A FaHm at Thanksgiving

I made an earth-shattering discovery while ironing a pile of shirts, pants, and pillowcases: it is possible to deal with the unpleasantness of life and still be a “FulfilledandHappyme” (FaHm). No, I did not turn into Snow White, ‘whistling while I worked’ and moving the iron gracefully with a big smile on my face: I do not like ironing but I carry the gene. It comes from being raised in Europe and sleeping in pressed cotton sheets. It’s grown from watching my parents (my dad ironed anything flat, handkerchiefs and towels included; my mom took care of the rest, even underwear) produce perfect piles of wrinkle free clothes week after week. The pleasure I take in fresh and crisp garments beats my dislike of the job every single time. It brings me back to the ironing board and, yes, eventually, makes me very happy.

My life is filled with things I’d rather not do: take the recycling out, go to the mall, talk to the assistant principal when my child is misbehaving in school, or take the car for an oil change. It is also packed with stuff I love: baking pecan pie for Thanksgiving, reading a good book, or writing this essay. It’s no big deal to secretly swear while sorting through plastic bottles and egg cartons – it’s over in a few minutes- and the satisfaction of doing my part in keeping the planet clean is undeniable.  It’s been a lot more challenging to hold on to my “FaHmness” when dealing with life’s true crises: my mother’s decline; the untimely death of my niece Myriam. Planning this first holiday season without Myriam is unbearably painful.  Letting the grief do what it needs to do while remaining “fulfilledandhappy” has proven difficult. But does it have to be? Is there another way? Can my passion for happiness dress the wounds? Could the love that I feel and that is now bringing me pain be a gateway to more love, light, and happiness?

The Brussels brownstone where I grew up had a coal heating system. My father, twice a day, would go down to the cellar, shovel the black pellets, carry the heavy bucket to the furnace and feed the fire. He never discussed it but I cannot imagine that his coal duties were his favorite part of the day. Yet his diligence kept the fire alive and kept us all warm and cozy through the winter months. The red coals in the belly of the house spread warmth to every room and was vital to the wellbeing of our whole family.

The love we feel, even when it hurts, feeds the furnace of our inner aliveness. Thanksgivings is bittersweet: we’re all pilgrims bowing our heads to all that we’ve left behind and singing praise for what we have and what is yet to come. Loss and gain, grief and hope, tears and smiles; they’re all part of the feast like the coals are part of the fire. Yes, there is another way. We keep our hearts open and thankful. We leave Snow White to her whistling and we go back to the board of life accepting that even though not all things can be ironed out they can still bring us fulfillment and happiness. We earnestly practice opening up to all our experiences so that in time they may bring new blessings. We join Prince Charming’s “One song, I have but one song…” and we make it a song of LOVE. A “fahM” is first and foremost a being in and for love. And we give thanks for the chance to feel, mourn, and love still, because nothing, nothing is ever truly lost to the wondrous vastness of our hearts.

IF LIFE GIVES YOU CABBAGE, MAKE…COLESLAW!

We learn early on in life that freedom is relative. We come out of the womb into loving arms –hopefully- whose mission is to teach us how to be a good person and prosper. Ice cream is to be eaten after dinner and as a special treat; coloring is to be within the lines and please keep the strawberries red and the bananas yellow; homework is to be done before watching TV, no exceptions. We become dutiful servants of the ‘shoulds’. Our rebellious streak shows up occasionally, quickly tamed in the name of correctness and order. As we grow up we come face to face with that which we cannot control: a grand parent dies, a parent loses her job, a war breaks out not so far away. We become victims of the ‘what is’. We let the pain take the driver’s seat. We lose ourselves in busyness in an attempt to forget. We don’t. And soon we graduate to fearing the unexpected: an incurable illness, an accident, a terrorist attack. We become helpless casualties of the ‘what ifs’.

When I was 9 or ten years old I would watch John Wayne’s old westerns with my dad, sitting on a stool pretending to be riding a horse. I even held a piece of string in my hands in order to curb my mare’s enthusiasm. My father was in love with the United States. American soldiers took him out of a German camp in 1945 and delivered him safely home to Belgium. He never forgot. For him it was truly the land of the free. After graduating from college I moved from Brussels to London in an attempt to ‘free myself away’. I rode a plane and went on to New York a few years later. Here I was, newly married and discovering the country my father held in his heart. Surely freedom would now be mine. I could eat ice cream at any time and raise my own children away from the old ways and rules. But I lost myself in doing things and keeping everyone happy. I fell off my horse half way in the big trek to the new frontier. I was bruised and disheartened: how could one ever feel free?

This summer my daughter went to cooking camp. For five blissful days, she chopped, sliced, braised, fried…and ate. I picked her up after camp and got a chance to taste some of the goodies that she and her fellow chefs had prepared: creamy potato salad, crisp onion rings, tender grilled chicken, and sweet and tangy lemon meringue pie. A large bowl at the edge of the oversized counter intrigued me. “That’s coleslaw’, Victoria said, ‘You should try it. It’s amazing.” I’ve never been a big fan of coleslaw. The pale green and orange shreds swimming in mayonnaise remind me of a drizzly afternoon in Brussels: bland and totally unattractive. “Go on”, she insisted, “You won’t regret it,” I grabbed a paper plate and a plastic fork and complied. The vibrant colors of the veggies took me by surprise. The glorious red of chopped peppers complimented the deep purple of the cabbage; the bright orange of the carrots was dancing with the spinach’s deep shade of green. It was a feast for the eyes; even the green cabbage looked alive. When the first bite hit my palate I was thrown straight into culinary heaven. This was a whole new animal: it exploded with flavor and crunchiness; the dressing resonated with zest and freshness. Far, far from mayo land, my taste buds were enjoying an exciting walk in the sun in an exotic garden. If coleslaw could be liberated from the fear of using new spices and from the limitations of its own ingredients, anything was possible.

Life deals us cabbage, or spinach, or onions. That’s what life does. We do not control the ingredients we find in our personal pantry. But I’ve come to understand that I can control how I orchestrate the work in the kitchen. Like John Wayne in the old west, I’m looking for adventure and order. Like my dad I cherish freedom. My way. It doesn’t matter whether I live in Belgium, the US, or Laponia; I don’t care when I eat ice cream or what color the bananas are. I’m freeing myself through, right now, right here. When I prefer to act out of love or out of the dictate of my heart, I let go of the shoulds. When I choose to feel the joy as much as the pain, I befriend the ‘what is’. When I decide to trust what I know instead of fearing what I don’t, I silence the ‘what ifs’. The coleslaw of our lives will always be coleslaw. But we each have the power to mix the colors and textures for optimum flavor, to whip up a dressing that lifts up the package, and to taste the result of our labor with awe and gratitude for the simple chance to experience life.  That’s the road to true freedom. In and out of the kitchen.