I got a very nice comment on the other day’s text I wrote here. Magda, my bonus sister from my father’s third marriage, wrote to me to remind me that she sees herself as my family. We first met when I was 20 years old, her being three years younger. Shortly after, I moved to Barcelona, Spain, and she soon went sudying abroad and styed in some different countries before she ended up in her new home country, USA. We have never spent much time together, but could agree on some things, when we did meet, which was nice.  

The way I grew up, however, was as a little sister. My three years older sister, Helen, and I were the only siblings in our parents’ home, until they split up when I was 10, and my father earned us new bonus-siblings by marrying a woman who had two children from an earlier marriage.
My sister Helen an I were just as annoying towards eachother as sisters generally are. The only people you can really feel and tell that they are ugly, stupid and useless and get away with it are, I believe, your sieblings. You an take out all your frustrations of what’s going on in life – with parents, classmates, teachers, or anything else that’s not as you would want it to be, on your sister. 

I remember when my sister had started school and got a friend. She would write his phone number third in a list of three important phonen numers: 1. The police, 2. The ambulance and 3. Benjamin. I remember once I came with her to play with them at his house, I guess that his mother was at home with his baby sister at that time, and my parents would be busy working or studying. I was looking forward to playing and to getting to know this new friend of my sisters. She, however, was probably less amused by having to drag me along, so the afternoon went something like this: They would start playing something and I would be eager to join them, answering ”yes!” to their question if I wanted to play. They would then ask me- ”do you really want to play?” And I would repeat – ”yes!” Then they would introduce me to the jigzaw puzzle or whatever it was they were playing, and get up, saying – well, we’ll go to the kitchen to have something to eat. My heart sank, what was this – weren’t we just about to play together? Well, obvouisly, not. So I told them – ”then I want to go with you.” (The tiresome way of telling this event in my early childhood is by repeating the sequence.) They would, of course, ask me, with a mocking tone; ”but we thought that you wanted to play?” All I could do, was say that I wanted to go with them – if they were going to the kithen to eat, so was I. So, we went to the kithen. My sister’s friend put milk and cereal and three bowls for the three of us at the kitchen table. He asked me if I wanted some, to which I replied “yes, please.” So he poured me a bowl and then, put the milk an cereal back inte the fridge and cupboard. I was surprised, asking – ”but aren’t you going to have some, too?” ”No,” they said, ”we’re going to play. You stay here and eat, or the cereal will get all wet and tasteless. Tell us when you’re ready. And remember – you did say yourself that you wanted to eat, so no weeping and whining.” And they left me there, to eat cereal that was already wet and tasteless, while they went to play in a different room. 

The one time I did get some attention from that boy at his house was once, when I was doing some acrobacy and he looked at me and laughed. It wasn’t until I realised that he was laughing at the way my panties or buttoks showed as my skirt came up over my waist when I was upside down, that I recognised the feeling of being utterly stupid that I would generally have around him and my sister.
Over the years I learned to develop that feeling, knowing that my sister – who, in some ways was my closest and deearest friend – would always have everything she needed and wanted without my contribution, and that I was someone she could have around when she needed to pick a fight or patronise for being smaller, younger, less aware and more dependent than she was. Someone, in short to bully. Now I would say –”if you ever need to feel better by making someone close to you feel bad, call on me”. I’ve learnt to develop that quite strongly, and seem ever more intent on doing so, as the years go by. It woud seem that I decided not to learn how to interact in more constructive ways. Although I always thought that I indeed was developing a completely different personality and had a good chance in doing so, I now realise that this is the one I get stuck with again and again.
 

My friend David in Barcelona must have seen the pattern and gave me a book called ”The woman who walked into doors” by Irish writer Roddy Doyle, a novel about an abused woman.
Now,if I don’t have anyone in my life who makes me feel like my sister and her friend did at that time (or worse) I find someone who will. Or I will have to tell myself that I’m no good and that’s not half as much fun.

 
I got to invite a friend of mine for tea. We were drinking tea and chatting for a while in the sofa and had some very nice dark chocolate that he brought me. His name is Jimmy. We talked a lot about different things. He said something like ”in a just world you would probably have a job”. But I believe that he – and I – think, and know, that we do live in a just world and that that is exactly the reason why I do not have a job, or earn an income from someting I believe myself to be good at, ot think tht I know, or something that I enjoy doing. This man is about my age. I’m happy we were calm and nice and at my place.

The other Jim I wrote bout is a generation older and is, actually, the father of my sister’s childhood friend Benjamin.

I got another nice message from a Swedish friend in Spain, Cecilia, who promptly told me to go and eat a semla. She aso told me tht he mimosas are in bloom on the coastnorth of Barcelona. She works with plants and has a history of working with food-and litterature. She now has a family and a bed-and-breakfast business going, Casa Mar, which she is expanding with Spanish teaching for foreigners. I went to take a picture of what’s groing around here, thinking of her and of Magda. In Swedish - snödroppar.

This was meant to be more humorous and friendly than it turned out to be, and more positive. Morerelated to languages and funny turns and quarrels about words. But now, it’s reflecting my mood. Silly thing getting into, reacting on the turns of the moods, when you can do some easy excersises and turn it around. Working always, striving to get positive things done, turning bad moods and circumstances into good ones. That’s what discipline in practice of yoga and related things like pranayama and meditation is about, in large terms. 

Oh, Pedro, a yogi friend of mine, also wrote, saying he's in his native Dominican Republic, speaking Spanish the way he did when he grew up, as a comment to my mentioning Swedish here the other day. He also mentiond Sylvia Plath, I'll look her up. On the internet or the library, since she's not in my personal book-shelf. I'll write to him and ask about his yogic endeavours and about his son Emil, who might have stayed behind in Berlin, Germany.
Nacho in Stockholm also grew up speaking Spanish, along with Catalan, and has three beatiful daughters whose native langage is Swedish. He also wrote. Nice to hear from old friends, people who are far away. 

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