For the first time in many years, I got thoroughly drenched in the Amsterdam rain, my jeans glistening, so saturated, the fabric couldn’t soak up another drop. Caught on my bike, the zen-state the yoga class instilled in me washed away in an instant, I unsuccessfully looked for a place to hide—an awning still open by accident because of the sudden weather shift—but after some heartfelt cursing and grunting, knowing I wouldn’t reach my destination before I had been exposed to the full brunt of the Dutch weather gods, I was actually able to relax and let the deluge descend upon me with resignation. It’s just water, precious water, a welcome guest in the mostly sunny regions I called home these past years; a guest that could have even saved one of them.
Far from easy, our nomadic existence has brought our little family much to be grateful for, of which the most precious is our unbreakable bond. This makes itself fully felt now that all three of us are in different countries. Your Birdy in the UK, already in the second year of a bachelor’s degree, your little Leo in France, learning how to make fancy pastries like brioche and dacquoise aux agrumes, and me, revisiting our past and cleaning up our future in the city where I never before lived without you: Amsterdam.
Life decided I should live alone, not more than 300 meters from where we used to be a complete and harmonious family. I realize this sounds sad, or at least nostalgic, and it is not, at all, even though I did need some time to cut through the persistent veneer of memories that are necessarily connected to this area: Amsterdam Zuid, the stadion neighborhood, to be more precise, where our kids lived their early childhood with us hovering over them. Being away for the larger part of the years after your demise kept this veneer intact, and the little time we spent in this area, mostly seeing family and friends, did not do much to erode it. So I guess for me to stay here for an extended period is maybe not necessary but helpful to bring closure to a large part of my life. Because, for the first time since I moved in with you, into your apartment on the Runstraat, at the early stages of what turned out to be the most significant relationship of our lives, I am on my own.
The attachment to our children, with all its love and responsibility, will always remain firmly anchored within me, but the daily routine of caring is no longer shaping my life. This newfound freedom, because that is what it is, reveals something I wasn’t unaware of: after you passed away, our kids became my overwhelmingly sole priority, and even though my choices were neither the most obvious nor rooted in balanced rationality, I made them with their (and my own) well-being and happiness in mind. Instead of feeling resentment or regret for not having taken more time for myself, I’m utterly grateful for having been together throughout all we experienced. It often felt like the three of us were holding on to each other tightly in the middle of a whirlwind. My sole regret is the panicky state I often found myself in. I so wished to be eye of that storm, but instead, I myself was, at times, the tornado of nerves and doubts and worries. As much as I wanted it to, I wasn’t always able to provide my kids with the safe haven they needed, which makes it even more astonishing to see the kind of people they have become, are becoming, or perhaps, always were. Plenty of times, they were the ones providing the haven or the wise words I wish I’d come up with. And so, after too much time I realized something I would love to have been more aware of from the beginning: we as parents are not wiser than our kids. Adults have just spent more time on earth, learned how you’re supposed to deal with earthly life, but even that children often know how to do better, and our prerogative as parents to decide ‘what’s best for them’ is often based on a false notion. The hierarchy that’s almost always present in families, to varying degrees, is as much an illusion as any human hierarchy. I’m not saying we need not protect and guide our children, but I think we could treat them more like equals. I know you probably wouldn’t agree, we had discussions about issues that touched on this principle, because even though I wasn’t as democratic as I would have liked to, I tended to be more open to it than you were. But who can tell, given the time and experience that has been withheld from you, following the path you started but never got to finish, you might have advanced more or quicker than I did.
My task now, as a part of streamlining and clarifying our future, for the larger picture is still more or less in my hands, is decide where to set up house. Because even though our wandering the earth has brought us many insights, friends and experiences (really good and really horrific ones), I am ready to find a place to stay, maybe not always, but at least for the next ten years. A place where I can settle, rest, but most of all: write. For whatever doubts I have, my occupation isn’t one of them. During these past almost seven years, I have wrestled and conquered many demons, and most of them are now either dead or dying, crumpled up like a deceased spider in a corner of my life, waiting for the final sweep of a purifying broom that will send them back to where they came from.
Since there are quite a few places where parts of me lie scattered—all with their own dis- and advantages—that can lay some kind of claim to me, I feel I need to sit back and relax a bit so that the universe can send me a sign. My choices these past years, surely not only for the kids, were nonetheless strongly influenced by their well-being and future, even if some of those turned out to be rather disastrous. So I’m waiting for the road to clear, for my path to reveal itself.
For now, though, I am thoroughly relishing the comforts that living in Amsterdam brings: supermarkets and shops that are always open, packages that actually arrive and are replaced instantly when faulty (no questions asked, no pictures required?!), friends that I can see without hurry or pressure because, for once, I’m not leaving next week, family nearby, excellent public transport but using my old bike to go pretty much everywhere. The occasional surprise downpour while riding it I’ll gladly (well, as a matter of speaking) put up with.
