Prairie Bride

When I think of it, the circumstances of my marriage to my American husband were pretty strange, for being considered normal. Michael and I met in graduate school in Austin, Texas. We were married by a Justice of the Peace there, in blue jeans, on a hot day, July 10, 1986. There was no reception, no friends, no bridal bouquet. We went and had some Mexican food, just the two of us, and one of Michael's room mates took just one picture with a Polaroid camera. After dating 16 months, we were married and graduated from UT the following semester, January 1987. After spending 11 years in the US on student visas, I was now married to an American  citizen. The citizenship process could now start. Seven years later, on September 29th, 1994, I was sworn in as an American citizen, in Seattle, Washington, in the presence of my husband and our two year old son, Nicholas, who was born in Olympia, Washington, where we had been living since 1988. Our son will be 21 this July, and we will be celebrating 27 years of marriage this year. One of the most challenging aspects of my marriage, that is warm and happy, are the persistence of long stretches of isolation, in spite of valiant efforts to the contrary. Being gregarious in nature, it is challenging to be married to an exceedingly solitary person, with very little connections to his family. My own family was decimated in a war of intrigue and lies and betrayal, so, I have no family left apart from a brother in Texas whom I have not seen in 15 years. That, of course, does not help, when you are a first generation immigrant trying to establish roots in a different world. Yet, there have been periods, off and on, of close and good times with dear friends, but the destruction of my family, all of whom were living in the US, in Georgia and Texas, combined with a basically indifferent family of in laws, certainly has been hard. After the deaths of both my sisters, and both my parents, in the span of just 8 years, I found, with the help of my husband, a good therapist, and she encouraged me to follow my dream to start writing, a dream I had since high school. That helped, because now I have a voice. I can share my story. It is still hard some days to shake the hurt of isolation, but this prairie bride, emotionally speaking, now has a way to get her story out. Becoming an immigrant certainly did not make my life easier, economically, socially, culturally or intellectually. But, it has made for an interesting life. I know and understand things now about life and people I would never have dreamed about knowing or understanding had I remained in Belgium. I would not have become a member of a black Baptist church, of which I have been a member her in town for 19 years now. I would not have known the strength and hope and joy I have found there at the hands of a very wise Pastor. I would not have become a black belt at age 45, under the grueling training of a ninth degree Korean Grandmaster. I would not understand firsthand the political complexities of this unique country, or wept with pride and joy having voted for the first black President and seen him being sworn into office. I would not have my American son, bright, funny, talented, towering over me at 6 foot 7, showing in his features both his European and Native American blood. I would not be who I am today, strong, resilient, determined, upbeat in spite of some overwhelming odds, my heart full of stories with a unique perspective, having been born from Flemish - French parents in Belgium and having lived in the US now for 37 years. If I had to carry the silence of one who sees things she often had no one to share with, I also have  the ability to share it now, with you, who are reading this story, and in that ability and knowledge, I am finally becoming my own person, finally becoming free, at 55, to be me.

The Pope's Red Shoes

I could not believe it. This morning, on the news, there it was. The announcement that the Pope would no longer wear red shoes, once he is officially no longer the ruling Pontiff. Really ? My God, what are we to do? Does any one care about this insignificant detail at all? Apparently, Pope Benedict XVI has his own shoe designer. Wonderful. Millions of poor Catholics walk around not owning a single pair of shoes, and the leader of the Catholic Church has his own shoe designer. WOW. Talk about being in touch with the realities of life out there. I could not believe a whole article on Papal shoes and slippers. Apparently the only Pope who in recent history got tired of all that outdated nonsense was Pope John Paul II who soon after becoming Pontiff changed to wearing ordinary brown shoes. I knew there were more than a couple of reasons I liked him. How can any one be surprised that the Catholic Church has to worry about dwindling congregations in a large part of the world, when time is wasted on  such ridiculous nonsense as the color of the Pope's shoes? I was born and raised a Catholic, but really, a bit of updating might be in order! I think Christ walked around in  sandals, and I don't think he cared what color they were. The planet is coming apart at the seams, it might be a nice morale and faith boost if Catholic people felt that the person they looked to for inspiration and moral strength actually acted like he belonged righteously in the 21st century. Let's hope the next elected Pontiff will opt for simple brown shoes. It might make us feel that would be a solid precursor to a good alignment on priorities in general.

Viktor Frankl

Just yesterday I came across an article that got my attention, and sparked my spirits. It was a brief introduction to the life and work of Jewish psychiatrist Viktor Frankl ( 1905- 1997 ), renowned for his writings and research in to the meaning of suffering and himself a survivor of three years of Nazi death camps. His main book, " Trotzdem ja Zum Leben sagen: ein Psychologe Erlebt das Konzentrationslager", meaning " Saying Yes to Life in Spite of Everything: a Psychologist Experiences the Concentration Camp", is known in English under the title "Man's Search for Meaning" ( 1959 ). His assertion was that even in the most inhumane conditions, life and suffering can have meaning. He believed that happiness is not a given, it ensues through meaning, especially in the hope and support we can give to others. His story struck me as very important, and I felt invigorated just reading about his life and work. What is striking is the fact that Viktor Frankl could have escaped the Nazi persecution, as he had an exit visa for the US, but he decided to stay, because he did not want to leave his elderly parents behind. Most of his immediate family, including his parents and his pregnant wife, perished, but even though he survived, he was willing to risk dying with them. He ended up publishing 39 books in 40 languages, sharing his existential analysis shaped largely by his experiences in the concentration camps. In 1985, the American Psychiatric Association awarded Viktor Frankl the Oskar Pfister Award for his important contributions to religion and psychiatry. One of my favorite quotes of his is this passionate conviction : " The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved." Sometimes you can read something that puts into focus all your own efforts, and reading those words by Viktor Frankl yesterday did that for me. As someone who has survived the trauma of a family that destroyed itself by lies and intrigue,resulting in tragic deaths and ruin, love as a pure goal in and of itself has become the corner stone of meaning , giving me the energy to believe in my marriage, my son and his talents , and my own redemption and talents. You can lose a lot in life, status, money, family, friends, health, dreams, but as long as your heart stays open to love, and continues to have love for the people you do have in your life, and that love is returned, you will be fine, your life will have meaning, and you will that way indeed be happy. You will be happy, because your life has meaning, just as it had meaning for Viktor Frankl, even in his darkest days. So, love the people in your life with all your heart, passion, energy, time and conviction. You won't regret a thing, no matter what else you are struggling with.

Detour

Lebanese poet and novelist Kahlil Gibran once said something that has haunted me ever since I read his words when I was about thirty: " My loneliness started the day I realized people were praising me for my weaknesses, and despised me for my virtues." That razor sharp observation seems, to this day, to fit me on more days than I care to recall. And it has made me realize, a little late in life, how much energy, hope, joy one can lose, misdirect, when we have a shy heart that is slow to learn how to have its needs met. To this day, it is far easier for me to take care of others, rather than making sure I am OK. Now, surely, being kind and considerate of others is a very good thing, God knows the world has no shortage of narcissists, but to be able to figure out your own needs and have them met is a key ingredient to a balanced life. My mother did her very best to ignore me, to pretend I was not there, to treat her oldest daughter as competition best denied. She was a true narcissist who adored herself, and made sure she came first, and that she was the center of attention. I  never learned that I was valuable, pretty, smart, talented, at least not from her. So, I grew up always trying to please people, especially when trying to figure out dating. So, when I married at age 29, I continued doing the same thing, please, be quiet, anything to make sure I was acceptable, liked, loved. I married a good man, but with a very strong will, and it took me a good twenty years to feel like I was and am his equal. My own dreams and talents were put on hold, and it took the tragic disintegration of my parents' marriage, and sisters' lives, to wake up completely out of that narco sedation, that had me completely numb to my own heart and spirit. Talk about a detour. I am finally writing, a dream I have had since I was 17, and I am 55 now. As parents, as spouses, we really should try to respect each other's individuality and not plough over our loved ones identities. The walk back from that can be bitter and very painful. I got lucky, and all the years that passed I ascribe to lessons learned. So, nowadays I might be more solitary, but I am no longer lonely, because I am in touch with my own heart and soul. And nowadays, I do get praise for my virtues. and yes, my weaknesses get a kick in the rear too, when needed. It feels a whole better than the other way around. It took a lifetime to get there, a lot of sorrow and tears, but I am just grateful I  made it in one piece. Don't be shy, don't hide your beauty, your soul, your heart and talents, let no one take advantage of you.  That is what I tell myself now, and now I smile when my 6 foot 7 son tells me ," No one messes with you, isn't that right , mama?" And nowadays, I assure you, no one does. 

Wild Thing

A friend of mine in Texas introduced me to a fantastic writer, a British woman by the name Jay Griffiths. I read her book "WILD: AN ELEMENTAL JOURNEY". It is one of the most amazing books I have read in some time. She travels around the world in search of experiencing what and where the planet's wild earth, ice, oceans, fire, and air can still be found. It made me burn with longing for a natural freedom so many of us no longer know. She minces no words as to her disgust at corporate greed today and imperial, colonial greed past, that has raped and pillaged time and again our blue green planet. But it is not ever a tirade, it is always a highly personal journey that she manages to draw the reader in to, and thereby cleverly turns the reader into an eager participant. You want to be there with her, no matter the danger, no matter the risks, controversy, challenges, physically, politically. Her energy is amazing, her research passionate and intriguing. Her language that of a cultured poet, her anger raw and real, her own passions honest and seductive. She is formidable in her enthusiasm, her determination, her fearlessness. Quite a woman, quite a writer. I have always been drawn to nature, as a way to replenish my soul, and have long been disgusted at how we betray true happiness and decency as a culture in favor of monetary greed and power. Jay Griffiths has a great respect for the natural world and all its beauty, strength, wisdom, resources, variety. That too, is something I appreciate, having a deep respect for tribal and nomadic and aboriginal societies. The author does a very good job explaining the history, politically, socially and religiously, the horrendous tragedies inflicted on native peoples from Africa to Asia, to the Druids eradicated by Christianity in Europe, the persecution of the Romani, to the gruesome genocide of the the native tribes in North, Central and South America, to Australia, and Papua, New Guinea. Not a corner of the planet escaped. It is a scathing indictment, and a lyrical testament, a deeply moving and personal journey of rediscovery, affirmation, joy, hope and yes, love.

The Minestrone

The last week, I have been miserable with a sinus cold, drained of energy, aching, with a throbbing head ache, just trying to get through the day, trying to get the necessary sleep, always a challenge around here, to recover. One day, my husband said : " Would you like me to make some vegetable soup?" I eagerly accepted. So my creative cook of a husband set out to make the best minestrone soup I think I ever had, with finely chopped parsley, onions, tomatoes, garlic, red potatoes, red beans. It was so good, with some grated Parmesan cheese on top, and a whole grain buttered hot roll. Ah, it wrapped my beat up body and emotionally vulnerable heart as if in a warm blanket. To be loved, when you are at your most unlovable, irritable, tired, with red eyes and runny nose, sneezing, hacking, coughing, feeling ugly and worn out, it was magical, the best medicine ever. As hard as marriage can be, as challenging as it can be certain days to keep a 27 year relationship thriving on a daily basis, there are times when the tenderness of enduring love make it all worth while. This miserable head and sinus cold was worth it, because it made me realize my husband loves me still, as I warmed my heart and body time and again from the big pot of steaming hot , delicious minestrone. Home is where the heart is, I can only hope I make Michael and Nicholas feel as cozy and safe as they make me feel all these years. This is the best Valentine's gift my husband could have gotten me. His own time, his own effort, coming from his heart, steadfast and there, each and every day.

Dude

It is impressive how one person can leave an impact, an impression that time just does not erase, no matter the will or effort involved. Almost 10 ten years have passed, and there is one person who has not left my soul's memories or song. He was a very close friend, and yes, he was controversially close, but matters of the heart have a will of their own. About 8 years ago, he left the neighborhood, and I haven't seen him since. It 's funny what the mind remembers. The last time I saw Jeff, he was waiting outside his garage, and I was walking by with my then two dogs, Napoleon and Lafayette, close to New Year's Eve, and he wished me "a great Holiday". Then, his son came down the street on his skateboard, and the last words I heard Jeff say were: " Dude, I just got you the best Christmas present." Why do I remember that? It makes me smile, as I realize the eager heart will collect any piece it can retrieve to put in its little scrap book. I wish, all these years later, I would see him somewhere, at a store, and be able to ask him, "How are you?", and tell him how sorry I am at how poorly I handled our special friendship. No matter how hard a friendship can be, no matter its challenges, no matter the conflict, if there are true feelings, it is worth saving. He was so easy to talk to, and a good listener, he was calm and funny, smart, warm. His eyes were a dark chocolate brown,and he was one of my best friends, and I let him go. I miss him, I guess I always will, if I still do all those years later. But I never see him any where, and maybe he never thinks of me any more, and would not want to talk to me, since I was not very nice at the end. I miss you, Jeff. Maybe in some universe, I will see you again, and may be I will be more gentle with our unique connection.  See you, dude. I do any way, at least I run into you time and again, in my dreams. Wherever you are, I hope and pray you are happy, healthy and loved.

Saturday Morning

By the time Friday evening rolls around, I think there is a consensus of relief. Every one made it through another work and school week, and is looking forward to the weekend to recoup and relax. Friday evenings have a luxurious feeling of an ocean of time, where the next Monday seems very far away. Sleeping in is another luxury. Ah, Saturday morning. The glorious feeling that time is yours for a couple of days. However, there are certain Saturdays that are tinged with a certain unease, a certain nagging at the sleeve of our pajamas that makes us sigh, go ahead and take that early shower any way, and get some chores done. The end of winter approaches, the air is warmer during the afternoons, windows and doors are opened to let in fresh, clean air, and all of a sudden, dust bunnies are showing up everywhere the playful sun feels like shaming the house with. All right, all right,let's do this, I'm thinking. The sky is turquoise blue, the sun is warm, the birds are singing, the garden is calling for a major cleanup, so what the hell am I dusting my house for, cleaning out cupboards and closets? I guess now that the windows are washed, I might as well add a touch of fresh air to the innards of the house , too. But I just want to be outside! Humans sure are labor intensive and quite stupid. What is with all this stuff we keep around? I want to be a cat in a next life, or a squirrel. No need to keep much stuff around, no wasting time on a beautiful day doing mind numbing stuff like washing and dusting, no need to still have to brush and floss, and put on pajamas before going to bed. What a bunch of tedious, boring routines. Saturday morning always temporarily gets me down, when I realize there's no escaping, apart from being a wealthy lady with a household staff, the monotony of the repetitive household chores. The idea of being a nomad has always had appeal to me. I always got excited when the gypsies, the Romani would pass through our town. They were allowed to stay 48 hours by law, and would camp out by the railroad tracks. I realize that packing up, and moving around a lot has its tedious parts, too. But, at least the scenery is different each time. That would be refreshing. And I get the feeling that it would be hard to become too attached to your stuff if you're always packing it up. I think it would make you very philosophical about earthly possessions and their permanence. So, on Saturday mornings, I often wish I was a gypsy, feeling the fresh air in my face en route somewhere, rather than getting all worked up about cleaning house. Again. Too much stuff, giving me visions of a giant garage sale, where everything is free. With a thank you note stuck to every redundant item ,saying "Thank you for making some breathing room in my soul today."

Scent Of A Woman

In 1992, Martin Brest directed a movie with Al Pacino called "Scent of a Woman". Al Pacino earned an Academy Award for best actor for his brilliant performance of his role as a blind alcoholic retired Army Ranger Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slade and his unlikely friendship with a prep school student, Charlie Simms, played by a very young Chris O'Donnell ( Hawaii- Five - O ). Alongside Al Pacino and Chris O"Donnell play a very young Gabrielle Anwar ( Burn Notice ), and an equally young, equally effective  Philip Seymour Hoffmann. The film focuses on how the irascible retired Colonel finds a forgotten passion for integrity in order to save Charlie Simms from expulsion at the hands of a cowardly prank by fellow prep students. Al Pacino is memorable as ever as he relaxes in to a friendship with Charlie, and shares with him his passion for the good things in life, not the least of which are beautiful women. Although blind , the Colonel 's other senses are very keen, and his ability to name the perfume on a woman sitting close by is both touching and intriguing. The scene where Al Pacino teaches a demure blushing teenage Gabrielle Anwar how to tango at the swanky Waldorf Astoria, is sizzling with sensuality and heat. Eventually, the Colonel who initually had advised Charlie to squeal on his cowardly fellow students, comes to an eloquent bold defense of him in front of the entire student body, and the ludicrous charges are dropped. The decision to come to Charlie's assistance was probably triggered by how impressed the Colonel was at Charlie's resolute and fearless resolve to keep the Colonel from committing suicide, when in a drunken stupor. At the end of the movie , it is intimated that the Colonel will befriend and court a gorgeous redhead faculty member of the prep school, thereby fulfilling his longing for a steady realtionship with a woman. The movie to me is brilliant because of Al Pacino's flawless portrayal of Colonel Frank Slade, who stirs the longing in all of us for passion despite the very ordinary struggles of daily life. It is a fantastic movie, a reaffirmation of life, character, integrity, and yes, love.