This Week in Joyful Practice: Kringloop
on circling back
This week, Yme’s been making almost daily trips to the kringloop. Kringloop is the Dutch word for thrift store. It means ‘circle walk’ or cycles, as in recycle. Our days are long and often frustratingly slow, as we circle-walk between spending time with Yme’s father and the work of emptying out his apartment. Multiple times a day, we walk with Yme’s father around the path that circles the grounds where he now lives. It's been too hot to go into the neighborhood or farther out onto the farm roads. Conversations with Yme’s father often spiral into confusion and bafflement. Again and again, we find ourselves talking about how painfully familiar this is, memories of our mothers hovering around the periphery like specters.
A caregiver told us that people with dementia become childlike and that we should not ask Yme’s father to make decisions. We also shouldn’t give him too much information. Instead of telling him we are going to see Yme’s uncle and then have dinner with his cousins, we should tell him we won’t see him for the day. I’m reminded of what the owner of a restaurant in Athens once told Yme and me, simple is best.
On Tuesday, we went out for ice cream, and afterwards, a drive, hoping Yme’s father might fall asleep (he did). I told Yme it felt like we were co-parenting, cleaning up ice cream together, taking turns helping his father in and out of the car, working around meal schedules and planning outings for times of day when he is less confused or exhausted. I imagine when we look back on these few weeks (that have felt like months), it will be similar to the way I remember parenthood when my kids were young. Those years are fuzzy, coated in a haze of exhaustion, but my memories of them are also infused with a soft sweetness. I know it was hard parenting three small children–it was messy, and I was forced to shift my adult priorities in order to make room for the kids’ needs. A good day was when I could slow down and meet the kids in their world. I know there were days when the unending needs of my children felt oppressive, but now, twenty years later, I miss the ease of connection my children and I shared and the physicality of caring for tiny humans. It's easier to keep cynicism at bay when you spend your days watching new humans wake up to the world.
We are a team, Yme and I, and the job of our team is to show up for his father. To slow down when we can and meet him in the world he inhabits. This work is sacred, children becoming parents and parents becoming childlike.
Just like in the days of parenting small children, adult priorities can’t be ignored indefinitely. We can’t spend all of our time in the kaleidoscope of Yme’s dad’s world. Not just because there are boxes to take to the kringloop and phone calls to make and appointments to keep, but also because it's hard to sustain the kind of energy it takes to stay present and engaged.
Yesterday, we took the day off. We headed west to see Yme’s Uncle Jan in Woerden. We spent the morning talking politics and looking at old family photos. Over lunch, the conversation circled back to family, and because I couldn’t follow all of the details of the conversation, I watched the body language. What I saw was tenderness and curiosity, a desire for connection. I recognized some of my own experiences in their interaction. Yme and I have spent most of our lives living far away from family, and as I grow older, I feel a strong need to deepen my family bonds. In the car, headed to his cousins’ house, I told Yme that if we’re lucky, as we age, we soften—the stickier knots of family dynamics loosen and fall away. What remains, I hope, is the desire to reclaim one another, and the willingness to know family in new ways.
One of the most glorious parts of being in the Netherlands in early summer is that the sun doesn’t set until ten. Last night we sat in Yme’s cousins’ back garden, eating a home cooked Indonesian meal, sharing stories about our lives, talking about dreams of the future, and having our ankles licked by two dogs that I would hide in my carry-on bags if they would fit. It felt like love, the meal we were offered. It felt like a deep breath, our time spent together. Look at those two cousins going on a dog walk and getting to know each other, Yme’s cousin’s wife told me. A golden sphere of contentment settled on our evening.
Today, we’ve walked back into the work of this trip. I spent the afternoon with Yme’s father drawing plants in the shared living space outside of his room. Yme continued hauling boxes to the kringloop. I’m exhausted. Yme is exhausted. Yme’s dad is exhausted, too. This shit is hard and heavy on our hearts. And and tonight we ate homemade Indonesian leftovers. They tasted like love, like family, and the burden we are carrying felt a little lighter.
upcoming Joyful Practice workshop opportunities
Summer Break: a retreat for nurturing creativity & connection.
July 25th-27th at The Sherwood Press in Olympia, WA. This in-person retreat is designed to build community and offer the quiet spaciousness necessary for exploration and play. You will create a piece of work that is inspired by the experience of sharing creative space in a specific (and beautiful!) place. And, of course, the piece you create will be unique to who you are and how you encounter this shared time and place. Check out this link for more information and registration.
Build a Personal Oracle Deck, a Joyful Practice (Virtual) Workshop.
This twelve week virtual workshop starts July 16th. You can find more information and register here. Read Jenn’s Scrap Heap post to find out more about why we created this workshop and what its all about.
Joyful Practice for Dark Times, Round Three: 8 week virtual workshop series.
Round three of our generative writing community begins the beginning of October. We’ll publish information and registration in September, so keep your eyes peeled!
Please reach out to Jenn or me if you have questions about any of our Joyful Practice offerings.
I'm loving the alternate stories told via the photos. And the sketch that Yme's father made, the story behind it, so moving
Oh, Sarah, my heart goes out to Yme and you. This is tender and challenging work. I’m glad that you’re doing it together.