Category Archives: environmental identity

Joy

A map to joy

Soon after we moved to Leiden we went to a party. We talked to different people, one of them was a lovely Dutch artist. She was telling us about a recent visit from her daughter. She told us how she saw her daughter arrive and come through the garden door, then she described very vividly how her heart grew with love and happiness just at the sight of her daughter coming home, to the point where she shed tears of joy. 

At the time The Dutch and I had been together for about three years, so we were nowhere near the thought of having children. But that intensely lovely story stayed with me. 

Around the same time I started meeting with Martine Batchelor, hoping to get over my fear of meditation. Before I moved to Europe, I had some intense experiences during formal sitting meditation, and I was quite afraid to sit and meditate. Martine provided very useful and gentle advice, and soon I was back on the cushion. 

Every time I would meet with Martine she would talk about joy. Joy this, joy that. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I felt I needed to understand what she meant, mostly because she would mention it every time and I wanted to be “a good student”. Weeks and probably months went by and joy was just a mystery thing she talked about often. One day I came across a Buddhist podcast episode about joy. I decided to listen to it because why not. 

Days after that I came home from work, I opened the garden gate while holding my bike with the other hand. It was a late summer afternoon, the sun was warm, and together with the enormous wisteria, cast a pattern of light and shadow across the garden. Gaia, my little Chihuahua dog, came to greet me. She was wagging her tiny tail and seemed so happy to see me. I felt like part of me melted and all there was left was joy. I sat on the garden bench and played with Gaia for some time. We were both delighted to be in each other’s company. 

I don’t remember if I recognized joy during the moment or if the understanding came later. But I definitely remember thinking back that what I encountered was unequivocally joy. Shared joy to be more precise. 

I think the podcast episode described joy in a way that helped me understand it better. I was also carrying within me the story from the Dutch artist, which I believe helped me identify and connect with what was unfolding in the moment. Her precise and vivid description of the inner experience of joy functioned as a map. 

After that it became much easier to join joy in its dwellings. The sunlight, the moonlight, an old friend, a flower, one deep breath, a regular breath. Everywhere I found little puddles of joy. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for seconds, I can rest in its warmth.

After my son was born, joy was everywhere, and different too: loud, slapstick, spirited joy. But also in calm quiet moments when we were simply happy to be together.

One cold spring, a long-time friend who grew up on Mexico’s Pacific coast came to visit me. She had been living in Germany for the last several years. I took her to the Hortus Botanicus in Leiden. We went straight to the tropical plants section. We entered the large greenhouse with its mature banana trees. Then we climbed a staircase to the small room where the cocoa tree and the giant Victoria amazonica are kept.

As soon as we entered the room, I was brimming with joy, showing her all the flowers, plants, and trees that can be found in Mexico. She shared my enthusiasm, and we kept pointing out recognizable plants as we went around the room. At some point she noticed the quality of the moment and declared, “We are in our habitat.” Such a funny yet accurate description. We were delighted to be together in a warm room with our familiar plant friends.

Joy is so simple and so readily available, yet I had either forgotten or never learned how to recognize it. It took someone to point it out repeatedly, someone to describe it, and someone to map out the inner experience for me to finally see it clearly. Now joy is sometimes in the wind, in my man’s touch, in the moments when my son snuggles up next to me to watch a movie. And of course, in Gaia the Chihuahua.

Gaia, she is ten years old now

The room my friend described as our habitat.

Photo by Traveler Tina

The Bluest Sea

On Self, Landscape, and Motherhood

I will always remember the first time I saw the Caribbean Sea. Earlier that summer I had travelled to a small village in the Mayan region of southeastern Mexico to see a friend. She was conducting ethnographic work there because their sustainable logging practices had become an example in the region. We met the local academic in sustainable practices and visited the town’s small council where decisions were made. 

After a few days, when I saw that my friend was doing well on her own, I grabbed my backpack, waved goodbye and took a bus to a nearby town all the locals insisted I had to see. After a few hours I arrived at my destination. The bus parked near the sea, and since I had never seen the Caribbean Sea, I decided not to wait any longer and walked a few meters to meet it, hiking boots and all. 

The place was so beautiful it was almost a shock. My mind immediately became silent, no more narrator, no narrative, no inner thoughts or the formation of abstract ideas. Just the bluest sea. It was the first time I had such an  experience. The best way to describe it is like someone had pressed a button that turned my mind off. Complete silence.

I spent the following months in the open sea, kayaking, snorkeling, diving, floating in that never-ending blue. I was on my own for most of the trip. I swam with whales, colorful fish, over delicate reefs…

Many years later I found myself living in Leiden with my Dutch partner, pregnant, and with an ongoing global pandemic. My son was born in the summer of 2020, so most of my pregnancy unfolded during the strictest lockdowns. But we didn’t mind. At the time I worked at the local university, and my partner started to work from home.

Before the pandemic, we hardly used our car, so after the lockdowns began, we found the perfect excuse to phase it out. After our precious baby arrived, we bought an e-bakfiets. An e-bakfiets is a type of electrical cargo bike the Dutch use to transport children. 

We were very happy with our decision, which was only possible because of the way the Dutch cities are arranged and all the mobility options. Thanks to the ubiquitous bicycle paths we could cycle everywhere, doctor’s appointments, parks, playdates with friends.

I had never felt more healthy and full of energy. After the first tiring months that accompany a newborn, I gradually became more and more energetic. I felt like I was being carried by the sunlight, embraced by the warm wind. The changing weather kept me company, more palpable as I rode the bike with my little boy so close to me. I felt connected to the land, the wind, the water. I recognized again some moments of that blue sea silence, and took refuge in those moments.

Since my son was born I have taken him out for a walk in nature almost every day of his life. I have orchestrated a close relationship between his mind, his body and the natural environment. I always remind him of the wind when we hear tree leaves, I tell him the weather directly affects us just like the plants. Everything is water, and water is constant motion. He loves the moon and the stars, the beach and the sea, looking at the sky and running barefoot on the grass. We listen and distinguish the different songs of birds, just like my aunt once taught me. He knows we are nature. 

During that trip to the Caribbean I saw a whale with her baby, I swam near them, the mother herself was an island of life. All sorts of small fish and creatures were swimming around her, feeding off her, or even attached to her body. I am now her, with my little boy swirling around me, sometimes I call him my little satellite. 

He’ll grow so soon, and he’ll be independent and strong. I know because he is so much like me, and that likeness will take him away one day. I need to prepare him to listen to the wind, navigate the changing seasons, and forget himself in the sea. Whatever the future might bring.

Dramatic Dutch sky

Like the Dutch say: “effe chillen” in our electrical bakfiets

Blue sea