit the delete button with more satisfaction, knowing that starting over can release new energy.

The making of a golf girl

Posted on July 19, 2012 by Allison

Last fall my family gave me a shiny new set of ladies left-handed golf clubs for my birthday. It was a subtle hint that they wanted me to join them in the game. I was flattered but also a little hesitant. I had only played golf a couple of times in high school and the experience was frustrating. My last memory of golf was me in tears on the driving range. The new clubs sat in our storage room all winter and spring. I wondered whether I should give golf another try or not. Would I have the patience for the game? Finally, this summer, I decided to give it a chance. It would be a nice way to spend time with my family and my son is crazy about the game. Most importantly, even if I didn’t play well I would look good with my “Golf Girl” pink clubs (yes, they really say “Golf Girl” and the heads are pink).

I’ve now been practicing about a month and true to its reputation, golf is a tough sport. I’m still learning how to swing the club and make solid contact with the ball. I often top the ball, which is common for beginners, I’ve been told. My swing speed is slow and needs to improve. So far, I can only hit the ball between 50 and 100 feet, so when I try playing it takes me a lot of shots to make it to the green. Luckily the course we play has “Family Tees,” which are about 100 yards out from the green, making the game tolerable for me. This time around I haven’t gotten too frustrated. I know the game is hard and my expectations are low. I’m surprised when I hit a good shot.

Since I started practicing our family has joined a golf club close to our house. Now there’s even less excuses to play golf. I’ve played the course a few times (from the Family Tees) and walked along with my son several times. One day we did 36 holes and my son would have gone for more. The course, Mira Vista in El Cerrito, is a beautiful spot with views of the bay from almost every hole. The pros are friendly and welcoming. Tomorrow I have my second lesson. I just may become a real golfer.

My son writes:

Coming from someone that has seen every one of Allison’s swings this summer, there’s potential, but more importantly, it’s obvious that she likes the game. As she comes along, I help her as much as I can. It has been a fun summer so far, and golf has definitely been a great way to connect with my mom. As she says in her portion of the article, I love the game. I play almost every day, and if not playing it’s practicing. And as my mom enjoys coming along with me, she plays a lot too. She is coming along.

La Clochette

Pursuing a life of meaning, creativity and purpose

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