Half a year. Expatriates for half a year. It has been six months since we stepped away from my mom’s driveway, kissing our family and dog goodbye. Handed over the keys of our home to renters the day before, after countless days culling and packing and separating and storing all our earthly belongings. Much of sold in an epic yard sale. Much of it in my mother’s attic. Some more of it cordoned off in our own garage. Boats sold, cars sold or given away or stored. Goodbye parties with friends for both the littles and the adults. All behind us. Getting on that plane, there was a collective familial exhale. The months and months of preparing, planning and processing before that moment now complete. Yes, it was bittersweet. Tears were shed. Hugs held longer than normal. But the anticipation and excitement and sheer utter exhaustion took over and flying around the world became surreal. Not on vacation. But flying 30 hours around the world to our new home. To Denmark.
What does it mean to you? To create. I’m not talking any biblical sense of the word. But I am creative. People tell me that. And I do feel it. I believe it. It is part of who I am. What about you? Don’t think you’re creative? I don’t believe it. How we create is unique to each of us. Some people create music. Some people create art. Some people create gardens. Some people create unique ways to get their children to pick up their room. Some people create a positive personal energy that they share freely with those around them. They may not see that as creative. But I do. What you create and how you do it are as personal as your DNA.
Creative flower pots
I used to help run the Art Literacy program in my children’s elementary school and middle school. With a team, we planned out a school year’s worth of master artist presentations and accompanying art projects to inspire the children. Volunteers were trained and then able to present in their own children’s classes. We were aiming at giving the children a language with which to view art – an art literacy, if you will. Armed with new vocabulary that was ever reinforced over the years with a variety of artists spanning many generations and styles, a child would be able to look at any piece of art and know things about it. They may or may not remember the name of that artist or where he was from or what year it was painted. But, they would be able to see how the artist’s use of LINE makes the piece interesting. How COLOR expresses feeling. How SHAPE defines subjects and compositions. From pre-K to 8th grade, 4 year olds to 14 year olds. The children got it. Pablo Picasso said “every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you grow up.”
One of the major challenges we faced as organizers of this fabulous program was with volunteers who deemed themselves “uncreative.” They couldn’t paint. They didn’t know how to draw. They weren’t artists. So they said. Didn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. And although I would have adored the space to let each volunteer go through their paces with each hands-on project before leading children through, it wasn’t necessary. Where adults might get hung up wouldn’t be where the children would be hung up and sometimes being too comfortable with the medium leads to constraint on their childrens’ interpretation. There was no right or wrong way. How the child used the proposed materials and how they manufactured their piece was up to them. They were creating. Let them create. Would it be a masterpiece? Maybe. Some were. Some materials were easier to use and afforded a wall-worthy outcome. I will admit that I love seeing some of the projects over the years on the walls in friends’ homes or posted to their fridges or tacked to the bulletin board. Not all of the finished projects were so share worthy. But. Did the child get to see what it was like to use charcoal pencils. Yes. Usually all over their hands, arms, sometimes face. Was it different than a regular pencil? Yes. How about oil pastels. Or wire. Or clay. All different. Different ways of composing. Different ways of translating that idea or vision in their head through the materials provided into something else in the time allotted. That is creating. Trying. Sometimes succeeding. Sometimes learning. Never failing.
My home space for creating
We need more of that in our life. Trying. Sometimes succeeding. Sometimes learning. Never failing. Creating. I truly believe that we all do it. We just don’t call it that. We are constantly creating new ways to express ourselves. To our children. To our spouse. To our friends. To our community. To the grocery store clerk who keeps putting the canned goods in after the produce. Seriously? Not an issue here in Denmark – you bag your goods yourself. And you better do it quickly, because even if that divider thing that slides the next customer’s goods to the end beside you – he may only have two things and you have 22 and then the next person waiting has no place for their goods to slide to. Incredulous look to follow, hurried packing ensues. Creatively shoving your plastic packaged produce on top. Creating.
Wee lass creating her Ancient Egyptian Costume
Living in a foreign country affords a million and one ways to create. We must establish new staples in our diets with what we can economically find here. We must generate adaptations of our old favorite recipes using metric systems and slutty stoves that only speak Danish and work in Celsius. Quick son, what is the conversion for 350 degrees Fahrenheit again? We must craft our space here. Unfurnished it was. We must be inventive on how to get to and from school and work. What happens when your pre-paid travel kort is empty? Get creative. The kids are getting good at that one. With a broken ankle, I have to invent ways of moving those dishes from the table to the dishwasher. How to sweep the floor without breaking the other foot. How to do laundry. I usually push a chair in front of me with my crutches piled with the goods requiring transfer. I’m sure the neighbors downstairs love that. We must generate new social contacts, friends and classmates. I’m doing ok in that arena. It is fun creating those new relationships. I have to fashion some sort of Eurovision Viewing Party themed costume for some new friends’ event tomorrow night. Don’t know what Eurovision is? Me either. I’m about to find out. Hmmmm. Outfit suggestions? I’ll figure out something! It will probably be completely off mark, but I will have tried.
Creative interpretation of a classic
So before I let you go this Fredag. Please take this into your weekend. Remember that we are all creative. We do it everyday. Push yourself to create something different. Set the table a different way. Take a different way to work. Make a new playlist. Doodle on your checkbook. Write a letter. Post a picture to Instagram using a new filter (let go of the reins Nellie – don’t hold yourself back!) Mix a patterned top with striped pants. You get the idea. You can go big. You can keep it simple. It’s up to you. But know while you’re doing it, you are the only one who made it. You are the only one who created it. You are creative. Wow. I did not set out to produce such a self-help piece today. But there it is. Create. My friends. Create. Whatever forces in the universe brought you to read this, I hope it has inspired. Possibly instilled a new outlook in your personal space. One where moving around the world is not required. Moving yourself. That’s all. Go. Do. Create. And share! I wanna see! Here’s my latest…
High above the chimney tops – that’s where you’ll find me. Haha! Definitely not me. Still relegated to a more grounded perspective due to recent surgical ankle relocation. But, rather, my wee peeps. Up in the trees. Swinging from the branches. Maneuvering obstacles. Crawling over old tires and logs and beer crates and shipping palettes and shopping carts – even through an old car – all strung up in the trees, way over my head behind the Carlsberg Brewery complex in the Vesterbro neighborhood of Copenhagen. Klatreskoven is a high ropes course for all ages, a playground in the trees.
Klatreskoven
We first found Klatreskoven in the winter time, on a weekendly family discovery drive around town. Everyone drives down the famous Elephanten Gate at the historic Carlsberg Brewery. Those cement larger than life elephants are something to behold, even if you don’t drink Carl’s beer. Hang the second right past the elephants and follow the huge red brick building with the gold circles down to the right. You can’t miss it. At first it looks like a possible art installation – upcycling sorted garbage in a criss-crossing web through the branches. Wait – what does that sign say? Google translating as fast as my thumbs can type, we realize that it is a playground, a climbing course. Holy cats. Seriously – they let people up there? THAT IS WAY UP THERE! The childrens’ collective eyes grew and excitement mounted – “Can we do it? Can we do it!?” Er. Uh. (EEK) Alas it doesn’t open until spring.
Spring forward. Maj Day weekend. We’ve already celebrated our Danish solidarity on our free Friday off. The following Søndag was a beautiful spring day – sunny skies, mild weather – you might say – a blue bird day. Klatreskoven has pushed itself into the forefront of our littles’ subconscious again. “Can we do the ropes course? Please?” Umm. Uh. Ask Dad? For me… two things. First – I can’t do it with them for obvious reasons. Second – it kind of terrifies me. I had done some research online and translated that participants do wear helmets and harnesses and must have a safety orientation before beginning. There are also varying “levels” depending on one’s age, ability and height (most importantly). The top, highest, most precariously terrifying course is the Black course. Egad. Please no. Not that one. Ok.
Klatreskoven behind Carlsberg
Start Her
Klatreskoven
Orientation at Klatreskoven
As it turns out – our eldest wasn’t interested in scaling the ropes – so we did the most teenager-y of things – he and I went shopping. Dad took the subsequent two littles on their bikes cross-town to Frederiksberg and Klatreskoven. It was perfect. By the time I crutched my way from the bus stop there – my son and daughter had confidently maneuvered the first path of the course and any insecurity on their part that I may have perceived as a safety issue had been worked through. They were having a ball. It was impressive watching them unhook and re-hook the double safety system between each obstacle. My husband reassured me that they are never unattached preventing any potential plummeting to the ground. Are you sure? Yes. I’m sure. Sure?! Sure.
At one point, my wee lass had followed big brother (of course, why wouldn’t she?) onto a course above her level. In the original orientation, she had been relegated to the “blue” course and suddenly realized while waiting on the platform about 20’ up that this was the harder “red” course from the red ties around the trees. Unfortunately the paths move in one consistent direction and people were continuing to progress behind her – there was no turning around. Dad assured her (and me) after a quick assessment where this new path would take her, that she could proceed forward. Her slow, calculated, determined progression was a sight to behold, especially for the nervous mother neck straining looking up from below. Watching her carefully work through where the next step would be, how she would not tangle herself from the harness, how to reach that slightly higher ring. I had to let go. She had to do it. I could not help. Neither could Dad. It was freedom. For her and for me. (I’m a little verklempt actually writing about it actually.)
Hjælp!
Reach for it
Copenhagen has afforded my children much freedom. And I feel so very fortunate that for a city this large and this European and this cosmopolitan – it is so very ok to let them have it. It is safe here. Leave your babies sleeping outside in the enormous pram on the sidewalk while you sip, eat, shop. Yes. I am not naive that things can happen. Believe me. It has been a process to afford them the same opportunities allowed Danish children, the same freedom. I blame a little bit of it on my American bred fear-based conditioning. We put our children in bubbles for fear of what might happen. But when the nightly news shows you images of your worst fears occurring time and again, it is no wonder why we are all “nervous Nellies.” But why aren’t the Danes?
Yesterday was the 4th of Maj. In our house this date always conjures Star Wars references – May the 4th be with you and a possible showing of one of the franchise movies. Take him to you I will (Oh sorry, that’s my favorite.) But here in Denmark – this day has a much different connotation. It is a day of freedom – an end to the 5-year occupation of Nazi Germany during World War II. A day when blackout shades were torn down and thrown out and windows all over the city slowly lit up with candles showing the light again. It was over. They were free. Queen Margrethe celebrated the 70th anniversary of the occasion at Mindenlunden i Ryvangen (Ryvangen Memorial Park) – the historic site where Danish resistance members were executed and buried so many years ago. There were candle lit parades around town filled with generations of people who may not have even been alive in 1945, but the stories from FarMor and MorFar (grandparents) have had lasting impact. Never forget. Light your candles. Remember our freedom.
Maj 4th
It made me wonder, as my daughter lit every candle we have in every window of our 5th floor flat (nearing fire-hazard levels, despite the excellent hygge up in there) how was it that Danes remember the light, but have been able to let go of the dark. They had to know fear. I cannot begin to pretend to know what it was like to live under an oppressive occupying force in my own country.
As an American, I know that our fear during that time was somewhat different – sending our young men into the fray and worrying about their safe return. My paternal Grandpa was one of those forces. A pilot, based in England, flying B-17 bombers over Germany. He did return. Thankfully for our family. My Grandma, in her inability to celebrate him as one of the “Greatest Generation,” passed on her fear – not directly expressed, but translated clearly. His experience was not to be discussed, talked about, lauded over. That was a terrible time and it was past. Maybe that is how the Danes have moved on. I can only guess.
What living in Denmark in 2015 has definitely taught me, in six short months, is that there is freedom in letting go. See the light. See it in your children’s faces as they confront their own challenges and have chances to succeed. Now I’m all verklempt again. It isn’t easy. It is pushing me as well – outside of my comfort zone. This is not the bubble. Being mobility impaired has proved an unlikely catalyst – I simply can’t do as much for them. But they were ready to step up. Ready to tip on the tightrope. Ready for the challenge. For this we are all expanding. Freedom.
May 1st or May Day, the world around, conjures images of flowers born from April showers. Placing cones bursting full of blossoms upon the front doors of unsuspecting loved ones and neighbors. May poles with colorful ribbons being woven round by dancing happy young girls in layered dresses skipping to live music being played and happy standersby clapping and welcoming sunny days and new green leaves on the trees. Is it just me? This version of May Day has roots in many cultures extending as far back as Ancient Rome. This was not exactly the 1st of May picture we encountered in our corner of Copenhagen this past Fredag.
May 1st is also – you may or may not know – known as Labor Day or International Worker’s Day in many parts of the world. Adopted in 1889 by socialized countries to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution as well as American labor union strikes of the late 19th century pushing for fairer working conditions, including the 8-hour work day. We now live in the socialized country of Denmark who takes their May 1st celebrating very seriously. It is somewhat of a sacred institution here. At least for some. Every year the large Fælledparken – in our neighborhood – turns into a enormous union rally and party on the lawn. Booths set up for each labor union. There are speeches by local illuminati including the Prime Minister and others, followed by live music, DJ’s, food, carnival rides, cheap white wine and Tuborg beer – all to celebrate the day of the worker. And no one works. Well – most people aren’t working. It is a school holiday and bank holiday, so we all had a free day off. And to celebrate – almost everyone drinks. A lot. Skål to the working man!
To be fair, maybe we did not truly celebrate May 1st as a festive Dane. I feel fairly confident that if I had two able feet to walk with and wasn’t concerned about the escalating level of intoxication coming to and fro the park out on our neighborhood streets, we would have cruised through Fælledparken and checked it out. When in Copenhagen, right? But having experienced just a fragment of its celebrants on their way to the celebration made me a wee bit wary in my crutching for my life current condition. Open containers? Underage drinking? Check and check. Oh – that’s right. Did you know that you can legally buy alcohol here at 16. Yes. 16. So maybe they weren’t actually underage. But alcohol was everywhere. And the cans, bottles, cheap white wine and emptied bubbly all left exactly where it was finished. On the sidewalk. On the corner. By the cafe door. By our door. I am not intending to lay judgement. To each his own I usually say. And to be honest not one of these boisterous young attendees was really doing anything inappropriate that I witnessed – just celebrating a free day communally. And festively. And drunkly. Unlike other Danish holidays that we have experienced when the city shuts down and feels cavernous and echo-ey – leaving us to wonder where have all the people gone? (And where are we supposed to get groceries?) In contrast, May 1st was PACKED. To the brim. At least in our neighborhood. We waited alongside the throngs and masses for the bus that was late due to being over capacity – so packed, and filling more at each stop, that our children were worried that they were to be boxed in at the back of the bus and would be unable to get off at the requisite stop. Fear not, dear reader, as all of us – even I with my crutches – were able to maneuver the burgeoning bus crowd and make it to our destination.
So what did we do on this 1st of May? We celebrated this most Danish of holidays with an invitation to join some Danish and American friends at the opening of an outdoor seating patio for two little cafes in our neighboring neighborhood, Nørrebro. Lækkerier på Nørrebro is known for its fabulous cakes, Danish rugbrød sandwiches and latina Pisco Sours. Next door is the Green Buddha offering delicious thai fare and Singha beer. Order up, bundle up (it was cold) and listen to the festive South American rhythms of Trypical Cumbia – band members hailing from Chile, Columbia, England and Ecaudor singing in Spanish. Ai! Ai! Ai! All of this painted against the graffiti’d backdrop of Vedbæksgade (remember gade means street) made it a very colorful outing. How does this all fit together? Did it make sense? Not in a traditional sense. But as newly minted citizens of the world, sharing it with our new friends, throwing around an American football, it felt like a celebration indeed. We sat outside and enjoyed the music on this abnormally chilly May 1st (so I’m told by two Danes who would know) wrapped up in the cafe’s fleece blankets, and shared stories and talked of new plans and enjoyed excellent cake and a new sense of growing community. For this I will happily celebrate in solidarity.
Lemonade from lemons. In theory, motivating. In theory, inspiring. In theory, possible. When life serves you lemons, make lemonade. Make something good out of the bad. Right? In theory. Call me a sour puss, but sometimes the lemons just sit there. All cheerful and happy in their sunny yellow-ness all the while mocking you. Pucker up sucker. Do you know what I mean? Turning around the hand you’ve been dealt takes moxy. It takes effort. Bluffing works. Sometimes. Sometimes it is easier said than done, making that god damn hypothetical lemonade.
