The Morning After

There is a wonderful 1986 movie with Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges called "The Morning After". It is advertised as a suspense-thriller, but it is a masterfully done story about second chances. Jane Fonda plays a down on her luck alcoholic actress who has black outs that land her in a lot of trouble, and eventually get her involved in a murder. With the help of Jeff Bridges, who plays a cop out of a job due to an injury, she figures out she is being set up to take the fall for an ambitious husband. Because the story focuses on the budding relationship between the actress and the cop, it takes on a quality of theatre, especially with the skillful acting of both Jane Fonda and Jeff Bridges, who play well off each other in this and make their down on their luck story both convincing and touching. Raul Julia as the murderous and vindictive husband is smooth as silk. "The Morning After" is one of those mostly forgotten movies that is well worth the time to check out. I thought it interesting too, to watch it at year's end, as we all make New Year's resolutions that often sabotage us before we even start them, because they are so far fetched and unrealistic. What touched me the most about this movie, apart from the pleasure of seeing two great actors together, is that it reminded me of the importance of self acceptance, of coming to terms with the imperfect creatures we are, and the broken parts that we have to learn to live with. This movie is the story of two most imperfect people who find redemption and hope in the love they discover they are still capable of in spite of deep wounds and bitter disappointments. I certainly can relate to that challenge and opportunity. It is a good movie to be exposed to as a New Year rolls around and we try, once more, to dust ourselves off and try all over again to believe in life, our hopes and dreams, each other and ourselves.

Sylvester

Sylvester sleeps
All you see is a
Fluffy, furry black ball.

Try to touch her
And open slits one angry green eye
Not unlike disturbing a snake.

This Burmese beauty has
Huge green eyes, the color of
Chocolate mint.

The razor sharp claws
Drawing blood that drips
Like drops of precious red lacquer.

She stretches her languid body lazily
Her white paws capricious booties
Over her ebony fur.

She is the ice queen who
Breaks my tomcats' hearts,
Time and again.

Trudi Ralston.
December 29th, 2009.

This poem is for the prettiest and meanest cat we ever had. We had her for 10 years. May she rest in peace. She sure was a hand full.

Year's End , 2012

A New Year is near.
All feels light, bright and clean.
No snow this New Year's,
Just lots of wholesome rain,
Washing away the last
Of 2012's aches, joys and pain.

The live Christmas tree is breathing
A sigh of relief, enjoying
a cool bath of December showers.
The glittering ornaments add sparkle to
The presents under the tree.

There are cookies, and brownies,
And sticky candy canes
Red and green candles,
And scents of cloves, turkey and yams.

Christmas is here,
And soon the New Year we will greet. 
The Christmas cards and pictures
All smiles on the living room dresser,
remind us of our common goals and dreams.

A New Year to embrace
All shiny and bright
Like our plans, talents and delights.

Trudi Ralston. 

El Maleficio de La Mariposa

A friend of mine in Texas took some beautiful pictures of a recent theater production of Federico Garcia Lorca's 1919 play El Maleficio de La Mariposa, the Butterflys' Evil Spell. The pictures triggered a desire to read the play again in the original Spanish. So I got out my copy of Obras Completas by Lorca and started reading this enchanting play. At the time he staged this play Federico Garcia Lorca was 22, and the play was laughed off the stage within an hour, leaving an impact on the brilliant young poet that hurt him deeply, but over time his plays only became stronger and more impressive. At the end of act II, scene II, Lorca has one of the characters say these telling words: "No hay desgracia mayor que la de ser poeta. ", and that he would burn them all, as "There is no disgrace bigger than that of being a poet". The response of a fellow character is : "Los quemara el olvido", "Being forgotten will erase them." The young poet achieved international fame and his death at the hands of the fascist Spanish regime in 1936, at the age of 38, was mourned worldwide. He certainly will never be forgotten, he needn't have worried about that. He was prophetic about his tragic end, when referring to the suffering many a great poet endures, and there is a sense of urgency in the young writer's first play, an awareness of things hidden that would reveal themselves and make him vulnerable to the contempt repressive regimes have for outspoken, free spirits. I love the introduction Lorca wrote to El Maleficio de La Mariposa : "Senores : La comedia  que vais a escuchar es humilde e inquietante, comedia rota del que quiere aranar a la luna y se arana su corazon", telling us the play we are about to hear is humble and unnerving, a play that wants to touch the moon, only to hurt its own heart. Again, at such a young age, the poet and playwright had a strong sense of premonition about how his talent would ultimately lead to personal tragedy. It must have been excruciating for this hyper intelligent and skilled artist to be laughed off the stage, as he was burning inside with passion for his craft and the desire to share his vision with the world. It should be encouraging to all artists everywhere that Lorca achieved greatness in his country and abroad in spite of an untimely and brutal death. I am sure that 500 years from now, people everywhere will continue to honor and remember and celebrate and be inspired by this great writer. As a poet and writer trying to break out of anonimity and invisibility, I know Federico Garcia Lorca will be one writer who will continue to make sure I keep following my heart and its dreams.

Flesh and Spirit

Writing is an interesting experience and process. Things that float in your head get pulled together in physical letters on a page, become stories, poems, and take on a physical identity of their own. In that way, the letters and words become real, so to speak. I have several friends with whom I correspond who are far away physically, in other countries, in other continents and who I haven't seen in many, many years. Yet, the old friendships we had are taking root again, even deeper on some levels, through the marvels of e-mail and Facebook connections. There is an empathy that is developing in these communications that surprises me. The enormous physical distance  is compensated for by the possibility of instant responses. Whereas a letter across country and continent can take one to two weeks or more, an Internet letter can have an almost instant response, like your friends are right there with you, having a cup of tea, or dinner. I find it wonderful, especially with friendships that are being rekindled. However, I have to admit that I am pleasantly surprised at the serendipity of accidental friendships that are delightful, when pure chance makes you realize you have a lot to share with a particular person, and it really feels like the pleasure of a new found friendship.I love art, grew up surrounded by it, and accidentally found someone who is a talented and very interesting artist, who lives in a town I used to live in, making for an already delightful whimsical anecdote. It is quite wonderful, even though it is all spiritual in a science fiction sort of way, as we have never met physically, in person. But the connection feels real and meaningful, as if spirit and flesh made peace through the physics of electronic engineering and communications, giving a whole new meaning to the idea of new horizons when it comes to friendship and its possibilities.

Greensleeves

When I was about ten, I became very fond of a record my mother had that was a compilation of old folk songs, from different countries. The one that stayed with me and haunts me to this day is "Greensleeves", the traditional English folk song of unrequited love. There was something about the melody that hypnotized me as a child, as the English words were mostly unrecognizable to me then. It is a song very often included in Christmas albums, and I always dread hearing it, because it stirs a deep sadness, the origin of which to this day remains elusive.It is a beautiful song, has an elegance and richness to it, but it always drenches me in a river of hidden tears. I was often alone as a child, and perhaps the song's sad love story spoke to some of my loneliness as a child. I used to listen to it over and over again, and no one even noticed. When I hear it now, it freezes me in time, while creating a longing to go beyond the space where I got lost in it, and then always realizing I do not know how to get from A to B in that key. I never talk about it to any one , why ruin a song most people find so wonderful. But I am always glad when the next song comes on, while deeply missing the possibility of maybe next time understanding why it has that effect on me. The Holidays are bittersweet to me as it is, maybe this year I will walk in the room when "Greensleeves" already played.

The Spaces Between The Mortar

There are places in our mind that do not tell a clear story when recalling details about our life as it unfolds. They are storage spaces, with small suitcases, tucked full of scraps of stories, of which we do not recall the whole content. I remember flash-backs of my childhood, and adult life, that come to me in muted colors, and in slow motion, and I remember being in those places, with the people I see, but I do not remember all the people I see, or remember all the places I shared the same space and time with those people with. I remember being with specific friends of my parents at a certain house, and I remember elaborate details of the kitchen in that house, and the equally elaborate hairdo of the lady of the house, and her big nose, but I do not remember who she was in relation to my parents and our friends. Who were these people and why do I remember them, from time to time? I was about 10 at the time. Once I moved to the USA, I remember places and families I visited in the course of my travels the first year I was here in 1976 at the end of that foreign exchange student year in Dallas, and traveling to Arkansas and Massachusetts, and spending an entire week with two different families, and I do not remember their names, or what I even did there, other than being a visiting student. I remember a very nice father and his teenage daughter in North Carolina, another state we visited, and as kind as they were to me, I do not remember their names, but I do remember them taking me to a very quiet diner, and I do remember the daughter playing basketball after school in her very quiet backyard. At times, their faces come back to me, in quiet flashes, and then they vanish again , for years at a time. I have the same experience with certain dreams. I have a dream I had when I was 11, where my brother and I take a rowboat ride on a very quiet pond , with a nun named Katrien, who was a teacher at my Catholic elementary school in Roeselare, Belgium, and who died young of a brain tumor. Once in a blue moon, with many years of space in between, I have the same exact dream, with all the same, quiet details. I have dreams of my sisters, and brother, and my parents, in these elaborate architectural spaces, and we get lost, and I have to find my way out, alone, with my father watching carefully over me from a distance, and years will go by, and I will have the exact same dream , with the exact same conflicts and conversations. Train stations were important to me at one point ,as I spent 3 years taking the train to school daily between the ages of 16 and 19. To this day, I often dream of trying to take the train home, and try and dial my hometown home phone number, 051 20 25 69, and not getting through, no matter how many times I try. Now that we have cell phones, I have the same dream, but I use my cell phone to try to get through, instead of a phone booth with change. It is like my mind has this extra space , where I keep extra albums, full of pictures, both of my waking hours and certain dreams, and they pop up at their convenience, it seems, more than at mine. They are familiar, if odd, and somehow they are a part of me, even if they make strange bed fellows, as I seem more a stranger in these re-enactments than the other actors and the spaces they share with me, time and again.

The Photograph

Recently I had the opportunity to reconnect with two of my nieces, through the rediscovery of a friendship with my brother's ex-wife. She gave me the chance to finally get to know her, and her and my brother's two children, who are now 25 and 20. The last time I saw my brother's son he was 11, and it was at my sister's Ludwina's funeral in Georgia. I have never met my brother's daughter, and when I saw her picture, I was stunned to see this strong, beautiful young woman. It was incredibly moving. Barbara, my brother's ex-wife, also let me know my sister Goedele's daughter, who is 15 now, was interested in getting to know me. To see this girl's picture, was like seeing my sister again the way she looked at that age. It was uncanny, the same bright smile, the same clear, intelligent eyes, the easy charm. Genetics are really bizarre. Her daughter even wears her hair the same way my sister did at that age. It was equally touching to see a picture of my brother's son , and to see the face of my sister's 13 year old son. And just yesterday, by chance, I saw a picture of my father's oldest sister's youngest daughter, whom I last saw when she was about 5 years old. She communicates with my sister's daughter, and as it turns out they both are connected to the same town in Belgium, where my cousin works, and my niece goes to school. To see my cousin Cristl smile in the beautiful picture of her and her husband left me dazed.I had not seen that face in more than 40 years. She has her sisters' smile, as I remember them as teenagers, the few times we were able to hang out together. She looks happy, fashionably dressed, tall, slender, beautiful. I wasn't looking for her picture, but there it was, just smiling back at me, and I saw my own smile, my own family resemblance. I sent her a message,and I do not know if she will answer as my mother made sure there was always a lot of bad blood between her and our father's family, ensuring in the process that my cousin's mother,  now basically hates me and my brother. There is no else left to hate, as both my younger sisters are dead, and so are my mother and father. Both I guess hatred is one of those things you can conveniently pass on to the next generation. It doesn't help that I look a lot like my mother who always treated our father's family with disdain. It certainly did not help that our mother convinced her children that our father did not deserve anything but our indifference, so when he was exiled back to Belgium, it became impossible for me to reach out between manipulative maneuvers on my mother's part, and limited financial input and power. To see Cristl' smiling face was gut wrenching, a smarting realization at a lifetime of possible friendship and kinship lost to the whims of a spoiled woman, my mother, and a man hypnotized by her every wish, my father. My brother , and two sisters and I were the uninformed sacrificial lambs. My father's people are intelligent and resourceful, and strong, and it will always hurt to know we lost the opportunity to get to truly know his two sisters' children. Through my friendship with my father's youngest sister, Lieve, I have been able to re-establish a good connection with his sister Denise and her husband, and one of their sons, my cousin Mark. It feels like fixing the broken threads on a precious fabric, slow, painstaking, but well worth it. I keep hoping some day soon my husband and son and I will be able to afford a trip back to Belgium, so I can see again my aunts and uncle, and my long lost cousins, and their children  and even grandchildren, and begin to make up for lost chances and in the process,  soften the bitter harvest of a lifetime of twisted lies and their resultant misunderstandings. 

I Am The Walrus

It was a rainy cold day, and the sky had a liquid grey quality that seemed to wash out the rest of the world as was it made out of thin watercolor paper. The radio was on in the car, and the 1967 Beatles 'song by John Lennon, " I Am The Walrus " started playing. I turned it up, and pretty soon my son and I were surrounded by one of my most favorite songs of the iconic Band. I let the fantastical lyrics and sounds wash over me. What an amazing song, refreshingly weird still 55 years later. To me, the fascination with this most unique poem has always been more with the space it creates in my head, rather than the elusive and psychedelic relics. As I was listening to the song's building crescendo and hypnotic melody, it felt like the greyness of the day faded and bright colors were added as the song grew, both in rhythm and meaning. As opaque as the song is in parts, it feels so personal and concrete the way John Lennon sings it with such conviction and certainty. I think it is one of the best songs he ever wrote, together with " Imagine". If I ever needed to convince an alien visitor of our at least marginally interesting species, I would invite them to listen to John Lennon's " I Am The Walrus ", followed by " Imagine ". The calisthenics required for " I Am The Walrus ", are a nice way to open up your mind to the serene beauty of  " Imagine ". Both allude to a world of possibility, one conceptually and creatively, the other ideologically. Both songs testify to a highly perceptive, bold and intelligent mind. The day seemed more hopeful after the daring whimsy of " I Am The Walrus", and each time I hear " Imagine ", I am both inspired and amazed at how much the world needs to hear that song, everywhere, to perhaps shame us into getting along better as a species.

Conditione sine qua non

Over the years as an adult, in times of stress, I tend to gain some weight. Nothing dramatic, never beyond  the 20 pounds, with the exception of when both my parents and my second sister died within just 3 years of each other. There were a whole set of circumstances, of betrayal, hubris and tragic illnesses, and in the chaos and shock, I gained 58 pounds. I joined Weight Watchers and lost the weight within less than a year. But the experience brought to the foreground how being judged on what your weight is, without seeing who you are,and why it is you are struggling with it, can be very painful. My mother always treated me as if I had stopped being a member of the family when ever I gained any weight. I have often thought of my youngest sister who took her own life by hanging herself at age 35, and who was among other things, struggling with her weight at the time. She was not heavy by any means, just about 20 pounds overweight, a taboo in our mother's eyes. I can just imagine how that humiliation and rejection must have hurt. I even remember my skinny mother talking about this at my sister's funeral, and she talked about this as a source of social embarrassment, that her daughter was overweight, such a social faux pas, don't you know. I was too stunned to react, now I would really set her straight on her shallow, irrelevant notions. I remember at my other sister's wedding, where I was overweight by about 25 pounds , at the most, and how my mother was avoiding even being near me in the presence of her well-heeled new in-laws. She was heartless. Her whole deal was that as one of her daughters you were treated with contempt if you were not like her, that is, skinny, narcissistic, and a nymphomaniac. She was also a skilled and silk tongued manipulator and an alcoholic. She hated me for for seeing through her, and for refusing to be seduced by her schemes. It took me a long time to see and understand who she really was, and how she really only loved herself. Her thing was conditional love, and woe to you if you refused to go along. You simply ceased to exist, you became invisible. If only I had never struggled with my weight, if only I had married for money, if only I had embraced her devious ways. I so regret how she turned her children against our father, and how I did not realize what she was doing until it was too late for my father, and she had already turned him out of his own home, and exiled him, already ill , to a nursing home in Belgium. Conditional love, it is not what comes to mind, together with lies and contempt, when you think of a loving mother.

The Purchase

My mother was a clothes horse. She bought expensive clothes,and matching handbags and shoes, coats, scarves, hats all the time. All designer , too. Christian Dior, Louis Feraud, Emilio Pucci. The girl had expensive taste. She did not feel the same way, however, when it came to dressing her daughters. Our adolescence she did her best to ignore, as her daughters were viewed as competition for attention, especially from the many men she valued. My father's mother noticed when I was 12, that I was in serious need of a bra. My mother reluctantly agreed to take me shopping for one. I still remember her resentment and faked enthusiasm. She bought me one bra. It was to me, the most exciting thing I had ever worn. It was white, with tiny light blue and light brown flower petals. I was so proud. But I remember , seared into my memory, my mother's resentment, and barely disguised contempt. The same thing happened to both my sisters. When all is said and done, our mother with her fake love and care, was a monster in designer clothes. She had boxes and boxes of expensive Italian designer shoes, for every season and every occasion, but we always wore very ordinary shoes and had very few pairs. She had expensive coats of every color and again, for every season and occasion, but we had two coats each, one for winter and fall, and one for rain. My father was blind to all this, as he had a dozen expensive Pierre Cardin suits with matching silk ties and expensive shoes and coats. He was so busy as a CEO, who traveled extensively, and my mother had the run of the house, and plenty of daily help from our housekeeper and nanny, Julienne. He never questioned her when she asked for more money. I remember him handing her 15,000 Belgian francs just for groceries back in 1970. He never asked for her accountability, a trait of generosity that he would dearly pay for. So, mother walked around like a princess, forever feeling contempt especially for me, at my lack of style and fashion, which she was all too glad to have caused and encourage. But, boy, how she loved us! She told us so every day. And we believed it, for a very long time. I treasure the memory of my grandmother standing up for me, I was so proud of her courage, to make sure I got the bra I so needed. And I also remember my mother's reluctance and barely disguised jealousy and disgust, smiling her Cheshire cat grin as she allowed me to pick out a bra.

The Baby Blanket

Recently I have renewed my connection with my brother's ex-wife. It is turning out to be a wonderful experience, and I am truly impressed with Barbara's strong spirit and warm heart. Yesterday I found back a sweet baby blanket that had slipped between the narrow side of our water bed that is very close to the wall, and  every so often, in spite of every effort for this not to happen, a sock, or mp3 player, or tissue will disappear between the narrow space. I was amazed to find the first baby blanket I used to nurse my son. It was just the right size to keep him warm and cozy on those cold winter days. When I was pregnant, my mother mostly ignored me. I got one small care package in those nine months. At the time, both my sisters were still alive, and they too, completely ignored my pregnancy. Mind you, I was 34, and pregnant for the first time, after thinking it was a lost cause after trying for 6 years. Anyway, my brother and Barbara were still married, and had two small children. Barbara sent me a big box with beautiful baby clothes, too small for her son who was 5 years older than my brand new baby boy. In the box was also the sweet baby blanket. It was white, with a fringe, super soft, and had two white bear cubs jumping rope, singing. I loved that blanket, and I think that is was timely to find it now that I am establishing a friendship with Barbara. I do not know if she realizes how much that gift touched my heart in view especially of how the women in my own family had ignored me. One of the outfits in the box that was filled to the brim, was a baby blue pair of soft corduroy  overalls, decorated with a baby raccoon holding a red balloon. To this day, that outfit is hanging on Nicholas's wall, and it brings a smile to my face every time I look at it. I know Barbara suffered in her marriage, and it is a good feeling to become friends with her, as my brother has not wanted any contact with me for many years now. The baby blanket  is a symbol not just of a sweet moment in the past, and of the bitter sweet experience of realizing time irrevocably goes by, but it is now also a symbol of renewal, of hope at the unexpected joy and comfort of a new found friend from long ago.

Black and Blue

It is a rainy weekend,one that makes for a challenge to find the enthusiasm to take our dog Yara for a walk, and hang up the new Christmas lights my husband and son brought home so proudly yesterday. We watched "Legend of the Fist", a 2010 Donny Yen movie. He is quickly becoming our favorite martial artist in movies. He is amazing. His endurance, his stamina, stunning speed and technique are exhilarating to watch. He also seems to possess a warm heart, a welcome quality in a martial art world dominated by huge egos that often come across as vain and cold. I like the fact that Donny Yen's mother was a Grandmaster and that he was trained at the same martial arts school in Beijing as Jet Li. Donny Yen has a 6th degree black belt, among other accolades and disciplines, in Tae Kwon Do. My husband and I are both 1st degree black belts in Tae Kwon Do, and were trained by a 9th degree black belt Grandmaster. I miss the black belt classes the most. As a rule, there was about 75% men, versus 25% women. I often preferred sparring and learning with the men in the classes, as they fought fairly. Some of the women were desperate to impress our Grandmaster, as narcissism and jealous egos unfortunately are a part of the martial arts world. The intense training required to become a black belt can be hard on your knee joints,shoulders and back after 50, and I decided to walk away before my right knee required surgery. I was just shy of 45 when our Grandmaster handed me my black belt in the beautiful award ceremony and my husband was 53. For Michael, it became painful for his shoulders. I do miss the adrenalin and camaraderie.We would come home sweating, bruised, exhausted, reaching for the Aleve and tigertbalm, and couldn't wait to do it all again the next day. There is a time and space for all things, and those 7 years we were very active in the world of martial arts were unique, culturally, physically and also politically, as there never was any shortage of melodrama surrounding the Grandmaster and his female entourage, some of whom were desperate for his attention and favor, something he was quite crafty at appreciating. Those were the days of risk and adventure! Watching Donny Yen 's skills is very satisfying because I have a good appreciation for the enormous effort and relentless drive that made him a superstar in the world of martial arts. It is no surprise that he is the highest paid martial artist in all of Asia. I think he is probably the most skilled as well. It is nice when things make sense. Black and blue, skill and endurance. Unique in beauty and history, the world of martial arts holds a continuing mystique that is well deserved. I am glad that I became a part of it. It changed my vision, my determination, as it pushed me beyond what I thought I could endure both mentally and physically. 

Intimacy

Communication in relationships is an important key to their health and happiness. It seems also quite elusive, and some relationships seem resilient enough to survive without any semblance of it. I will always remember the answer of a man who was married 35 years, and who was asked what the secret to his marriage's success was : "Don't talk to each other". Archie Bunker would readily have agreed, and his reticence emotionally was a constant source of annoyance and grief to his long-suffering wife Edith in the super popular sitcom of the seventies, "All in the family". That was a comedy, so the talented writers were very able to make us laugh heartily at Archie's complete lack of sensitivity and insight. But I think that when we deny communication in real life relationships, it causes a lot of anxiety and stress, and unhappiness. To feel valued enough that you can think aloud without fear of ridicule, anger, or shame is very crucial to a healthy relationship, whether it be a marriage, a friendship, a parent-child connection, or any relationship between human beings where people who care about each other are trying to make a go of it. Personality is certainly a factor. A shy person will deal with communication in a different way that an aggressive person does. I think the challenge comes when one person dominates the other person, obliterating any chance of a fair relationship by severally limiting or challenging communication. On a large scale that is clearly demonstrated in dictatorships, whether they lean to the extreme right or extreme left. Nothing frightens those tyrants more than free speech. On an individual scale, you end up with domestic violence, where it becomes the most vile when children are beaten into submission. Safety and communication go hand in hand in healthy, happy relationships. Safety to be free to be yourself, to be allowed expression of your  mind, heart and soul in all its colors and shades.To deprive another human being , whether in a personal , cultural, religious or political relationship of their sense of self by severely restricting their communication with you, out of a perverse need to control them, is always wrong. In physically close relationships, the denial of free communication often impedes true intimacy, because that can only exist if you get proverbially, as well as physically naked. Because if physical intimacy was the secret to a happy relationship, prostitutes would be the happiest people around. Facts contradict that notion. Prostitutes are often victims of physical and emotional abuse when growing up, and are often in abuse relationships as adults, apart from their professionally abuse connections, and often drown their lonely hearts in substance abuse. So, no, physical closeness real intimacy does not make. Open communication does. But that takes effort. And so the circle is complete. How much do you value your partner, wife, husband, friend, son, daughter, shows in how healthy your communication is. And when you can say those relationships are valuable enough  to you,to allow and encourage free communication, then you can say you have truly intimate relationships with the people in your life.

Open, Closed

From the time my son was very young, a steady stream of friends would come over to our house, and he had an abundance of playmates. Several of his friends 'parents became good friends of ours. Every year, from the time Nicholas was two, we had a large Birthday party for him and my husband, whose Birthday is only four days apart from my son's. We had friends over for dinners, barbecues, we would go over to their house, it was a fun, normal social calendar. When my husband turned sixty 3 years ago, he decided he no longer wanted a party. When my son turned 16 four years ago, he just wanted to invite his friends, and no longer wished to celebrate his Birthday together with his dad's. About the same time, my 44 year old sister died, and my father died of complications of Alzheimer's disease, and my alcoholic mother died a few months later. Somehow, that made me agree all too readily to reduce our social life. And our world shrank. It closed. I am trying very hard to open it up again, but my husband is very reclusive socially, and my son just goes to his friends' houses if he wants to see them. It makes for a tough job, as I am still feeling the scars of isolation I hid in to recover from all the family trauma. Open. Closed. I sure preferred our world open. I do not think most people with a gregarious life style are aware that their world is open, versus people whose world is closed. And it becomes a challenge on an almost hypnotic level, to try to break through that closed door. It is at this point a difficult task, and one that makes me grateful for social networking, as I seem to have gotten the hang of at least that part. It is also I know a challenge to overcome a hesitation to start over, as my trust was so violated by my mother, and it left me with a very bruised sense of self. That is fading, and I do find strength in my writing, as it allows me to share and hopefully bring some insight and perspective and inspiration to my readers. My husband is completely content with the closed door sign on our social life, so I am not getting much encouragement from him. I wanted so much to include him in my insight, but to no avail. It just is not important to him. So, after the fall from grace, I am dusting myself off, and starting over, and we will see where it leads. My mind is open to new connections, let's see if my door will follow suit.

The Other Side of Empty

As winter nears, with its darker and shorter days, the loss of family as the Holidays near sometimes feels like hollow steps inside the ache in my soul. There was a time when I tried to tune that loss and its emptiness out, but I recently decided to embrace it, to accept it. Acceptance is a strange thing when it comes to the pain of loss. It somehow sets you free to stop running away from it, to yell at it and chase it off, so to speak. I decided to invite it in, to try and walk to the other side of that dark pathway and accept the shivers and cobwebs along the way. And a funny thing is starting to happen: I feel more at ease. The perfectionist in me wants to understand everything, square it away neatly, define it exactly, the why and how. But maybe our lives are more like watercolors than oils. Maybe there is room for vagueness, for the unknown, the incomprehensible, the absurd, since it is hard to see the entire picture all the time, when everyone around us only shows us half a picture, at best. So maybe uncertainty is acceptable, even in those of us whose dreams were shattered like so many shards of a vase, and we are left to put the pieces back together, and we realize that in spite of our best efforts, and therapy, and rationalization, and time, we end up with a vase put back together with quite a few rough edges, askew, and pieces missing like a surrealist's interpretation on sculpture. It's all right, because when you step two steps outside your door, imperfection is all around you, and there is great love and beauty in its courage to just keep going anyway. Order is a relative thing, and a bit of chaos and uncertainty can free the mind to see beyond the obvious, to approach our own dreams and those of others with a bit more tolerance, a bit more kindness. On the other side of empty I am trying to meet a wiser, smarter, more generous self. I think it may the the start of a beautiful friendship.

Gratitude

Every year in this country we celebrate Thanksgiving Day, and it is understood that we all take a few moments to specify what we each are thankful for in our lives at this juncture. My husband is a therapist who often works with the disenfranchised, with people whose endurance has been severely tested, either physically due to illness, abuse or a terrible accident, or emotionally and mentally. He puts things always in stark perspective for us each Thanksgiving Day. To have a warm roof over your head, a warm bed to sleep in, enough food, to live in a country that is not war torn, where you have access to education, health care, and a decent chance at a job, where you can speak your mind without the risk of imprisonment, beatings and torture, where you can vote for your leader in free elections, puts you ahead of the majority of people on this planet. My husband grew up with an abusive father, but he had a chance to get away and get a college education. I grew up with a manipulative alcoholic mother but I too had a chance to get away and get a university degree. I live as a woman in a country where women have equal rights, especially now that President Obama is re-elected, and as a woman in this country we do not have to worry about the clock being turned back 50 years on women's rights. I am 55 years old, and have always lived in a peaceful country, in Belgium where I lived until I was 19, and then ten years in Texas, and now 25 years in Washington State. My parents remembered bombings during WWII, and my deceased father in law fought in the Pacific during the second World War, and in the Korean War. Wars are stories I heard, or footage I see on TV. If that is not cause to be grateful, it certainly should. Millions of people go hungry every day, many of them children. Even here in Olympia there are children who go to bed hungry and go to school on an empty stomach. To sit down to a delicious Thanksgiving meal courtesy of my gourmet cook husband, is a blessing and a reason to be thankful for love and abundance. I grew up in luxury, but my parents destroyed our family with their bitter marriage, leaving nothing but death and dust in their tracks, and emptiness in our hearts. The Holidays are often a challenge to me emotionally speaking because I cannot believe that a family that had everything tore at itself until there was nothing left. That left a hole in my heart that I have learned to live with, a wound that will never truly heal. But I always manage to shake those under the floor blues with the spiritual guidance of our wise Pastor at my church, and the love and devotion from my solid as the rock of Gibraltar husband and my wonderful son. Our home is small and crowded at a 1000 square feet and two cats and a big dog, and one bathroom, but I feel so fortunate when I realize all the blessings our little house holds, and the gladness I experience at having found a new family with my husband and son, and appreciating that gift that grew out of destruction and despair. Gratitude I have come to learn, also has to do with humility. Humility allows you to fully appreciate your blessings because it shows you how fortunate you are in that you do have what you need. Some people have everything and still want what their neighbor has. A humble heart is often wise, and often happy. Gratitude means you are learning what you need to learn in this life, in this destiny, and you are thankful for the help and mercy along the way.

Marriage

To write from a place of pain is an interesting challenge. The pain, whether physical or emotional, can act as an anaesthetic that inhibits a clear picture, a clear head. My parents and my husband's parents both had terrible marriages. My mother was an alcoholic with a masterful skill to manipulate and lie, my father was too weak to stand up to her. My in- laws had an equally miserable relationship, with my husband's father being an abusive alcoholic and his mother an enabler with a penchant for emotional cruelty. My brother's marriage lasted 12 years, my sister's was cut short by her premature death at 44. My youngest sister never married and committed suicide at age 35. At the time, she was living with my parents, whose marriage was by then brutally toxic. Michael and I have been married 26 years. We have had very happy years , and years that were difficult. With our family history, I am amazed we are doing as well as we are, most of the time. Both my husband's younger brothers have been married 23 and 11 years respectively, and both have children. From all accounts, their marriages too are doing well. The hardest part of my marriage are the times when my husband's solitary and very private nature clash with my extroverted, gregarious nature. The trauma of all the family loss, and the mark of having grown up with a mother more interested in her lovers than her children's emotional growth and development, make me at times  struggle with basic confidence issues, like going where I want to and need to go, and doing what is important to my happiness. Writing has become a way to break through that glass but very thick glass at at that, barrier, that at times saps my strongest resolve, as I feel unworthy, unloved, invisible and defeated. My husband is a very good man, but as a clinical therapist he has a tendency to analyze and categorize me, rather than see me as just a person in need of a helping hand, and a good conversation. I have come to understand over the course of the years that his detachment is his way to have overcome the trauma he suffered growing up with a violent father and a mother who failed to protect her children. He feels he should try to fix me, and cannot, just like he could not protect himself and his younger brother . So, I now know, many years later, that he has little to do with how I feel. Our mother was forever blaming our father for everything, effectively destroying any decent relationship we could have had with our father, and tragically isolating us from him, and him from us. I am responsible for my own feelings, and sorrows, not my husband, and as obvious as that may sound to most of you, it is a revelation to someone like me who grew up with a very manipulative mother who craftily blamed everything on her husband. Marriage is hard, and it takes a lot of work, even after 26 years. But if you have two people who truly care about each other, in spite of profound challenges, it can work, if both people want it to. There are days when I think I'd rather be anything but married. There are days where I feel a deep satisfaction at having persevered, and where the happiness and warmth make all the sacrifice and effort worthwhile. There are many days where it all feels like part of the larger mystery of life, and marriage just happens to be the map I chose to travel the path of my life on. There are days it feels like the best decision I ever made, and there are times when I look at my husband and feel he is going to fry the last nerve I have left. Most of the time, all goes smoothly, but there are certainly always bumps, hurts, challenges, exasperations, ahead that are inevitably mixed in with the love, devotion, humor and tenderness. Twenty six years into it, I would certainly agree, with a benevolent chuckle, that marriage is not for the weak of stomach.

Tears

It is interesting to notice how our attitude can change so much from day to day, our perception of ourselves, our circumstances, our talents, value, hopes and dreams. It was a Monday like any other, starting of with rain and a bleak looking November sky. My husband was in an irritable mood, and somehow I took it to be a reflection of my inadequacies, whether real or just perceived. After he and my son left for the day, I felt a wave of sadness engulf me, like a warm but unpleasant surge. I have a hard time crying since all the loss of family in the last 15 years, but sometimes just snuggling with my cat Tigger helps release the resistance to tears. So, this time too, the tears came, very quietly, very modestly, and as always, my sweet cat sat stock still, as close to my chest as he thought was comforting to me without being too intrusive about my sorrow. It never ceases to amaze me how the most every day phenomenon like tears do not really explain the mystery of their existence. They release toxins when stress builds or sadness, or pain, but they are so strange, a seemingly poetic touch the gods added to ease their conscience about our human predicament on this planet. Like laughter and smiles are a celebration of the joy and ecstasy life can bring, so tears are their opposite. But nothing really explains the necessity of suffering, logically speaking that is. It can be explained on a philosophical, spiritual or religious level, but those interpretations are purely subjective and as a result, so far no truly satisfying answer has been provided. We come close, and that has to suffice. But the fact that tears exist is in and of itself a profound mystery. There is something sacred about tears. When we shed them in private, they attain a warmth and despair that can be almost unbearable. When shed with others, they can heal, they can inspire, move, or they can harden the heart of cruel people even more. Tears have a beauty, a power that defies precise definition. Perhaps the gods felt they needed to do something poetic, to make our existence more agreeable, also in their eyes.

Frozen in Time

Yesterday morning the temperature here had dropped to 21 degrees Fahrenheit, a low not seen on that day since 1978. My tender carnations were covered in a thin coat of ice, looking frozen in time. At 5:30 in the morning, in the predawn darkness, there was an eery silence and my steps crunched in the grass. Yet, as the morning progressed,and the sun came out in the early afternoon, the cold silence had a strangely soothing quality to it. A quality of silence I was familiar with from frosty mornings since I was a child. I have always been fascinated by these silences that accompany frosty winter mornings. Perhaps because they create the illusion that time is standing still, at least for a while. The comforting part for me comes in the break from motion, from the 24/7 machine of modern madness that never sleeps in its myriad forms from cell phones to highway noise, to overhead airplanes and kitchen televisions, computers, coffee machines, war machines, factory machines, and nature right along with all the motion and noise from wind, water, birds, frogs, or cicada, owls, depending on where you live. When a good frost hits, things seem to stop. And somehow that feels like a relief. We can comprehend stillness, whether in rapture or agony, it is motion and all its consequences that has us unnerved, so we don't even try to make sense of it any more, we just keep going , all the time, because we are afraid if we stop, we will lose our mind in the bottomless lake of peace, quiet, an experience modern man is desperate to avoid. With our souls surrendered to the thrill of the moment, whether it be the latest gadget, fashion, trend, idea, attitude, relationship, we are terribly afraid of silence and the deep answers it can bring in all its unpleasant demands. Frosty mornings feel outdated in that context. Maybe if we could add a sound effect, a light show, the silence would not be so obliterating to our beings that scream for silence, only to be ignored by our blunted, deafened appetite for more noise, more stimulation, bringing us one step closer to becoming the ultimate machine ourselves, right along side the machines we worship.

A Golden Moment

The tension before the 2012 Presidential election was exhausting at the end. I thought our President would win with a very modest margin, so I was thrilled to witness the excitement of election night, with the President declared the winner, without even needing crucial swing states like Ohio and Florida! It was unbelievable. Democracy works after all, after all the lies and shenanigans from the Republican side to block voting, making me feel  I was watching an election in some obscure dictatorship ruled country. The obstruction of a right as fundamental as voting, smacked of fascism on the part of the President's opponents. Shameful! The relief I felt that President Barack Obama earned a second term was real and heartfelt. His acceptance speech was full of wisdom, humility and a true sense of community and humanity. I felt hope surge through my entire being. YES! This is a victory for the good guys. I am so relieved, for this country, for the world, for the old here, for my son's generation in college, for all people in this country who are trying to believe in life and hope, in dignity and the realization of their talents and dreams. I am an immigrant from Belgium, and as the right political wing kept squeezing the life and hope out of the majority of its citizens, promising only worse and more apocalyptic scenarios, with their agenda that was bent on turning the clock back 50 years, I started to wonder why I ever left my country of birth. President Obama brought that hope and faith in this amazing country back. I feel like a weight was lifted off my heart and soul. The same way the cloud of despair was lifted when he was elected in 2008, and he saved the world from another Depression after his predecessor's disastrous run, that left our country in a stranglehold. All the lies, all the money, all the obstruction from Congress, nothing stopped this courageous man from getting this country back on its feet. Since President Obama took office, I feel proud again to be an American citizen. Under his predecessor, I felt so discouraged and disgusted, I wanted to move to Canada. But the people have spoken! Democracy is still alive , and kicking and it sure feels good. The President's acceptance speech felt like a golden moment, a moment where the world made sense, and it did not feel crazy to believe in continued decency, prosperity for all, to believe in civic responsibility, compassion, integrity, happiness and health.

Patience

The weather has turned. It is raining just about every day now, and I am grateful for the golden and orange and red leaves on the trees, that bring some badly needed color to the grey, watery skies. Ah, summer, with its blue expanses of sky, its warm breezes, its abundance of brightly and fragrant flowers, its sweetly twittering birds, its long days with plenty of light, its starry nights... Now, it is dark when we get up, it is dark by dinnertime, the flowers are fading, the wind is stripping the trees of their colorful leaves, it is getting colder, drearier. It seems we have to resign ourselves to the cycle of nature, where there is summer, and also fall, inevitably leading to winter. Ice, snow, blocked and dangerous roads, storms. The word that comes to mind is patience. Nature is slowing down this time of year, and maybe we should too. It is a hard thing to do, to accept we have no control over these changes of seasons, other than maybe move somewhere, if you can afford to do so, where the sun shines year round. Patience is a dish with little flavor, and it tends to be chewy, not easy to digest. I kept thinking the last week or so, what are the benefits of patience? It kind of feels like wine. If our beings were like wine in a solid container, it takes time and its reasoning to make it palatable. It is a tedious process, but a necessary and inevitable one, if we ever want our essence, our "wine", to become something of value. So, we grid our teeth, we find solace in a good fire in the fireplace, a  hearty stew, some good conversation with good friends, some time to reflect, to read, to learn, and swallow the melancholy about losing the warm sun and all the charm summer brings. Sometimes we have to just let our hearts and souls sit,and season, with the demands nature puts on our longings and dreams. Patience, almost a four letter word, but really a recipe to add some strengthening salts to the dishes that make up the course of our lives.

Happiness times three

I wish I remembered who came up with this very clever observation : "Happiness is having something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to." It seems somewhat trite, ordinary, but the insight is quite brilliant. My father's sister devotes her life to a stellar career in social services, and has always had people in her life, in friends, family, colleagues, so her life is well balanced. I think that is what is so insightful about the 3 part equation : that it speaks of the importance of balance. You start taking out one of the equations, and life quickly becomes more precarious. People who are very ill may have family and friends around to keep them focused, and keep them company, so they have someone to love, and something to do, but the part about having something to look forward to when you are terminally ill becomes very elusive. Someone in prison for a long time may have something to do, hopefully, and something to look forward to, like parole, but the having someone to love becomes very precarious behind bars. People in restrictive and abusive relationships, people who live under governments who curtail their liberties and inhibit their freedom to express themselves, may have people to love, and something to do, but the part of having something to look forward to is seriously bruised or at times completely denied. As far as I can tell, from these examples,and from my own life, happiness needs all three parts to be possible. Like Lego blocks that are left unbalanced when one is taking out of a structure, so happiness quickly becomes elusive and reality painful when not all three parts of the formula are in place. I saw this in a heart breaking way in an abused animal I stood up for last year right in my neighbor's yard. The animal was about as unhappy as any living creature can ever be. He was tied up to a chain, alone up to 10 hours a day, no shelter, no company, and was always yelled at and ignored. I am so glad that with a year of consistent persistence, I finally got Animal Services to charge the man with animal abuse and the case was turned over to the Sheriff's Department. This animal had nothing to do, no one to love, and nothing to look forward to, with the exception of my consoling him,and giving him food and water, and promising him I would get him help , which finally came after almost a year of persistent documentation, witness information, pictures and phone calls. That poor animal was living in hell. It took heaven and earth to get him out, and I pray his second chance at life gave him all he would need for basic happiness: something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to. All sentient beings deserve at least that. Happiness is a precarious thing. If you have it, and have it abundantly, please, feel free to share it abundantly, and look around you. Maybe your awareness can bring things back in balance for a friend, a neighbor, or even a desperately lonely dog.

The Allegory of the Cave

At the beginning of book VII in his work, The republic, Plato wrote a dialogue narrated by Plato's friend Socrates, and Plato's brother, Glaucon. The years Book VII were written fall between 514a and 520a. All this time later, this epitome of existential angst and malaise is as relevant as ever. The idea  that our lives are mere illusions can never be far from the mind of thinking man and his quest to understand his mortal predicament. The famous 1999 movie trilogy by Andy and Larry Wachowski, starring Keanu Reeves and Laurence Fishburne, The Matrix, picks up the Allegory of the Cave and puts it in a nightmarish future where reality is a cyberspace created by sentient machines, and the character Neo, Played by Keanu Reeves, becomes involved with a rebellion of others like him who have been freed from the illusion of the fabricated dreamworld. The huge success of the movie, and its cult like following is a clear illustration of the persistent power of our concern that what we live is not really all the reality there is. Stephen Hawking, the famous British theoretical physicist alludes to this in scientific terms in his A Briefer History of Time (2005), an updated version of a Brief History of Time, made more accessible to the general public. It is a marvelously written book, that makes the most baffling theories of modern astrophysics understandable to any one who took physics in high school. The idea behind quantum physics is that the universe is a far different place than the world we see. Niels Bohr said : "Anyone who is not shocked by quantum theory has not understood it". The idea that energy is not continuous, but comes in small ,discrete units is strange enough. Add to this that elementary particles behave both like particles and like waves, and that the movement of these particles is inherently random. The ultimate implication of this randomness is that if you want to say that something behaves a certain way, or even EXISTS, you must give the context of this behavior or existence, since in another context it may behave differently, OR NOT EXIST AT ALL. Extrapolated to the human condition, the implications are mind boggling. We may be as much a product of a specific mathematical equation as we are of our own volition. Quantum Physics is an existentialist paradise, or is it? I  wish I could have Plato over for a strong cup of tea, and a thorough heart to heart.

Aphorism

When walking in the sun, the tiger and the cricket both, cast a shadow.

Fall Mood

I woke up early, before daylight, to the sound of gunshots. Hunting season is here, a frightening time for my animal forest friends. We know of only two hunters skilled enough to use bow and arrow. That, at least , I can respect, as it requires great strength and skill, since you have to get quite close to the animal, and kill it with one shot. The rain is coming down relentlessly, welcome after 83 days of dry, hot weather, a record for this area. So, we are shifting the living space back inside, as it seems barbecue season and swimming season are over. The flowers are fading and melting under the heavy rain curtain, the spiderwebs are being knocked loose by the wind . Fall in Western Washington is here. Our four footed friends are leaving their muddy footprints all over the house, and I could not care less. They are part of our family, and I gave up a long time ago to worry about getting the Betty Crocker household award. We focus on every one being cozy, accepted and comfortable, and that includes a high tolerance for pet prints,an assortment of cat and dog blankets every where, and sharing space in our small house with our big dog, and two cats. The two cats sleep in a number of places, in closets, and sock drawers, it is really quite fun, wondering where they have gone hiding. Tigger, our boy cat, sleeps on my chest on cold nights, and makes for quite a cozy extra blanket. It is a shift, when fall and the inevitable rains start, as everyone goes indoor, and our living space shrinks to half without the spacious yard and its patio, deck, pool, greenhouse, orchard. So, every one gets re acquainted to close quarters, and it makes for some hilarious moments. The Indian poet, Rabindranath Tagore, said " God must love humble people, as he made so many of them". When I look around our crowded house today, I think God must love us, as it is quite humble around here, but also very comfortable and exceedingly cozy, as I make sure I don't sit on one of the cats before I eat my breakfast.

The Tiny Bird

This morning, I was up by five, as my dog woke up extra early, and I decided to stay up, as my son was leaving extra early for school today. Battling a cold, I was exhausted by seven thirty, as we had been up past ten each night. So, I gave in and laid down with my cat Tigger for a nap under a cozy blanket. I woke up 2 hours later. I guess I needed the extra sleep. I woke up feeling happy, remembering a very sweet dream in which my father, who passed away in 2008, appeared. In the dream, he and I were at a crafts festival, and the competition was to enter the most creative crocheted flowers. Yes, I am not making this up. I had won a prize, and he was very proud of me, and gave me a live tiny bird that sang with a crystal bell like voice. The bird was so tiny, it was the  size of half my pinkie fingernail. It was dark green, with a shiny black beak, and shiny black eyes. It sat peacefully on my father's open hand, as he smiled at me and carefully put the tiny bird on my palm. I woke up feeling so content, like I had been to a very special place. I have no idea to know factually speaking, whether there truly is a spirit world, but in the last months my father often visits me in my dreams. It is always at night, though. This was the first time he visits me during a day time nap. He seemed so real, his voice, his blue eyes, his smile, the touch of his hands. It was wonderful. I have no idea whether my mind fabricated this story in a wishful thinking sort of way, or whether his spirit really visits my dreams, but either way, it makes me marvel at our minds, that can accommodate us so cleverly, that we wake up feeling we were really in that moment, in that experience.The setting also was beautiful, in a green field, near water, and there was a lot of light, and a haze of pink and white like clouds drifting close to the ground where we were walking. It was warm, and even though there was evidence of other people being near, in the presence of several trailers, my father and I were the only people there. It really felt like a visit from him, and it made me glad that he seemed happy, and that he came to spend some time with me.

A Woman of Independent Means

Taking in the delicious early afternoon sun today at lunchtime, I noticed a spider under the eves by the kitchen door, starting a web. I quickly became fascinated at the speed and agility this spider was working her eight legs for maximum efficiency. The mathematical accuracy of the dimensions and the incredible athletic strength  she demonstrated as she was building the outline of the web had me mesmerized. The consistency in the dimensions, the methodical approach and rhythm were truly impressive. I had never taken the time to watch a spider build a web from scratch, but I decided it was well worth it. In under an hour, she had the job done, then sat contentedly in the middle of her masterpiece, awaiting her first unsuspecting victim. As I was watching her build this architectural natural wonder, threading silk she pulled with great dexterity from her abdomen, while hanging on precariously to the outline of the web, I thought, you go, girl! She was the sole provider in her family, she used her own body to both build her house and the source of her nourishment, without depending on anyone or anything. She did not need  to turn in a job application, go to an interview, anxiously wait for approval. She was the boss and the job, and she was the builder of her own house to boot! This girl had it going on! I have always been respectful of spiderwebs, because they looked like they were a lot of work,now, since I saw one being built, I will try even harder not to disturb these engineering marvels. It was a bit creepy to watch all those legs going all at once building this marvelous web, but as I swallowed my aversion, I began to realize the spider needs all eight of those spindly legs to pull this feat off. I was also impressed with the spider's focus. There was no such thing as taking a break. She started and kept going until the job was finished. The woman has my respect.

Bliss

It is late Friday afternoon, warm, sunny, not a cloud in the brilliantly bright blue sky, and I am enjoying the sun, laying down on our deck, with our 12  year old kitty, Sneakers. I close my eyes and soak in the warmth of the sun on my face, the tickle of my hair being tossed gently  by a sweet breeze, the slow snoring sounds of our old kitty, the happy sound of our patio chimes,... ah, time is standing still right now. It feels so good. It reminds me of my happy childhood memories, when time was a commodity in abundant supply. Time to simply be. I let a contented sigh escape me, and look up at the gorgeous expanse of sky. Not bad for October 5th. All the flowers are still blooming, my red rose is actually putting out two more blooms. It is hard to believe that we ever had 3 feet of snow on the ground last winter. If summer decides to stick around longer, fine by me! That is one thing about summer, no one seems to mind if it sticks around. I don't think most people feel the same way about winter. So for now, for this glorious half hour in early October, I am. I simply am. Instead of this constant doing, going, here,there, for a brief moment in time, I am part of this quiet, blissful afternoon, together with my sweet cat, who I am hoping is enjoying sharing this moment with me as much as I am enjoying sharing it with her.

Colin Thubron

With the approach of fall and winter, I am looking forward to spending more time reading. If you enjoy travel diaries of high quality, check out the books by British author Colin Thubron (born in 1939). He has close to 50 years of experience traveling alone to the most remote parts of the globe. His books take you to the Middle East, Russia, Central Asia, China, always off the beaten path. He always stays with local people, and speaks fluent Arabic, Russian, Chinese. His books, like "The lost heart of Asia",( on the 5 Central Asian Republics ), "Mirror to Damascus", and "Shadow of the Silk Road", are mesmerizing, highly researched and informative and seasoned with a wry humor and yet sensitive spirit.I devour his books in the wintertime, to combat the frustration of indoor confinement due to weather. They are wonderful, bold diaries of a very inquisitive, fearless person fascinated by the diversity of the human experience. His knowledge of the history, politics, culture , language of the countries he travels through is vast and based on meticulous research and experience. He draws you into his experience, however exotic and often risky at best, by his candid uncomplicated way of inviting the reader into the homes of the various local people right alongside him. You become as much a participant as you are an observer, and it makes Mr. Thubrons' writing very in formative and personal all in one. He travels always alone, without a camera, just his notes that after the journey he spends years putting together into his marvelous travel diaries. In a world of instant gratification due to technology, this writer is impressive in his scholarly research and patience, and his endearing human touch, always highly mindful and respectful of the local culture and codes. He takes you through the Karakorum desert, the remote stretches of the Silk Road, the creepy parts of remote Siberia, the hustle and bustle of Damascus, the lost splendor of Samarkand and Bukhara, all the while endearing the experience by sharing the lives of the local people with you, their hopes and dreams, heartaches and accomplishments, making you feel part of them and their place in time and in this world.

Window fans

It is just about October and the weather here in Western Washington continues to be gorgeous. There is not a cloud in the bright blue sky, there is a sweet breeze, it is a cozy 71 degrees Fahrenheit. The window fans we put in  at the beginning of the summer are still going strong, and in spite of the constant dust they bring into the house, I absolutely love them, their sound, their presence, because they mean it is summer, or even now that it is officially autumn, that it is still warm outside. Perhaps another reason I like the window fans, is that they remind me in shape of the twirly sticks they sell at the ocean to children. I love the ocean, because I grew up near it, and spent time there in the summers, from the time I could walk. The window fans are associated with free time, with ease, with warmth, play, sun. I want to postpone putting them away as long as possible. I love how the the light plays in them, casting shadows, in the morning and late afternoon. I love the fresh air they bring in, the feeling of a fresh wind, that I can feel cooling my face on hot summer evenings when the house is slow to cool off. There is a reassuring quality to the sound of their whir, that helps me fall asleep on those hot nights when it would be to stuffy to fall asleep comfortably. Summertime and the living is easy, and the widow fans are twirling, the house is cool, there is ice-cream in the freezer, and plenty of nice, cold water in the pool. The simple pleasure of some whirling window fans, is a big part of what makes summer a happy time for me.

Cinderella and the Vietnamese Wedding

Yesterday evening, my husband and I attended a Vietnamese wedding celebration in Portland, Oregon. It was the reception wedding dinner of my hairdresser's younger sister. It was a cheerful celebration at a local oriental restaurant. The banquet room was decorated in lavender, white and pink, the tables were set with fresh bouquets of lilies, roses and orchids and it was apparent that an abundance of food would be served , while a Vietnamese band would be playing. There were 30 tables for ten people each, and just about every seat was taken by the time dinner started. There was a very energetic and effective master of ceremony, a freely flowing bar, and the atmosphere was genuinely congenial. We sat at table 30, with three other couples we did not know, since we were not family. The couple to my left was a distinguished looking Vietnamese husband and wife, reserved, elegant and very nice to talk to. Since we were siting at the end of the room, but still in the middle, we had a good view of the family groups of the bride and groom. The bride looked like a dignified princess in her elegant gown, and at the end of the dinner, she changed into a beautiful red gown with gold embroidered flowers, to come and thank all the guests for their attendance and gifts. The whole dinner had a feeling of class and elegance to it, without being pompous or fake.Everyone seemed to have a good time. When we got home around midnight, I sensed a feeling of disenchantment, not uncommon when one attends an elegant social affair. The thought of Cinderella came to me, of how instead of 300 family members, we had a family of 3. Without my husband and son, I would have no family at all. I am very grateful for them, and together with our cozy cats Sneakers and Tigger who wandered into our yard 12 and 3 years ago respectively, and our recently adopted dog Yara, there are 6 of us. We are very close, very cozy. There are times. like after a large family wedding like the one we attended last night, when the absence of an extended family feels painful. I grew up with many aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins, but by the time my parents were done tearing each other apart, I no longer even had siblings. Some of the numbing of the loss will probably never wear off, anesthetizing the sorrow was a way to survive it, to analyze it and eventually understand and accept it. Like Cinderella at the ball, it was not the absence of a gown ,or slippers or a fancy carriage or prince that were the problem. The problem was the nasty stepmother, and evil stepsisters, and the curse she had to break. She succeeded with the help of her fairy godmother. I succeeded with the help of my husband and the blessings of my son, my church and a few very faithful friends. That way, no matter the melancholy aftermath of a big wedding, anniversary, baptism of friends and neighbors, I eventually always find back the slipper I lost in the self-pity party, and the words on my glass slipper are always, invariably:" gratitude at a second chance."

Tamara

In the Tamazight language of Morocco, the word for spider is tamara. A beautiful word for a crafty and intelligent creature. Granted, spiders as a rule are not considered attractive, but I do respect their skill and patience. I carefully avoid tearing their webs as I harvest berries and green beans each day. The only spiders I have no tolerance for are the leggy yellow-green ones that kill honey bees. As honey bees work so hard to produce the medicinal honey, I try very hard to protect them from this  particularly nasty spider. It is fun for me to observe how we react to words, even words that are foreign to us, like the Tamazight word for spider, tamara. To me, my reaction to the sounds of this word were positive, pleasant. The word tamara reminds me of a cool German science-fiction show when I was a kid, where one of the lead female characters was called Tamara. I also like the Tamazight word for rabbit, awunin, It is , in sound very close to the Flemish dialect for rabbit, konyn. I always like it when I discover that we as humans in all our diversity, which can drive us apart with suspicion, have things in common, and the history of language certainly can be an encouraging place to find communality. Maybe that  is why I love languages so much,and why I always want to learn more about them , because they shed light on our humanity, on our experience in that humanity. The more  I learn, the more I realize we have a lot in common, if nothing else, linguistically. If we have the willingness to communicate, to meet each other halfway, a lot of conflicts may become more readily solvable. If we are ultimately brothers and sisters as a human family, we certainly are when you study languages. The further back you go in time, the more languages are related. It is cool, encouraging. If we have language in common, we really should be able to understand each other on larger cultural and political levels. It just brings a smile to my face that in this tense world politically, riddled with suspicion and dubious rhetoric, I know that one of my favorite animals when I was a child, the rabbit, which I called konyn in my West Flemish dialect, is called awunin in Tamazight, and that I can relate to that emotionally, culturally. Go grab a dictionary, and look up some words in a language you are not familiar with. You might surprise yourself, and the world around you.

The Day the Music died

I remember a time when I would listen to music all the time. In the last seven years, that has changed. I had to really work on overcoming the urge to give in to the cemetery like silence that haunted me after both my sisters and both my parents died under very traumatic circumstances. Even now, there are mornings that the quiet sounds of morning outside my bedroom window remind me of the sounds at a solitary cemetery. All the dead seem to be around somehow, quietly sleeping in my backyard. At first , it was eery, but I got used to the sense of them being there on many an early morning, before the noises and sounds of the street evaporate their somewhat oppressive presence. But not evading the silence also became a way to overcome the sadness, the shock and trauma of the tragic deaths. I wrote a piece yesterday about the sweet presence of silence, so I know that time is also a healer in this case, however slow the process may seem. I no longer am afraid of the feelings that can at times overwhelm me, they are now a part of me. I accept them. Acceptance is a big part of the healing process, but it is definitely not something you can hurry. It was extremely difficult to overcome the shock, the trauma, which manifested itself in physical symptoms, like nausea and muscle pain, fatigue and insomnia, the anger, the rage, to let it take its  course  with the guidance of a good therapist, and now to realize, with a deep sigh of profound relief, that the battle is over. I can enjoy music again. Not always, and not yet as often as I did before, but I am moving forward, with a smile and with renewed energy and insight. I went through that tunnel of darkness and made it to the other side, where light and hope live freely. Music is a wonderful thing for the heart , the soul. The music of Stevie wonder, for example has inspired and lifted me from the time I was 15. The music I get to hear and sing at my church, New Life, songs like "Holy Spirit, breathe on me"..., lift me into joy, strength. To have been in that dead space where the music fell silent in my heart, was dreadful. But if you are ever there, don't give up, keep on keeping on, and the music will come back to you, stronger, louder, more joyous, more vibrant.

Dusty silence

The weather this afternoon is absolutely gorgeous for a late September day. It is warm, sunny, not a cloud in the turquoise sky, a barely noticeable sweet breeze scenting the air. The weather is just dreamy. It is early afternoon, and there is a silence about that I have not experienced the sweetness of in a very long time. It is a silence made up of comfort, of a pillow soft ease, a silence that is so comfortable with itself and me, it feels like bliss. They say that people that live in areas where there is a lot of sand know hundreds of words to describe the varying nature of sand. They say that people who live in very icy and snowy climates, have hundreds of ways to describe the snow and ice. I think I have experienced silence that way. It has been a part of me since I became fascinated by Lao-Tzu as a teenager, and since the fallout of my family's demise. In the first instance silence was a companion, a teacher , in the latter, a feared enemy. But what I experience today is a silence sweet as Muscat wine, warm, relaxing, healing, comfortable like a favorite fall sweater. It is a silence where I know I have finally reached a comfort zone within myself where Me and I are good friends, where I am comfortable with just the presence of me. There was a time where being alone felt like being in a straight jacket, oppressive, painful, as I was trying to shake the ghosts of the past. A silence of anxiety, sadness, anger, nausea. This silence today is soft, like my cat Sneakers chinchilla like fur. It is warm, like a good cup of green tea, it tastes dusty sweet like honey. It envelops me like a lover's embrace,accepting me, hugging me, all of me, the broken parts, the strong parts, the doubting and the secure me, the lost child and the warrior, the wife, the mother, the friend. It filters through me like warm light, seeing all of me, but not minding. This silence today has all the qualities of a good song, a good friend, a good meal. I did not think that the throbbing silence of anger and despair would ever leave me ,but today I know it did. I overcame it by not being afraid of the pain of the ugly silence, by facing my sorrow head on, by accepting, understanding, tolerating, praying, and finally, 7 years later, I can drink a cup of silence sweet as summer wine and experience a peace and inner happiness I thought had eluded me for good. Today is filled with a silence that rings through my heart like music from a harp so quiet but so real, I see it vibrate in the sun's dancing light.

Terra Firma

Au pays des reves
est ou tu vivais
si longtemps,
moi t'y cherchant souvent,
sans resultats.

Apres beaucoup d'annees,
on s'est retrouves,
et du pays des reves,
j'ai su te liberer.

Maintenant notre amitie
vit au pays des mots,
jusqu'au jour,
ou les yeux et les mains ouverts

On se reunira,
l'aimitie intacte
malgre les annees,

Les coeurs battants de joie!

Trudi Ralston.
September 26th, 2012.

I wrote this poem for a friend I have not seen in over 25 years, on the hope that someday we
we may meet again, as true friends are a treasure that does not fade with time.

Reflection

This morning, as our dog Yara and I were walking early through the garden, I sensed a definite change. It was so quiet. Our footsteps sounded muffled, only a couple of birds were singing, and the whole morning had a feel of reverence about it. The sky was a cloudy blue-grey, and yellow leaves were crunching under our steps,as we walked through the tall sunflowers. Fall is here. Goodbye, sweet summer and azure skies, warm sun and brightly colored flowers, bees and dragonflies. Goodbye hummingbirds and the buzzing whirl of your bullet fast flight. Goodbye butterflies and the playful games on all our plants. Our cats Tigger and Sneakers will miss snoozing in your warmth, and I will miss the beautiful scents of sweet peas and carnations, and the stunning blooms of our bright red and purple fuchsia hanging baskets. Goodbye soon to the petunias, and my majestic sunflowers. Hello, pumpkins and squash, and leaves twirling to the ground. Hello to the abundance of spiders and their crafty webs. The squirrels are still around, getting the hazelnuts and the seeds I put out, and Yara and I still get to eat raspberries and blackberries. But I cannot deny that there is a sadness in my heart to see summer go, as I love being outside in the warm summer air. The good news is, as nature is cyclical, summer will be back. But I certainly would not mind fast forwarding from the end of October to March. I can celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas in the spring, really, I can. That way , we can go swimming after the turkey and pie.

Cannon Beach

For many years now, before our son even turned one, we have been going to Cannon Beach, Oregon in the summertime for extended weekends. I love it there, the beauty of the beaches, the unique vistas provided by Haystack Rock , the friendliness of the town, the good restaurants, the cool shops and boutiques, it is just a happy place to visit  as a family. I grew up near the ocean in Belgium. From the time I could walk , we would spend entire summers at the ocean. So for me, the ocean is ingrained into my being, I think there is probably sea water in my veins. The sunsets are spectacular. One of the most beautiful sunsets I ever saw at Cannon Beach, was just a few days ago when we spent 4 days there. The sun from our inn's balcony looked like a shiny bright pink opal, slowly sinking into the cloud covered sky, that looked like a see through pearl colored silk coin purse. It was breathtaking. I thought back on my family, on how my brother and two sisters and I would spend the whole day on the beach in Oostende. I remembered with a twinge of sadness that it was my brother's 54th birthday, as I watched the gorgeous sunset ,and let the roar of the ocean fill my soul and heart. Happy Birthday, Bart! I realized, like I do each year how we lost each other in the family's disintegration. The last time I saw my brother was in 1998, at Ludwina's funeral.My husband and son mean the world to me. If people would be visible as elements, my husband Michael would be Earth. He keeps me grounded, solid. Our son, Nicholas, would be Water, fluid and enigmatic. I identify with Wind, perhaps with a touch of Fire. Wind symbolizes my thirst for freedom. Being near the ocean allows me to let the wind sink into my being, as it roars in the waves and stirs the scent of the water, wets the sand in the rhythm of the tides. When I have spent time at the ocean, I feel reborn, recharged, calm, satisfied.So the sadness did not linger, when thinking of my brother, and I wished him well as the sun broke through the clouds one last time. Some people , if they were an element would be Fire. A beautiful element, but dangerous, when out of control. My mother was Fire, and when she was done, all that was left, were ashes. Since I identify with Wind, I try very hard to stay clear of Fire, both in my own soul, and in the people that cross my path, as Fire and Wind can be useful together , but also deadly. That is one more thing I love about the ocean, its wise insistence on balance, its knowledge to understand the need for both high and low tides.

Watermark

It is surprising to me how people can leave an impact on our being. When you cut yourself, and it heals, there is often a scar to remind us that is where we got hurt. I only make that observation, because it gets the visual image across of leaving a mark. I am thinking of a positive imprint, much like a watermark, that you can see when you hold a money bill to the light. To make a watermark impression, takes a very specific physical process. In the same way, the watermark friends, family can leave is an invisible alchemy that we can see with the eye of our heart. My friend Catherine B. in Paris, who was one of my roommates in graduate school in Austin, Texas, is such a person who has left an indelible print on my psyche. The gift of her watermark on my soul is one of inspiring confidence, and making me feel respected and valued. My friend Driss O. in Morocco, who was a good friend also in graduate school, left a watermark that provides creative energy and determination to pursue goals and dreams. Both these friends are far away physically, literally, a world away, but their presence cannot be denied, and in times of stress they appear in my dreams at night, to remind me of the qualities they want to inspire in me. It is a very cool thing. Antoine de Saint -Exupery said that ''the most important things are invisible to the eye". I could not agree more when it comes to the definite, but to the eye, invisible watermark faithful friends leave on our hearts. The watermark my husband Michael is leaving is to persist, to keep on keeping on, no matter what the obstacle. The indelible mark my son is leaving is perspective, as Nicholas has a very keen insight into people and issues. My friend Diane's gift is the watermark of active compassion and humility. My Bishop at my church is giving my soul the permanent mark of strength through rock solid faith. My father's youngest sister, Tante Lieve, is generously leaving the imprint of dignity with intelligence and heart. My father's gift was intellectual curiosity. Invisible gifts that nourish me in times both good and bad, and for which I am exceedingly grateful.

Shifting Gears

We have been talking as a family about the possibility of a visit to a friend of ours who lives in Morocco. A friend who I knew in graduate school, and who recently invited us to his country for a visit. Looking into this, we realized quickly how fast costs add up, between airplane tickets, hotels, food, etc. My son goes to the local Junior college here in Olympia, and works two different part time jobs while going to school full-time, one as a book keeper, one as lab technician. His love is in art, and he hopes to go to Evergreen State when he has gotten his two year degree at SPSCC. My husband and I were thinking how cool it would be for our son to have a chance to study abroad for a year, if he could get a scholarship. My life as a college student was so different. As a successful CEO in Belgium, my father was able to pay for private university expenses at 4 year colleges in the US for all 4 of his children. I did not worry about tuition or paying for school until I got to graduate school in Austin, Texas. There I got instate tuition, because I qualified to teach Spanish as an assistant instructor, which paid enough for rent and living expenses, while I was getting my Master's degree in Spanish and Latin American Literature. My husband Michael, whom I met while in graduate school in Austin, where he was working on his Master's degree in Clinical Psychology, too, got instate tuition the same way I did and was working while going to school. Whatever money I could possibly have inherited was whisked away cleverly by devious persons in the family war, and my husband's mother is a woman of means who has no interest in being there for her grandchildren' college education. Combined with the uncertain economy due to terribly selfish politics in this country right now, our son, who should have had an edge financially, does not, and is no better off than my father was when he started his life as a young adult after WWII. The American Dream nowadays, is more than ever what it is really is, as aspiration, rather than a reality. I am hoping the results of the next Presidential election don't evaporate that aspiration to a mere whisper and illusion. Meanwhile, we hope our son will qualify for a scholarship so he can complete his college education, as he is a very bright student who has always had very good grades.

A Toi

With the beautiful warm summer weather extending into September, and the soft, dusty melancholy air of pre-fall in the sweet breeze, I remembered a singer of whom I had not thought of in many, many years: Joe Dassin. He was a very popular song writer and singer in France in the late 60's and through the 70's, and I never knew he was born in New York to a Jewish family, or that he had a doctorate in ethnology from the University of Ann Arbor in Michigan. I also did not know he and his wife lost their baby after 5 days when it was born prematurely, or that he had died so young, at age 42 of a heart attack. He seems like he was a happy person when I was watching his videos again on UTube. An easy smile, dreamy eyes, good looks, easy charm. His songs, it is true are spiked with melancholy, like "A Toi", and "Si tu n'existais pas", and of course, "L'ete indien". My sister Goedele and my aunt Agnes liked his music, especially his 1978 album "Le Jardin du Luxembourg". Hearing his songs again, and realizing his sudden death at age 42, made me think of my sister Goedele who was 44 when she died of cancer in 2005. She chose a life of ambition and status over a pursuit of academia, with an interest in astronomy. As a child, she was industrious and homey, and I think she would have been happy as a professor, with a bunch of kids, and a healthy lifestyle and marriage. Instead her life was riddled with stress and intrigue, and I wonder if it contributed to her early death. Joe Dassin was no stranger to stress and tragedy in his life, yet he seemed so carefree and happy. Things are rarely what they seem. It was apparently true for his life, and apparently true for my sister. I remember how she would knit beautiful little sweaters as a child, anticipating having a family of her own some day. At it turned out, she had a family of her own, for which she never had time, and now her widowed husband takes care of the soon 16 year old daughter, and 12 year old son, who lost their mother when they were 8 and 4. If only we paid more attention to our childhood dreams and hopes, they are often right on as far as leading to a path of happiness, before rationalization kicks in, leading to so much blurred vision.

Gladiator

One of my most favorite movies is the 2000 movie "Gladiator" with Russell Crowe. The New Zealand born Australian actor deservedly got international attention with his role as the Roman general Maximus Decimus Meridius, and the Academy Award for Best actor, and another ten further nominations for best actor, and Broadcast Film Critics Association award for Best Actor, an Empire Award for Best Actor and a London Film Critics Circle Award for Best Actor. The movie speaks to me because Maximus deals with betrayal and spends all his energy and courage to avenge his murdered family. He is reduced to a slave who ultimately ends up as a popular gladiator able to use his skills as a general to survive and help his fellow gladiators survive in the arena in Rome. His ability to hang on to his dignity in the face of excruciating humiliations is very moving. As an immigrant and new American citizen since 1994, there have been times when the assumptions people make about me are were humiliating, and even after 36 years here, the first 10 as a college and graduate student, there are still times I miss being able to share the nuances of my own native language, Flemish, since there is no one left to share it with, other than one or two people long distance over the phone. There are songs, and books and comedians, and anecdotes I remember form my childhood, and no one to share those with. In many ways I am invisible, and even though the circumstances of Maximus in "Gladiator" are extreme, I am always deeply moved when watching this movie. Russell Crowe does a brilliant job of drawing us into the loneliness of his character, as he struggles to hang on to the love he felt for his wife and son, and tries to survive long enough to avenge their horrific murders. The loss of family is a very specific sorrow, and in my case it was not murder, but terrible illnesses, suicide, despair, intrigue and brutal betrayal that wiped out my family that should have stood together in this country, but instead turned to ashes. The genuine emotions Russell Crowe is able to produce in the face of tragic loss are so heartfelt, so real I feel his heart beat in mine each time I watch the film. He makes a connection to the audience that goes far beyond artistic ability and superb acting skills, he brings Maximus into your own psyche, you become him, you suffer and triumph with him. As he dies, and sees memories of his wife and son, you love them with him, and part of you dies with him. It is the most amazing transcendence, that leaves you breathless. We all have a warrior inside of us, and "Gladiator" makes sure we do not forget that courage and determination is there and that we can access it when we need to.

Legacy

As summer starts to fade, and the scent of flowers becomes more faint, I find myself turning more inward, and returning to my small tapestry and embroidery projects. My husband and son are both computer game aficionados, an interest I respect , but that eludes me. My father's mother and his two older sisters are skilled seamstresses, and on my mother's side there are several painters, her mother, and her two older brothers. I decided to combine both legacies and do embroideries of my own design, as a way to pass on both art forms for my son, who also has an interest and talent for art, especially pencil and ink drawings. My husband has a solitary nature, which can prove to be a challenge for my gregarious personality, so embroidery became a way to embrace our quiet life style, and in a way that part of Michael suits my basically Buddhist perspective on solitude. Michael has always been intrigued by Australia, especially the outback, and I can see him there, because his tolerance of solitude is impressive. My embroideries take a long time, anywhere from six to nine months, and the stitches are minuscule, so it takes an excruciating amount of patience, making the experience transcendental and very meditative. Most of the poems I was finally able to release and write after my family fell apart, were written carefully in my head, while working on an embroidery project. In a  world of instant technical gratification, needlework seems outdated , and belonging to a different space and time. But that is precisely why I like the challenge it presents. I am an anachronism doing my painstakingly slow needlepoint, while I hear the noises and sounds from my son's and husband's computer games. I am working on my 7th project, and each project presents a new technical challenge, depending on whether I am working on flowers, animals, an abstract design, depending on the thread I use, and since I draw each pattern myself in pencil on the canvas, that too presents a different challenge each time. It is in a way, like creating a painting, but with needle and thread. I love choosing the colours, the dimensions , choosing the design. It is interesting to be inundated in the language of computer games, much of which I  do not understand, and to have my son and husband attend the PAX video and computer game convention in Seattle for the 4th year in a row, as I work on my embroidery project of a family of red eyed tree frogs, and smile at how our family literally sometimes lives in different worlds.

Manatees

In the Defenders of Wildlife 2013 calendar, there is a picture for the month of November,of a mama manatee happily swimming with her baby. The picture conveys happiness, contentment, peace, but it filled me with sadness, because I thought of my sweet Basset hound Lafayette, who died on March 28th of this year. I loved her passionately, and the last two years she struggled with a bad hip and arthritis. She was no longer able to go for her loved walks, and it broke my heart, as she became heavier than she already was before, her body becoming a prison to her. Her sweet and patient disposition often reminded me of a manatee, and when I saw the idyllic picture in the calendar, I wished for her to be a manatee in a next life, so her big body would be able to feel freedom in the comfort of the water. Like a manatee, Lafayette was very sweet and harmless, often the brunt of jokes at heartless commentary from friend and foe alike. I miss her every day. I am so glad she died peacefully at home when her heart gave finally up on her cumbersome body. I hope animals have a spirit world too, where they are free from the suffering and trials they endured while in their physical bodies. The blissful picture of the manatee family also reminded me of how often cruelty is hidden in its suffering. When we say something hateful or hurtful to an innocent creature, the blow does not show, but the pain is there, in their eyes. The world must be full of blind hearts, because I have seen and see a lot of animals with pain in their eyes that seems invisible to their heartless owners.

Silk Ribbon

I love late summer, when the heat simmers down without losing its warmth, and the sky turns a blinding blue, with a sweet south-western breeze. Our sunflowers tower above us, the morning glory Heavenly Blue trumpets  put on their best and last showing, and there is a silence of peace and acceptance in the air that seems to come with only the last of summer's glory. This morning, the sky seemed a huge liquid silk blue ribbon, stretching over my house and my garden. I thought of a friend of mine, far away, and for a brief, magical moment, it felt like our worlds were next door to each other. As if my friend was able to reach up and touch the same silk ribbon sky as it undulated majestically past his window. It was one of those rare artistically-visually enchanting moments , silent, mesmerizing. When I was a young teenage, thirteen or fourteen, I drew and painted, before I started writing poetry and stories at age 17, and the visual beauty of the mirage of the blue silk ribbon sky reminded me of those days when my favorite way to express myself artistically was with a pencil or a paintbrush. The moment reminded me also of a visually stunning movie, set against the unlikely background of the carnage in Nanking in 1937 during the second Sino-Japanese war. "The flowers of War", directed by Zhang Yimou, and based on "13 Flowers of Nanjing" by Geling Yan, is a cinematographic jewel as it tells the unlikely alliance between an American mortician and twelve prostitutes who risk everything to save the lives of thirteen orphaned schoolgirls who found temporary refuge from the slaughter going on in Nanking by the butchering Japanese troops, where not even children are safe from murder and rape. The courage found by the mortician and  the displaced prostitutes in the face of destruction and brutal death is filmed in a stunning way, and manages to convey hope amidst constant fear and despair. They come up with a cunning and risky plan to guarantee the survival of the orphaned girls by dressing the prostitutes up like young innocent girls to save them from rape and death by the predatory officers. While the prostitutes play the role of the teenage girls, the mortician gets them out of Nanking with an old repaired truck, eluding the Japanese. It is a beautiful film, in story and vision. The cinematography by Zhao Xiaoding is gorgeous, leaving us enchanted by the ability to find beauty in the starkest of realities, war. By focusing on enhanced perception of daily circumstance and objects surrounding the characters as they navigate through the hell of their city's annihilation,  the viewer becomes both a witness and a participant. When I looked at the sky this morning, I too felt both a witness and a participant, albeit of a much more peaceful place and circumstance. By the way, Christian Bale as the mortician and Ni Ni as the de- facto leader of the prostitutes are both brilliant, so is the young actor portraying George Chen, Huang Tianyuan, who plays the young boy becoming in disguise the extra person needed to give the Japanese soldiers the number of girls they expect.