Chapter 14 ~ Becoming a "Learner"

Jan Kooi (right) the builder

I grew up in a time when people kept an "open house". Whether anyone ever received angels as their guests as a result of it, I do not know, it was just something they did. The Dutch homes that we visited when I was a little girl, all had a "voorhuis" - a place to "arrive" at the home of another, hang your coat and hat, catch your breath and smooth down your coif. Apart from the coat rack - there would typically be a tapestry or wall hanging, to provide a sense of warmth and welcome, a mirror, and a place to rest your umbrella or walking stick. Having thus composed and made yourself comfortable, you were ushered into the heart of the home.

Afrikaans homes also had a "voorhuis", which was more a type of a formal lounge, where the good furniture, rugs and ornaments where displayed. Children were not allowed in these soundless, spotless rooms, and the doors were kept closed and even locked at times. It was part of the strangeness of the culture which I was trying to adopt. These rooms were not inviting. They were stale, like the display rooms of museums. I came to understand later, that this was simply a way of setting the best aside for your guests, and learnt to appreciate a different way of hospitality. People's hearts are larger and more revealing than rooms, as long as you take care to look into them with empathy.

It was almost never a "wrong" time to call. Hospitality was not practiced but lived. The Dutch word for hospitality (a rather "sterile" sounding word) is "gastvrijheid" - guest freedom. There is another lovely Dutch word which rolls off your tongue like the concept it is meant to describe: "gezellig". It is a feeling, a term which encompasses the heart of Dutch culture. It can mean cosy, convivial, warm, welcoming, hearty, friendly, or comfortable. "Gastvrijheid" and "gezellig", go together like Siamese twins, the one would have no "life" without the other.

This may seem to contradict the stereotype image of a "Hollander". Frank, miserly and a bit crass. The people tend to view themselves as modest, independent and self-reliant. They value ability over dependency. They  generally have an aversion to the non-essential. Ostentatious behaviour is something to be avoided. Accumulating money is fine, but public spending of large amounts of money is considered something of a vice, and associated with being a show-off. A high lifestyle is considered wasteful by most people and is often met with suspicion.

Dutch manners are generally blunt with a no-nonsense informal attitude. This might be perceived as impersonal and patronising by other cultures, but is the norm in Dutch culture. This directness may give the impression that they are a bit rude - attributes they prefer to call ‘openness’. Dutch egalitarianism is the idea that people are equal, especially from a moral point of view, and accordingly, causes the somewhat ambiguous stance the Dutch have towards hierarchy and status. What may strike other cultures as being blatantly blunt topics and comments are no more embarrassing or unusual to the Dutch than discussing the weather.

Someone who may have done much to alter that image is the celebrity violinist Andre Rieu, with his charming and seductively plush tone. But even this stage persona allows for glimpses of the no-nonsense, straight forward approach to life. At a recent concert in Dublin, (referring to the howling gales outside), he introduces the "Skater's Waltz" as : "The perfect music for your shit Irish weather"... And is loved for it more than ever.

A lane for singing cyclists

A fairly recent article in "The Economist" describes the Dutch as a "generally pretty content bunch". The Netherlands consistently ranks as one of the best (and safest) places in the world to live. According to a survey by "Unicef" - Dutch kids are among the happiest in the world. The high quality of life and general good nature could be attributed to a rather laid-back approach to work: more than half of the Dutch working population works part time, a far greater share than in any other rich-world country. Fathers are allowed to take "Pappa-dag" days off,  to be with their children. Woman who do enter the workplace are also more likely to work part-time to adjust to family life.

Part of the reason is that Dutch women were relative latecomers to the labour market. Compared with other countries, few men had to leave to fight in the world wars of the 20th century, with the result that women did not work in factories as they did in America and Britain. Thanks to the country's wealth, a dual income was often not a necessity for a comfortable life. Dutch politics was dominated by Christian values until the 1980s, the focus was mainly on providing state aid, so that women could stay at home with children. And as the saying goes - happy wife, happy life!

The flip-side of this relaxed attitude is a slackening of moral values also. Lines become blurred when absolutes are replaced by a more liberal and "freeing" approach to life. But that is another smelly kettle altogether...

To get back to the "voorhuis"... My Father was too practical to waste space and building material on an entrance hall. But he created a little foyer by building a high narrow wall next to the front door and proudly placing a self-invented "room divider" next to it. This was an ugly metal and tile contraption where-upon the family cockatiel loved to perch (and poop) in later years. A prolific creeper completed the screening effort. The creeper only just managed to survive my mother's feather duster, countered by my father's continuous and more subtle care. "Mamma" quietly resented this unsightly piece of furniture. After many years of sighs and suppressed grumbles, my dad brought home a few fine imbuia planks, and produced a softly glowing double-sided cabinet, which greatly pleased the whole family (except the cockatiel I guess).

Just on the other side of this improvised entrance hall, was his "seat". It was a place he retreated to at the end of a tiring day at the building site. The cabinet contained some books, a tobacco pot and pipe, his Ritmeester cigars, bills, papers, odds and ends. Next to it stood a fairly comfortable low chair and a three legged footstool covered with dark floral fabric. Above it was a wall mounted light, which could be extended and folded back on a neat wooden hinge as needed. It seemed as if there was nothing that "Pappa" could not make or fix. He did not have much creative flair beyond the functional, but he certainly knew how to make a space his own. I never thought of sitting in this corner, even when he was not home. It contained his smell, his austerity. But there was also a hint of mystery, which I found conflicting in a man so predictable in routine and habits. He read voraciously. Impressively thick novels, filled with suspense and intrigue. While he read, glasses perched on his broad nose, feet vulnerable and shoeless on the footstool, he looked so approachable, like a kindly uncle who read bed-time stories and liked to tousle children's hair.

Apart from our mutual passion for music, it is the shared love of books and stories, which often drew us together, despite the prickles of misunderstanding. Every fortnight I got to go with him to the local library. I was rarely rushed, and we both returned home hugging our new-found treasures. When the house became silent we could escape. "Pappa" with his book and I with mine, James Last on the turntable, and a fire in the "kaggel" (hearth). No words needed. Just that sweet togetherness - each in a wonderful world of their own. Places of endless possibilities, no boundaries or barriers. Beyond words. Wide as the endless night sky of wonders.

Duizenden sterren vullen de duistere hemel aan.
Glitters hoog in de lucht.
Met vermoeide ogen kijk ik ernaar.
Een laatste blik voordat ik ga slapen.
één ster die opvallender is dan alle andere,
is de grote witte maan
in het midden van een zwarte achtergrond.
Omringd door de glimmende kleuren,
als een kunstwerk er omheen.
Als de sterrenhemel me een slaapwel sust,
begin ik pas aan mijn goede nachtrust...

Train up a child in the way he should go,
And when he is old he will not depart from it. ~ Proverbs 22:6

“Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.” ~ Emily Buchwald

Our wooden house has no entrance hall, improvised or otherwise. There is not even a front door as such, since the deck area which is the front of the house, has three doors leading out onto it, and you have to walk half way around the house to reach it. When people do call, (which is sadly not often) it is past the herb garden, over discarded bicycles, gumboots, empty dog bowls - via the "back door". As the Afrikaans saying goes: "Jy val met die deur in die huis" (literally to fall into the house with the door. This saying is mainly used when someone wants to get straight to the point, without wasting time on arbitrary niceties).

But we do have books. We go through phases of accumulating them, then thinning out the volumes from overflowing shelves, tables and cupboards. We have not yet joined the "e-reader/tablet/ phablet/whatnot" generation. I shift between being amazed and grateful to frustrated by the mazes of electronic reading matter available at our fingertips.

Hogsback has a sweet little library on the village green, musty, damp and dusty as only a really old rondawel-library can be. Even after almost seven years, I am still surprised and intrigued by the variety and quality of the volumes that my husband brings home for the children. Library day has always been a highlight in our home, and the boys fall on new books like hungry wolf-cubs.

From before they could understand words, they have known books. Many sweet hours have been spent with a fragrant blond head (or two) near my cheek and an open book on my hands. From this flowed story-telling. Our eldest (who totally disproves the "theory" that men receive less words to use each day than woman), used to sit on the loo, telling elaborate, fantastical, disjointed tales to himself and all who cared to listen. The youngest has turned out to be better at this, his thoughts being a bit more ordered and his speech more "filtered".

Finally free from the bum-focused part of having little ones, with our "kids" settled in a room of their own, our family shifted gear. We seemed to cruise along slightly more comfortably, but also more accelerated. There was freedom, but ironically, also a little ache of separation, as the boys relished the independence of their own space and ever widening horizon. Little minds grew more voracious each day, feats more daring and appetites larger and larger still.

I learnt about learning, about being willing to approach everything with fresh perspective, unlearning what I had learnt about how to learn... I did not want to be their "teacher". Although both my husband and I wanted to "home-school", it was like the concept of "home-birth" (at first) - I loved the idea, but did not think I was cut out for it. So while it was wonderful to really get in touch with their unique personalities and spend lavish time encouraging natural curiosity (and renewing my own in the process), I dreaded the "formal" part of it. I feared that it would spoil the special relationship we had. I had to confront this fear and realised that it could have but one origin, and that it was steeped in lies.

I realised that as parents we had been given the privilege of being stewards of our children’s lives for a very short time, but the "training" we provide is eternal. Our (my) task being to diligently, lovingly show the “way they should go” and trust that even when they slip along the way, they will return to it. And making sure that my own plumbline remained true. When I let go of the fear, the way forward was confirmed, and yet another journey began.

Never before had any reward been as great, as the small successes in those early days of learning. Every bright smile of understanding, every cheer as a new concept took root, those high five moments when eyes lock in a shared triumph.

There is this idea that when children arrive on the scene, marital bliss and romance departs. I was surprised to find that I fell in love all over again with glimpses of my husband in our boys. I believe that this was and is one of so many ways which God uses, to "renew". We relished the discovery that our boys love many of the things we love. Having to share these with our children, did not diminish them, but made them richer, deeper.

I am always amazed at their endless curiosity, which is effervescent, even when their mother's cocktail has gone quite flat. They have a very eclectic taste in music, and express themselves so deliciously through dances and jigs, that you just want to join in. I remember the mutual friend who introduced my husband and I to each other saying to him: "She loves the same weird music that you do". At the time we were both "into" West-African music, as well as a variety of slightly obscure artists and recordings. This has been part of the soundtrack of our love story. And the soundtrack continues, with new discoveries, as well as new ways to view worship through music, as only a part of a whole wondrous way of a life.

We will learn, whether through singing, dancing, reading, reciting, exploring. Walking through each day with eyes wide open. I have my own two troubadoures who serenade me with an out of tune guitar, a steel harmonica and whatever other means of joyful noise-making they can find. TV does not exist in our home, but we started a much-cherished end of the day tradition of watching movies together. We all snuggle on the couch and re-live the simplicity of old gems and discover new favourites. Movie themes are used in role-playing, which is often more entertaining than the films themselves. Many colourful questions, discussions and comments also flow from these times. Very recently, I watched our youngest regarding a youthful Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn going through their paces in a clip from "Swan Lake". With a solemn little face he declared: "He has a very smart shirt, but not so smart pants"... He could not understand why his parents collapsed in giggles as a result.

I remember a time when I felt so smug and content in my independence. I used to regard tired-looking mothers with upset hair and tell-tale stains on their clothes with a sigh of relief. And occasionally recoil in horror, when a child screeched or rebelled or vomited or "tantrumed" in a public place. But then feel an indescribable ache, when I watched a family, laden with extra baggage, bumping, apologising and finally collapsing in a happy heap in the furthest corner of a child-friendly restaurant. Something bound them together, so close, so intimately scary and wonderful.

Many times have my eyes since met those of other parents in these safe corners. I "get it" now. We smile at each other knowingly, smiles that say so much more than words. "Isn't this just special?" these smiles say, or "It gets better", or "don't worry, I understand."  And at times secretly thinking - "thank goodness my child has never done that!" (and being humbled when many moons later they do). Regardless, who would take the highway if you could spend your days in the adventure parks and bumper-cars of parenthood? Write with black on white, if you can paint bold strokes with crazy colours? And most of all, love and be loved in a way which remains as always: Beyond words...