Heard Yet? Global Mom and Global Mom Are Splitting Up

With my new Facebook Page devoted exclusively to Global Mom: A Memoir, (release date: July 15th), I’m happy to be able to declare this website the space dedicated to things. . .

Global Mom: A Melissa.

Global Mom writes. . . of passage

Global Mom writes. . . of passage

Curious about the release of the book? Then go here, to Global Mom on Facebook, where this coming week I’m starting a vlog visit series with a string of other global moms. They have vastly contrasting stories, have lived in all corners of the planet, and have survived to tell you about it.

lunchin' bunch o' global moms

lunchin’ bunch o’ global moms

I’m also keeping you updated there on the ins and outs of recording the audio version of the book.  Go to that address to be updated on all other booky stuff. Love your visits and appreciate your comments!

Then come here (like. . . truly, literally here-here, no hyperlink needed) for conversations with me about, yes, writing and being a global mom, but beyond that, what touches me as a person in this writing/living/nomadding lifetsyle. . .and everything else.

And there’s a bit of “else.”

Events, ideas, struggles, disappointments, mini-triumphs, local travel and on-the-ground responsibilities – all aspects of my behind-the-book personal life. This is the gamut of writing I’ve not adequately shared with you while I’ve been posting excerpts of the book or otherwise introducing you to the crew (publisher, editors, PR people) teaming up for Global Mom’s release.

What is “everything else”? Things related to:

1) Integrating in French-speaking Switzerland (Want to see why Switzerland is so clean? I’ll show you live footage of the guts of its garbage disposal system.)

summer over Lac Léman

summer over Lac Léman

Canton de Vaud, countryside

Canton de Vaud, countryside

2) Negotiating yet another new school system (Who wants a seasoned insider’s peek at international schools? And do you want a quick-‘n’-dirty on the famed International Baccalaureate degree? What’s it like to educate your kids multilingually?)

German, French, Italian, English. But where's the Romansch?

German, French, Italian, English. But hold on – where’s the Romansch?

3) Raising teenaged boys on the global road (Make that a bumpy global road lately. . .I’ve been seriously wondering what in the world we were thinking signing up for this, and what we’ve done to our children.)

Luc takes up snowboarding

Luc takes up snowboarding

4) Having our daughter serve as a full-time missionary in Italy (From run-ins with the local Mafia in Sicily, to gypsies stoning her in Rome. Santa patata and honest to Pete.)

Sorella (Sister) Bradford (r.) with missionary companion at Trevi Fountain, Rome

Sorella (Sister) Bradford (r.) with missionary companion at Trevi Fountain, Rome

Sorella with friend

Sorella with friend

Modern Christianity in Italy

Modern Christianity in Italy

5) Continuing the lifelong adaptation that follows having buried our oldest son. (It just never ends, my friends. Never. But then, neither does life.)

Our four

Our precious, irreplaceable four

Those kinds of things.

It’s here I can share and process all that, and I am truly hoping you’ll help me through.

Then there are the other things:

6) Travels to farther destinations. (Didn’t I mention Paris? Watch very soon.)

heading through our old neighborhood

Our old neighborhood

7) Visitors from abroad. If you follow me on Twitter (MDBGlobalMom), you know I just had some favorite relatives here. And soon I’ll host a whole gang of favorite friends.  (One ultra-talented visitor will be here shooting the trailer for my book.)

8) My volunteer service overseeing a delightful group of the local leaders and adolescent girls of our church, all through the Geneva region and into parts of France. (Google-map it: from Chambéry, France, to Morges, Switzerland).

9) The signed contract to write a book with Randall on Strengthening Long Distance Marriages. (Coming in 2014)

10) And finally – and most sweetly – the signed contract to bring you my substantial book on Grief & Grace. (Watch for it: Memorial Day 2014)

See you here!

Or there?

Or everywhere.

Judging a Book By Its Cover: A Bit of the Backstory

Cover (3)

How does a book cover like this happen?

First, you live the story.  You move with your partner’s professional positions to several different countries, raising a family all along that bump-‘n’-swerve road, picking up languages and friends and a strange mashup of social codes on the fly, keeping a flimsy grip on your sanity some of the time, discovering depths of experience and breadth of  understanding most of the time, acquiring the kind of training that stretches and reshapes you and galvanizes your scraggly gaggle of a family, welding you to each other, to humanity, to this planet.

This life fits you. You fit it. So much so, you can’t imagine anything else, and you fling yourself again and again into the swirl, even forgetting to wash your hair the week of that sunny Sunday morning when your friend, Parson School of Design student Erin, calls up, singing, “The light’s good today, guys! Want to get some candid fam shots by Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower on our way to church?”

You’re busy writing all these years, of course, because that is what you do. (Far more than you wash your hair, if you really have to know my grooming habits). You’re writing about this life and how it yanks and pumices and oils your soul.  And then you discern, as you approach a decade of this nomadic life, a distinct inner voice that says you need to get this written into a book.  So you begin capturing the first phase of your nomadic family spiel, the move from Broadway to Norway. “Now is the time to write this story,” the voice persists. “You won’t have another chance like this.  Capture your early family right now, in this unfiltered light.”

So you obey the nudge, and you sit and write that book.  On a big Norwegian table placed squat in the middle of your Paris apartment, you sit.  You write so much you feel frustrated because, zut!, Paris is out there! Why crouch with your back to it, writing? (Because doesn’t everyone in Paris do just this? Crouch somewhere writing while the tourists stride around town?)

A band of motley literati friends critiques your pages.  You change things, change them again, change again and again and realize your own written voice sometimes gets on your nerves. You need a major break from yourself. You need to pack that voice into industrial-sized envelopes and get it into someone else’s ears. You send these fat envelope babies to a bunch of fine publishers with offices in big American cities.  Seventeen of them.  Even before you lick the stamps, you’re feeling like a fool, not to mention a misfit in the face of those distant, hard-edged cities and their mysterious publishing fortresses.  They loom and intimidate, those fortresses, leaving you sleepless and self-flagellating, needing as treatment the equivalent of fity hour-long heated eucalyptus oil full body rubs of reassurance.

Not a one of the seventeen publishing fortresses opens their drawbridge.

All the rejection letters are variations on one polite theme: “We wish you only the very best in your future writing endeavors.”

Well, see? What did I tell everyone?  

So, you tuck that manuscript away, way in the bottom of one of the 400+ boxes you’ve packed to leave your several years in Paris for a new life chapter in Munich.

And the next week, three days into a vacation in the States, and one day after visiting your eldest at his first college dorm, you get a phone call.

That call sends your story – all stories  you’ve ever known or written or told – into a screeching spiral which in its blackwash vortex sucks the air out of the universe. Your story – the old one pinned on paper and crammed in the bottom of a cardboard box, or the new story that your body writes as it crawls through coldening tar – feels massively irrelevant.  There is no more story.  There are no more stories.  There is no use in telling. There is nothing. Everything you now know is unwritable. What remains?  All there is, is loss.

**

Four years later, you’re quietly aware that even though you now live in Singapore where the air is as humid as living in the drying cycle of your dishwasher, there is somehow air to breathe. The cosmos has stopped screeching, reeling and jerking, and in soundless streamlets it has begun to fill back up with meaning. Not the meaning it had before. But meaning far more dense, immutable, textured like a freight rope lassoed around the underside of reality.  Though at times inexplicable, there is a story happening, a weighty narrative materializing as if it were writing itself, drawing you onward.  You write it out, riding it out, the story, and as you do, you move with it.

Your husband, the one you feared at times wouldn’t survive the vortex or its ghostly post-ravage landscape, is regaining traction.  He can laugh and joke and walk upstairs without getting winded.  Then one day, from out of the blue, a noted scholar contacts him, asking him to be one of several subjects for her book on lives like yours; nomadic but anchored lives that circle and recircle the globe.

He agrees. He does the interview. The scholar publishes her book, Cultural Agility, and it quickly becomes a seminal work in the field.

Wise and brilliant friends are constantly encouraging you to keep going, keep writing your stuff, keep knocking on fortress doors. When one such friend suggests you might tap-tap on the door of a publishing house that is just that – a house or a cottage literally, and not a fortress – you end up sitting in the CEO’s kitchen. The man is accessible, responsive and committed to producing your work.  He doesn’t just want to publish it (although he’s eager to do that); he wants to discuss it.  He even wants (get this) to take part in editing it himself.  You Skype at all hours from your opposing sides of the planet, discussing both the literary endeavor as well as the business aspects of such a book project.

“You’ll need to do some things,” Mr. CEO publisher says in one of countless Skype sessions, “which might not be comfortable at first.  Like, you’ll need to begin a blog.

Panic sits on your shoulders like a silverback gorilla in full heat, and you say something to the effect of, “Other options, sir? Like, let’s see. . . swimming around the whole of Australia? Through shark infested waters? In a Lady Gaga suit make of raw sirloin?” You’ve fought long and hard to reenter the world. But enter the virtual world?  That kind of exposure? Can you do that and not disintegrate? You begin chanting an Homeric epic saga about all the reasons blogs (and perhaps publishing altogether) are not for you.

“Start a blog right now,” kindly CEO sir says. “No later than next week.  Right when you begin your move from Singapore. And,” he adds, “I’m sending a contract right now.  Get me your finished manuscript in six months.”

Soon you have all these blog-followers, and you are carefully thriving in that connectivity, and these follower-friends begin chiming in on the progress of the book. (They’re even bossy about designing the cover. They simply take over.)

The scholar who quoted your husband in her book? She’s now quoted on the cover of yours.  Her blurbs are enough to make you run for cover, (neither you nor your own children would ever call you a “role model for all parents”), but you’re hoping everyone will overlook the endorsements’ effusiveness and focus on that darling little ISBN tattoo.

And this time around your twelve-year-old takes your photo for the back cover. For which event, thank goodness, you decide to wash your hair.

IMG_4358

Global Mom: Madame, Vos Trésors!!

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Continued from last post, “Fête de la Musique”)

**

Dear Mom and Dad,

I write from a hotel where I’m staying as of today until Monday when I fly to Munich. Packed the house all week. Sent off Kristiina and her kids Thursday morning. Hard goodbye for me. R will flee with the kids to Zaki’s in Provence while I finish up all the messy boring moving details here. Cleaned and spackled today, walked around an echoing apartment and remembered 4 years ago arriving alone to an echoing apartment, the ordeal of getting our Norwegian table through the windows, the crazy and hilarious moving team, the growth in our family, the depths of my friendships here, and I realized all the things I have learned during these critical 4 years, the gifts of wisdom I hardly deserve. Before they left, R and the children and I knelt in the middle of our empty living room, so strange, to offer a prayer of thanks for the gift of that home, of the years we were blessed to spend there. All the miracles. You know some of them. I’m giving the main sermon in church tomorrow (on seeking for wisdom and not for riches), then will do the official apartment walk-through on Monday morning. I’ll ship Parker’s big African drum to you after that, please be watching for it; he’ll want it at university if he can play it and not get in trouble for the disturbance. That thing is loud! After that, I’m thinking I’ll probably walk the streets feeling wistful, so wistful I can hardly formulate words. Then I’ll fly to Munich late afternoon because goods arrive Tuesday morning and we unpack all week . . . and so forth and so forth until I fly to meet up with all of you and the kids in Utah on July 14th. Have been overwhelmed with work for so many weeks (months?) now, that I haven’t really allowed myself to feel very much about this departure. Now I’m so completely clotted with warm fluid feelings. I think my earlobes are waterlogged.

Love you both always and see you very soon!

 

Grandma visiting, Parker, Claire, the Sorenson children, Kristiina

Grandma visiting Parker, Claire, the Sorensons, including Kristiina

And so that late Parisian June evening of the Fête de la Musique, I had been standing with my family on a bridge. A day later, I found myself alone, standing at a crossroads. It was a literal crossroads, the moment I am describing now, since I was standing in front of our building, which stands at an intersection, and the extra-large moving truck with its forty- cubic-meter container was parked there, too. We were leaving an epoch, a densely blessed whirring Camelot of a time, we all knew it, and I was balancing all that emotion with the practical necessity of overseeing the countless details of clearing out our apartment and making sure every last gram of our material lives was packed into a box that would roll out the very next morning heading for Munich, Germany.

I’d sent Randall and the children off in the car to say neighborhood goodbyes and pick up baguettes still hot and crusty from Secco, our local boulangerie. They timed it so they would show up to see off our moving crew, a spicy mix from the banlieue of Paris, headed by a great, burly fellow whose charm and salt-and-pepper eyebrows were equally luxuriant.

As that leader clamped shut the massive lock on our container parked in teeny Rue du Colonel Combes, he raised his voice and arms in a dramatic flourish, smacked the hind end of the trailer, and pronounced to the skies, “Madame, vos trésors!!” Madame, your treasures. In that very same instant, Randall rounded the corner in the Renault, kids hanging out windows wielding baguettes, waving, whooping, “Bonjour, Maman!!” like a chorus of French school children.

“Non, Monsieur,” I responded, an eye on the family van, “Voici mes trésors.” No, sir. These are my treasures.

In that serendipitously choreographed moment, I truly felt what I was saying as it caught in my throat, and I thought I knew just how completely those gangling arms and hoarse voices were my true treasures. I knew that if my forty-cubic-foot, padlocked trunk of treasures drowned in the blue black of some ocean, I’d survive it well because I knew what was most precious. And what’s more, I had it. Precious and irreplaceable. My treasure. My treasured family. I had every last one of them.

 

070

Global Mom: Fête de la Musique

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Continued from last post, “Split Between Two Different Countries”…)

**

After being accepted and receiving a scholarship to a small liberal arts college, after dancing all night at Senior Prom, after graduation ceremonies and packing up his room and drums and sports equipment, and after having said his final goodbyes to the Greek and Lebanese and Tunisian and French restaurant owners around town who knew him well and always gave him extra large portions although he had a running tab, and after emotional goodbyes to school faculty as well as his dozens of friends also heading off to universities in many different countries, Parker was ready to leave Paris.

pianobleu

pianobleu

But not before one last night. It was the night of the Fête de la Musique. Throughout that June night, Paris vibrates with its annual city- wide festival of music, when musicians of every sort—madrigal choirs, rap artists, reggae bands, orchestras, flamenco guitarists, string chamber ensembles—are free to make their music any place they want in the streets or in concert venues and for as long as they can hold out.

fetedelamusique

fetedelamusique

facebook.com

facebook.com

 

linternaute

linternaute

 

rtl.fr

rtl.fr

As the name Fête de la Musique says, it’s a music party; but fête is pronounced just like faites, the imperative form of to do, making of the title a typically French jeu des mots or play on words: “Do music!”

mondial.infos

mondial.infos

Nothing could have suited our firstborn better. Parker, who as I’ve written was part of a circle of local percussionists, met with them on the Pont des Arts for many hours of pure drumming explosion.

linternaute

linternaute

Walking toward that bridge, you could feel the electricity thrumming in surging beats already in the ground and through the air. Crowds had already packed the bridge, so the children couldn’t see over all the heads, and Randall and I couldn’t see around all the bodies to find Parker. But we knew he was there somewhere. Maybe listening. Maybe hanging out with friends one last time.

As we moved closer, Dalton and Luc, who could see under people’s arms and between their knees, spotted their big brother. “Hey, Parker!” Luc yelled. But the drum beating was so thick, you couldn’t hear your own voice as it left your own mouth, let alone hear the voice of a waify seven-year-old.

Luc pulled me by my hand toward the crowd, then motioned to Randall to hoist him on his shoulders. “The crowd!” I yelled over the din, “there must be hundreds!” At least four or five hundred people on that one bridge alone, and they split apart just enough so we could edge our way toward the source. And there he sat, djembe between his knees, the white boy with blue-gray eyes, his hair cropped very short to his well-shaped skull, the American boy (but who would have ever known?) named “Par Coeur” by the likes of Shafik, his closest Tunisian drumming buddy, and five others all of African descent. There they all were, swaying and pulsing to the pounding of their own djembes and large tub drums, or rocking, eyes closed, as they pummeled their instruments together.

The energy could just about lift you off your feet. It made the bridge tremble and sway. And standing there in the push of all these people, I sensed I had to hold myself together, had to keep myself from throwing my arms in the air and spinning for sheer delirium. This was a Paris I understood, a place where millions of people sing their songs and beat their rhythms but do it all at once. Somehow, it’s not cacophonic but something beyond it, a grand intimacy and intimate grandiosity strung along the river and its several bridges.

Over those bridges, under those bridges, behind the museums, in front of the Metro stops. Children, old people, all colors, all persuasions, tourists, policemen, the homeless, the political elite. Everyone on one night crowding the skies with their music. In the center of this—really in the physical center—sat my boy, the one who’d banged into pieces my big Tupperware bowls on linoleum in New Jersey and broken to splinters my mixing spoons on the wooden kitchen floor in Norway. Who’d gotten his first drum set from a retiring musician down the street on our island and had beaten the sticks to a pulp. Who every Thursday late afternoon and in the fifteenth arrondissement of this city, had shown up for his drum lessons from a French percussionist with a long gray beard tied neatly with a red macramé bow. There was this son, shoulder to shoulder with the world, whamming and jamming with his people—all people, everyone and anyone who would stamp and clap and catch the hem of his rhythm.

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“Dad?” I heard Dalton trying to raise his voice to get Randall’s attention through the noise. “Dad?” our blonde and reticent eleven-year-old was standing, a bit self-conscious, awed, visibly, by his brother. Not as comfortable yet in his skin as this muscular drummer was, but every bit as thoughtful as your average fifty-year-old.

“Yes, Dalton?” Randall crouched down to hear better.

“Dad,” Dalton was watching the movement ripple through crowd encircling the place where the seven drummers sat, feeling the surge of the drums’ cadence. “Dad, do you think . . . heaven’s anything like this?”

Randall and I laughed a bit then smiled. But Dalton was sober, stone cold serious.

I’ve held those words as if in plaster in my mind. And I have had to wonder.

**

(Hold that image.  To be continued. . .)

Global Mom: Split Between Two Different Countries

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Continuing from last post, “Ceiling Talk”…)

**

Despite the fact that Munich as a location was in many ways an ideal spot to drop us (we had roots there, as I’ve mentioned before, and were both German speakers), no one, including myself, could imagine leaving Paris. We had dug some serious grooves, as Kristiina Sorensen put it when I told her the news, and what place on earth could ever suit us as well as this place now did? So from that point in the early fall until the end of the school year, we conducted a test to see if living in one country—France— and working in another—Germany—would be not merely feasible, but preferable in terms of stability and consistency for the children. Randall lived during the weeks in a small hotel room outside of Munich, and I managed during the weeks with our four children and their four worlds of needs. We texted and called and emailed, stitched together our family with fiber optics, dangled in a world wide web.

kmmatrimony

kmmatrimony

Living in two different countries. One country for the employed person, another for the family, the occasional weekend together, if we were so lucky. More often, it turns into monthly or quarterly visits. Writing that today sounds so ludicrous it makes my fingers go rigid. But many families deliberately choose to do exactly what we were considering doing, and for the long haul. As I already knew from my circle of expatriate friends, more and more companies seemed to tacitly encourage such a thing. After all, with no family around to go home to, their employee could be counted on to work until or after midnight, could take international conference calls throughout the night, and be back at the office at 6:00 a.m., on Saturdays, on Sunday, on holidays.

Friends like the Sorensens and others from church and school and the neighborhood helped fill in some of the gaps when one has an absent father, and Parker, now an inch taller than Randall, became my right- hand man; a trusted, loving, fun and easy-going friend. Not a surrogate spouse, but my man-on-site who took care, literally, of some of the heavy lifting. He picked up brothers from their Parc Monceau school, carted heavy things up from the dusty cave, hauled the Christmas tree across town and up our building’s entry steps, and hauled it out again in January.

With the volleyball and basketball teams at school, Parker had to make his way by train or plane to sports trips all around Europe, the Mediterranean, and northern Africa, and at the same time he was pushing his way through the college application process. We saw Dad nearly every weekend for twenty-four or forty-eight hours, connected daily by every technological means known at the time, and kept extremely busy. Life was spinning as quickly as I had ever experienced it, the hum was rising, the date, June, 2007, drawing us ahead.

(Next post, we’re heading into the unknown. . .)

Global Mom: Sitting in a Franco-American Political Hot Seat

After a week of real time traveling with Global Mom on the road through Poland (thanks so much for coming along, by the way), we’re back to our excerpts of Global Mom: A Memoir.

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Should I refresh everyone on where we’ve been here at the blog?  Last series of excerpts, we’d just finished a dense three years of moving home and/or country every few months.  We’d been in Versailles, had moved to a village called Croissy-sur-Seine, Randall had promptly moved to the US to commence work at company HQs in New Jersey,  I had followed over half a year later with the four children, we had reentered The Homeland (which entailed buying our first – and only – home, refurbishing it for what we thought would be the rest of our  mortality in that place), then, eight months into that life and two weeks after the grout had dried on the tiles in a new kitchen, we were offered a position in Paris.

We took it.

Another international move.

(I’m counting, but I believe that’s three major moves, including two international ones, in fewer than three years.)

This move was from the sprawling space, ease, convenience and  homogeneity of The American Dream to the heart of Paris and a sweltering Europe-wide heatwave, in the middle of which I stood while our waterlogged transoceanic container drained sea silt, a jelly fish or two, and most of our destroyed belongings out onto Rue du Colonel Combes. Our new “chez nous.”

It took several months to get our footing in Paris. By that, I mean that I hit a reinforced concrete wall of overwhelmdom.  Knocked flat for a spell and sinking a bit every day, I sought help (Mr. Psy and a week of teeny blue pills), circled Les Wagons, and steadied myself.  In the nick of time.  The last excerpt you read promised we were galloping  right into”Camelot.”

And so, voilà!  Part of “Village en Ville”, Chapter 16 from Global Mom: A Memoir. . .

**

New Year's Eve, Parker and friends, on the Quai D'Orsay.

New Year’s Eve, Parker, his  brothers and friends, on the Quai D’Orsay.

The Quai D’Orsay runs right along the left bank of the Seine and is roughly the French political equivalent of America’s Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s where one finds France’s primary governing body, l’Assemblée Nationale, housed in a grand neoclassical building that stands right at the mouth of the Pont de la Concorde, close to where the seventh arrondissement, or district, eases into the sixth. By partial accident and tremendous providence, we’d landed one street south of Quai D’Orsay. We were in a political hot seat.

To our left was the Eiffel Tower, icon of audacious French inventiveness and skyscraping pride. Surrounding us were the Senegalese, Austrian, Romanian, Finnish, South African, Swedish and Georgian embassies. Our apartment shared a wall with the central offices of the American University of Paris, two streets away in one direction was the American Library of Paris, and farther in the other direction, Napoleon’s tomb and the Musée D’Orsay. Immediately to our right was the American Church of Paris, seat of the Societé Franco-Américane, and that just about sums up our part of Paris.

In spite of Jacques Chirac’s touching expressions of support after the World Trade Center attacks, (“Nous sommes tous les Américains”, “We are all Americans”) Franco-American relations were tense following the U.S. invasion of Iraq, a move the French (and most Europeans) found unsubstantiated and rash. I tell you all this to underline how we’d literally landed not only in the center of a politically stimulating neighborhood, but had done so in a moment in history when being an American in Paris was loaded with consequence.

Church friends making music

Church friends making music

As had always been the case everywhere we moved, we eventually eased into serving and worshipping in our church community. The congregation we attended met in a small rented meetinghouse in the narrow Rue St. Merri between Notre Dame and the Pompidou Center, and proved to be a cultural mix like we’d never know before and have never known since. There were as many non-French members as there are native French. Once I actually took count: among the one hundred fifty members there were seventeen native tongues. French with every accent you can think of or make up.

Our bishop, or pastor, who was married to a German, was born in former Serbo-Croatia to a French mother. His Italian, Russian and English were as solid as his German, Serbian, Croatian and French. His assistants were two men from Madagascar and the U.S. The presidencies of the women’s and youth organizations were composed of a Malagasy, an Ethiopian, a Romanian, an Iranian who’d converted from Islam, members from the Ivory Coast, Cameroon, the Congo, Angola, South Africa, Ghana and California. Working in the nursery with the youngest children were a Finn who spoke French, Swedish and English, a Swede who spoke Croatian, German, French and English, and myself, an American, who spoke French, German and Norwegian. We were overseeing children who spoke Spanish, French, English and Croatian. And the missionaries, young men and women from America, mostly, but also from France or other western countries, were bringing more and more Mandarin-speaking investigators of the church, students from mainland China and Taiwan, to meetings. When, on top of all these visitors, tourists also flooded our congregation, (which was a regular thing from April to October), everyone fought over the earphones through which we members would give simultaneous translation from French, the lingua franca of our congregation, into whatever language was required. That was primarily English but sometimes was another European tongue. French to German. French to Russian. French to Spanish. When enough Chinese members began attending, special rites like the sacrament (similar to taking the Eucharist) were performed both in French as well as in Mandarin.

The effect of all these cultures crowding into one cramped place made the overflowing facilities look like a general meeting for the U.N. Or, given the microphone head sets, a rehearsal for a Madonna concert tour.

Parker, Claire, Dalton and church friends

Parker, Claire, Dalton and church friends

At home, Claire’s flute teacher spoke French with a Mexican accent. Our temporary live-in student spoke French with a Colombian accent. And Parker’s petite amie (or crush), was native Peruvian, but had lived most her life in Paris and thus spoke French with no accent whatsoever and spoke no English at all. Parker, like the rest of us, was at home in all this, as comfortable as a you’ve ever seen a teenager, back in his circle at the American School of Paris (ASP) playing the drums in three ensembles (jazz, rock and orchestra) and on the weekends with his friends at impromptu percussion gatherings at le Trocadéro overlooking the Eiffel Tower, or on le Pont des Arts overlooking the Seine.

Parker and school friends

Parker and school friends

He also played basketball in the pick-up basketball games with the local guys (Algerian, Moroccan, Tunisian, Egyptian, and Lebanese) who gathered on Saturday mornings at the Champs de Mars, and with one of his best friends from school, (the captain of the basketball and volleyballs teams for which Parker became co-captain), he set up a volleyball sand pit near the Eiffel Tower. He was our resident PPE, or Paris Public Expert, who could shepherd brothers, sister, friends, and strangers on the street and befuddled tourists to whatever place they needed to reach via public transportation.  Paris quickly became his town, the place to which he swore he’d one day return as an adult to live out the rest of his life.

I

I

(To be continued. . .)

Global Mom: Burying the Bar

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Continued from the last post, “Mr. Psy”)

Louvre pyramid against gray skies

That I didn’t take the rest of those blue pills does not in any way mean I judge anyone else for taking theirs. I know that for many of my friends they are necessary – without a question life-saving. Nor do I judge my benevolent Montessori mother friend who’d suggested them in the first place.

Luc at Montessori

Luc at Montessori

It just means I could not function so well for my family as a muted cello or dulled bell living in a chalky mirage. I preferred, believe it or not, functioning like the wrung out metallic wad of last year’s tube of Colgate because even if it was curled, pressed flat, emptied-out, and pasty, well at least I could feel it.

So I tried another approach. I took ahold of the bar I’d rigged (again) too high above my head. I lifted it out of its slot and lowered it down. A notch. Or four. I closed my eyes, literally, to the complete disarray I’d been trying to dig through and work around. And I walked out.

At 6:00 a.m. five days a week, in fact, I walked out and ran several kilometers along the Seine with my husband.

Then I lowered the bar another notch. I stopped tidying and list-making and got to bed by ten o’clock. Every single night.

I figured out ways to simplify some basics, like I ordered groceries online and had them delivered to my kitchen floor. I relinquished control over that part and other parts of my existence. I let things go – I let so many things go – lowering the bar another notch.

I ate carefully and regularly. (I have never since eaten lapsed yogurts with pretzel shavings).

I slowed down to read, very slowly, sacred scripture without fail every day and for at least thirty minutes at a time. I prayed in a steady stream. Or at least I listened inwardly in a steady stream. I let God pour His love into my open tank.

I did not immediately take on any major volunteer positions at school or at church, as had always been my tendency. I let other people volunteer for a while since they obviously wanted to. That meant I lowered the bar seventy-times-seven notches.

And my beautiful family, including my good parents, who came to stay for a couple of weeks over the holidays, rallied around me. We rallied around us.

Finally, I realized I’d let enough things go so that the bar was ground level. I could even step over it in stilettos. And okay, okay. I took off the stilettos. (I only needed their sharp heels to dig the hole to actually bury the bar.)

With the bar buried, with the permission I gave myself to not achieve or work hard or do things perfectly, with the permission to be broken and hobbling for as long as it took and that that – just existing – was fabulous enough, I grew better. Quickly, you might say.

005

In a matter of about a month, actually, I realized I was even whistling (who whistles in Paris?) and smiling involuntarily (and who smiles?), skipping, as I recall, on a Thursday right past this century’s grouchiest old soul, the man who stood guard at the entrance of our parking box two blocks away from Colonel Combes. I skipped, he snarled and hucked a cigarette butt in my path, and I think I might have kicked my lovely heels together leprechaun style just as I winked at him.

Wink-wink, Monsieur.

002

Someone might conclude that it was one week of blue pills that pulled me out of the death spiral. I have no hard evidence to the contrary. Could be. And someone else might think, well, duh, it was Paris. Of course she was happy.
But tell me, has that someone actually lived in Paris in January? This is not Happy Land.

003

No, I believe something else happened, although I still cannot pin down in its every element what that something was. It had much to do with sleeping more, eating well and exercising reasonably. It also had a great deal to do with asking folks (namely my family) to give me some help, since I am normally a poor model for that. It also had something to do with disciplining myself to be nice and unproductive for a while. Yes, it was all that and something more, and I thank my terrestrial and celestial partners for that something, because that something tugged, shook, and Swedish-massaged my contorted double helix into fresh and hale alignment.

And having such things straightened out would be needful. Because we were galloping right into Camelot.

Portraits courtesy of Audrey White

These four portraits courtesy of Audrey White

© Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Melissa Dalton-Bradford and melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Global Mom: Mr. Psy

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Cont’d from previous post, “Stress, Depression, and Teeny Blue Pills”)

Driving through town

Driving across town. . .

Mr. Psy had wavy salt and pepper hair and a softly lit office at the Hôpital Americain in Neuilly. Feeling oddly kept-womanish, I almost cancelled the appointment. Then, when I forced myself to drive there, I nearly chose to wait out the whole extremely pricey nonrefundable hour in the parking lot. I was conflicted, questioning what my problem was, wondering if I was not really depressed but simply self-pitying. Pitiful. An expatriate Stepford wife and maudlin. Triple scoop of loathsome.

106

“But this is easy,” Mr. Psy said, removing his glasses and folding his manicured hands while leaning forward on his frosted glass desk top. “You’re an artiste. You have the tempérament d’une artiste. You feel things profondément. This is a qualité. This tristesse is simply the price you pay pour l’art.”

005

My problem now resolved to his liking, he wanted to discuss music and painting and favorite sopranos and Glenn Gould’s Bach recordings.

I thanked my artsy Psy, left with a prescription for little blue pills, and never saw him again.

Driving through town

What I had not succeeded in helping him understand was what I scarcely understood myself. It was gnawing my soul out, though, that sharp-toothed conviction that I was utterly and fully a failure, I was a dithering fool, my life a waste. Clearly I was profoundly spent, my body was screaming that much, but my mind kept responding, Spent? But spent for what? I’d been working hard for so many years, it seemed, but couldn’t show anything substantial for it. Every time I built something — established myself and our family in Norway, penetrated Versailles with my children in local activities, or literally built up or renovated a home and buttressed and held up my children — in the very instant I’d gotten to that spot, this international job track leveled what I’d built. Any time I felt I got an inch of grip, I’d be back at zero, starting all over again, knowing that whatever grip I got this time around would be ripped out and disposed of again.

Disposable. Like the rotted mattresses and moldy clothing which slumped against my hallway walls, sneering at me. Useless. A wasted life. This was the voice of the mattresses and the clothing. It spoke loudly and incessantly in my head. I could hear little else.

003

The seventh day after beginning the blue pills — “Take one a day, Madame,” Mr. Psy had said, “until you feel things start to uncoil,” — I awoke feeling like a cello whose strings had been muted. Or a big bell with a four-inch-thick felt lining. Or like a mother moved to the heart of Paris, and someone had turned the city to one of those sidewalk chalk drawings done by Dick Van Dyke’s character Bert in “Mary Poppins”, the drawing that washes to a swamp in the rain. Indistinct and dissolved. A mirage.

I tossed the remaining fifty-three pills in my bathroom wastebasket.

(To be continued. . .)

Global Mom: Stress, Depression & Teeny Blue Pills

From Global Mom: A Memoir

(Cont’d from two posts ago, “1st World Stress, Like Owning Stuff”)

I’ve asked this question once before, but it bears repeating: How does one recover from stress-induced depression?

Trocadéro, View from Eiffel Tower

Trocadéro, View from Eiffel Tower

I’d been like this five years earlier, and knew that this, like last time, was legitimate depression, serious enough to send me to bed not for a week of debilitating back spasms like Versailles, but for a week of spirit spasms, too, down ten pounds again, but this time the self-incrimination didn’t stay locked inside my cranial Hi-Fi system, but leaked in mumbles out of my own mouth: Inept. Not up to this. Exhausted. Ruining everyone’s life. Claire gave up her cozy American existence and her dream of a possible dog for a rubber mattress and dog poop land mines on every sidewalk? Had I been nuts to drag us all into this? And by the way, what kind of worthless whiner is in a fetal heap in bed at 2:45 on a sunny afternoon? In Paris?

View sweeping eastward from Eiffel Tower. There's our apartment...right there.

View sweeping eastward from Eiffel Tower. There’s our apartment…right there.

Another mother, a new acquaintance from Luc’s school, saw my bagging pants, the olive circles under my eyes and the splotches of rouge scrubbed on to cover the ashenness. She took me aside.

Ça va, Mélissa?” she inquired delicately, putting an accent on the first syllable of my name and her hand between my shoulder blades.

Oui, oui, ça va, ça va,” I answered, smiling too brightly.

view sweeping westward. . .

view sweeping westward. . .

Her handwritten note and little card of teeny blue pills suggested to me that I hadn’t hidden much from her.

view northeast to Montmartre and the basilica of Sacré Cœur

view northeast to Montmartre and the basilica of Sacré Cœur

“These are a sample of my antidepressant,” she wrote. “Ask the psy [French shorthand for psychiatrist] whose name and coordinates are at the bottom of my note, to prescribe the right dosage for you. When I have moved internationally,”(I later learned she’d lived, among other places, in Buenos Aires, Brussels, Mexico City, Abu Dhabi, Toronto, Prague, if I recall these all correctly, and now Paris over her twenty years of expatriate living), “Every single time,” she wrote, “my whole system gets overworked. Then it shuts down. It just crashes and shuts down.”

(To be continued. . .)