Contemplating an empty plate

This evening I had hoped to listen to Merete Mazzarella, a Swedish journalist, essaist and author, speak at Finlandsinstitutet in Stockholm about her two most recent books: När vi spelade Afrikas stjärna and Fredricka Charlotta född Tengström. While I arrived in good time for the talk, I was turned away together with 20 to 30 other disappointed listeners because the lecture hall for some 200 persons was already full, despite the fact that we had arrived in good time before the posted "meeting time".
In my frustration, several thoughts went through my mind: relax, go home and take it easy; you've already corresponded with Merete M by mail about these books, so you've satiated at least some of your curiosity; how different this situation is from the times I''ve found myself sitting with a dozen or so other diehards at the foot of a Nobel laureate in the Black Oak Bookstore in north Berkeley and been given so much to think about; Jante Law: what is the difference between the intellectual climate of Sweden/Finland/Scandinavia and the USA? I think I am starved here in Sweden and returned home, wherever that may be, this evening to contemplate my empty plate....and write on.
I find solace in knowing that tomorrow evening, I will break bread and eat fish with one of my favorite friends.

Cultural clash

This morning I experienced an amusing culture clash.
We were four colleagues who had arrived simultaneously at the front door of our offices. The senior board member (a Swede) among us was quickest to pull out his magnetic entry card and hold the door open for the rest of us. All of a sudden my younger Chinese colleague backed into me, whereupon I nearly overturned the poor young Swedish colleague behind me. Instinctively grabbing a hold of my younger Chinese colleague for balance, I (typical American?) proceeded to push her in front of me through the door, ahead of our junior Swede.
My young Chinese colleague was of course flustered because she had not been the first to open the door for her senior colleagues, and in her failure to follow Asian protocol she at least wanted to be the last of us three remaining to enter. We all know that some (especially older) Swedes are chivalrous and that most Americans are pushy, right? Once we had all managed to enter the reception without setting off the alarm, we could laugh over a quick cultural debrief. Needlesstosay, I am privileged to work where the ceiling is high and a ubiquitous sense of humor prevails.

The primary election

My absentee vote is still waiting to be counted. I am glad I've had some choice, to bite or not to bite into the big juicy apple in the hands of Billary and Obama. "Some of the best choices we make are the ones we make when we don't have much choice," said Josephine M.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday is the beginning the fast, the day of the liturgical year that is to remind us of our own mortality. I watch the priest as he presses his thumb into the bowl of ashes and then hear him say “Dust thou art to dust returneth” or “Return to the Word” as ashes fall before my eyes, like my funeral veil. At once I am shielded from having to show my face, and allowed to wear my grief with grace. I can see that now. My entry on Ash Wednesday last year mentions my plans to return soon to mother Anne’s bedside before her hour of death.

This day also reminds me of the significance of setting limits, of willingly abstaining from things I think I cannot do without. We succumb to temptation so much more easily when and where barriers are invisible. This day reminds me of the unseen black veil and unheard water falling, before the opening behind which I stand.

…All this and more
remains
 to be seen
in the sound 
of silence
at all the checkpoints

between the pauses 

between the Acts
before passing
all old stations
of the Ubahn.

Listen carefully
nowhere any longer
wall or ashes falling
before our eyes

to let me see
what remains
for who am I
otherwise?

Berlin, February 1993