Yes!

It can happen, I kept thinking this morning, as I was putting away the breakfast dishes and heard on the news that Pope Francis I has refused the sumptuous  papal apartments commenting:" You can fit 300 people in here. I'll live in the guest house." Next the news showed pictures of the pontiff kneeling and washing and kissing the feet of prisoners, most of whom were Muslim and atheist. I sighed with happiness. Finally, after so long and so much corruption and cowardice in the Catholic Church, finally, a man after Christ's heart, a man of true courage and integrity who just shrugs off all the ridiculous protocol of the Vatican. How wonderful, how uplifting for the millions of downtrodden across the globe, whether they be Catholic or not, to see that in a world that is eating itself alive with greed and selfishness, a man of high status, of high power can stand up to one of the largest institutions in the world, and simply, boldly, emphatically say, no, I will not be part of this. Enough already. This is not what Christ was all about, this is not how He lived. He did not live in a palace, or sleep in a huge expensive bed. This is ridiculous, I am not doing this. How uplifting for all of us who have had struggles, who struggle still, for a chance at happiness, at dignity, belonging, hope. I am not in prison, I am not living through a horrible war, in a refugee camp, I am not hungry, or cold, or homeless. I do have a good husband, and a wonderful son. I do know what it feels like to be betrayed, to be hurt, to be cast out of my own family, to have had a mother who loved herself above all others, and who corrupted her daughters and wounded them deeply, one badly enough for her to take her own life. This new Pope, Pope Francis I gives me hope, in my daily struggles, to believe in the dignity of my life in spite of all the broken dreams, to keep believing in love, in compassion, in family, even though my family sold me out. To keep trying to be a good wife, in spite of having had to overcome a mother who did everything to convince us that affairs were the way to handle marriage, to try to be a good mother, even though our mother sacrificed her children to pay all her attention to her many lovers and ridiculed and abused our father endlessly. Francis I gives me joy in trying each day to humbly be a better person, in spite of the shame and guilt of the past, to keep believing in kindness even though I went without it myself often, to keep believing in my dreams, as an animal rights person, as a poet, a memoir writer, as a human being trying to make sense of life. Yes! I am so happy with this Pope, to me he feels like a miracle, a touch of mercy in a lot of darkness, here in our own country, and abroad. Good still exists, thank God ! Yes! Yes!!

Blue Musing

The day started its rhythm softly, like a whisper, as I stepped outside in the cold mid- March early morning air. A bird fluted sharply through the silent sky, that looked like pale blue gossamer veils stretched as far as I could see. The fluted bird song hit a nerve, and my early morning vague mood got hit with a wave of melancholy. A longing to just stay outside until my spirit blended with the wind and trees. Above me, the pale ink outline of quietly floating seagulls took me back to a similar sight at the seaside when I was still in high school in Belgium. The silence of the spirit searching for its own soul has been a part of me since I discovered  Lao-Tzu ' s maxim, " Silence is the highest revelation". There was a crow perched on the top of a large pine tree above our roof. He or she just sat there, stock still. How awesome to sit up there so high. Below her, we must look like fools, scurrying about like so many frightened ants, day in day out. She took off with a loud squawk, and how I wished I was her in that moment, free, to fly wherever she wanted to. God must have favored birds, because he gave them freedom. He must have had doubts about humans, for we were required to invent bicycles, motor scooters, cars, trains, buses, airplanes and rockets to get around, if we want to cover any distance. Even then, we cannot help crashing those things, or using them to compete against each other, or blow things up, and even kill each other. Yes, give me a bird's wings and freedom any time. Our two cats come and go as they please, come home contentedly after a sojourn through the neighborhood and crash for a happy, long nap. Dogs, like us are bound by some curious necessity commanded by some invisible decree, that they are allowed freedom only if their owners are so inclined to walk or exercise them. So, like us, they spend a lot of time hoping, waiting for that anticipated moment of freedom. I have devoted quite a bit of time and effort in giving locked up and mistreated neighborhood dogs a second chance. Freedom. The birds have it, we as humans do, if we are lucky. If we are not confined due to abuse, illness, prison, a repressive government, war. I love early mornings, any season, any weather, and if the birds are not up yet, or not around yet, I look up at the stars, who, they too, seem to speak of freedom, as they are so far up there, and sparkle, seemingly standing still, but really reminding us of this huge spinning universe, that has us moving so very fast, even though this morning it feels like we are all standing still, body, soul and spirit.

In Praise of the Ordinary

My husband and son and I lead a quiet life these days, probably quite ordinary from the outside look of it. But I am discovering that for someone who got a second chance at simple happiness after a lot of family tragedy and intrigue, that the ordinary can come quite close to bliss. My husband went with me shopping for some new shoes, and we went grocery shopping together looking for a fun meal to cook on date night, as our son was spending the weekend at his best friend's house. We took our young, energetic dog for a brisk walk in the sun, laughing at her enthusiasm and at our luck , as it started pouring rain as soon as we got back to the house. After dinner, my husband built a great, cozy fire in the fireplace, and we watched a good action thriller together. Just the simple pleasure of being together with the person you love who has stood by me  for going on 27 years now. On Sunday, our son came home, and we had dinner together, and chatted amicably during and after dinner, we all slept in and my husband made a big brunch, and we lazed around on the deck in the fresh spring light and sunshine. Our next door neighbor was mowing his lawn, and our dog was barking and visiting with his dog across our fences. My son was looking forward to a whole week off from college for Spring break, which meant I get an hour extra sleep in the mornings. We had been using a new shampoo and conditioner, with Moroccan Argan oil extract, and we all enjoyed the new sweet rich scent and fullness it gave our hair. Simple pleasures, on a simply happy weekend. No stress, no schedule, no worries, no tension, just three people, relaxed, content. I would step outside after the rain subsided time and again, and luxuriate in the feel of the warm sun on my face. I petted and brushed our 13 year old kitty napping in the warm afternoon, I fed the eager two squirrels who come around for breadcrumbs and apple cores I put out for them. The birds were noisily and happily welcoming the new spring. The simple pleasures of life, a cozy home, a loving family, plenty of food, shelter, security, safety and peace. Long live the ordinary, if it feels that good.

Arabesque

I woke up from a strange dream, that put me back in graduate school in Texas. In the dream, I meet up with a dear friend who tells me he is getting married to his long standing girl friend. He invites me to the wedding, beaming, saying it will be lavish. I politely decline, a bit irked at his elation, and walk away, in search of my large red leather purse, which I seem to have lost track of in the course of our conversation. I finally find it, a female friend had it safely tucked away behind my chair, during a lecture we were both attending. In the dream my friend looks young, his black hair free of any grey, and I look young again, too. The day started quiet, as my son left for the weekend get together at one of his best friends' house, and my husband would be at work until evening. The sun came and went, it seems, all late morning and late afternoon. I turned off the news, the radio, and listened to the music of the wind chimes, the early spring birds, the fresh breeze, and my own quiet breathing. This was destined to be a very quiet day. My brain flooded with memories of quiet days when I was growing up. I was mostly ignored at family gatherings, left to my own devices, as I was a quiet and serious child, no one figured would get into trouble. So, I would wander around, in silence, away from the gathering, the chatter, that was irrelevant to my 10 year old mind, and look around the different rooms of whatever house we happened to be at. There was a dream like quality to those silent and solitary adventures, and perhaps that is why to this day, quiet days seem to always acquire an unreal, dream like quality. Perhaps that is why my dreams have always been so vivid, down to the most intricate details, of color, dress, conversations, food, weather, time of day. It 's like I never really existed as a child, since no one paid attention to me, or talked to me, so , on quiet days, it still feels like I don't exist. It is a bit unnerving, not necessarily unpleasant, it is just something that is a part of me, and that most people don't know a thing about, not even my husband and son. My parents had a lot of wealthy friends, with very large, fancy houses. One of my most favorite houses to be ignored in, was the house of my parents' friends, Margot and Jeff Cousee- Cambier. These people had traveled all over the world, and had rooms full of trophies from Asia and Africa. I used to be allowed,quiet docile child that I was, to wander the huge three story mansion at my leisure. I still remember the vague smell of lilacs and vanilla the house seemed permeated by. The conversations were always in French, as the wife was from Wallonia, which added a touch of extravagance to the whole atmosphere for a Flemish child. By then, I was 12, and understood already quite a bit, but the adults seemed to blissfully ignore that fact, so I was privy to bits and pieces of juicy information concerning all sorts of private matters. Margot's house had secret passage ways, which were a delight to me, and her house was one I always anticipated visiting, even though the experience was always a hauntingly lonely one. So, here I am, at 55, having a very quiet day, in a very small house, with no secret passage ways, or people speaking an exotic language, and maybe that is why I longed for my exotic friend from my graduate days, who now is married and far away, in an exotic land, speaking a language far more exotic than French, actually, several of them. A quiet day, pulling me back ,in my solitary contemplations and circumstances, to very quiet childhood days, by the sea, by the hills, in the city, in the country, filling my memories with scents as disparate as drying sun scented hay, to sand and ocean salt, to sandalwood incense and cigar smoke, and rich red wines wafting from  conversation absorbed adult relatives and friends. A la recherche du son perdu.

Clutter

It is interesting how seemingly mundane, annoying things in life can point to a deeper truth. I am surrounded by it, at times exasperated by it, forever struggling with and against it, sometimes it has me near tears in its persistent presence, sometimes it has me laughing: clutter. I grew up in a posh, luxurious super clean house free of the stuff. However, the chaos that was invisible, hidden, left its mark, and even though now my life is quite free of any chaos , my small house is plagued by physical clutter. I thought about it for quite some time, and realized that displaced people, either physically or culturally, emotionally speaking, who also struggle to stay abreast of economic stress, often have a lot of clutter around. We hang on to stuff, as best we can, surrounding ourselves with the rescued wreckage of childhood, relationship, cultural, economic displacement and hurt. We are like children who were told they had just ten minutes to pack, because it was time to hit the road, for whatever sad or tragic reason. Let's go! So, we packed what we could, broken memories, broken dreams hastily taped together, broken relationships in faded, outdated photographs, and off we went to wherever we could get, and are still trying to go. There is a softness, a vulnerability to the humility of my small curio shop of a house, it is the kind of place that has closets with no seeming bottom, where our cats can hide happily. A home where dust bunnies play leap frog noisily, where our dog can safely nap on the old futon in the living room, where all the china I have in the world consists of a small drawer  of mismatched silver ware, too many cups, one set of plates and bowls and one set of glasses that matches and a bunch of glassware that doesn't. A far cry from my mother's two complete sets of Limoges china, and her chest of Christophe silverware and crystal glasses going back to 1830 engraved with the family crest. Yes, she valued me all right, even let my 6 year old son hold a golden spoon out of her family collection. Such a sweet mother and grandmother. Clutter. My house has posters, and drawings my son made, and the small tapestries I do, and 3 small family paintings out of the hundreds and hundreds my family had. Some people are displaced due to wars, natural disasters, violence or just bad luck financially. I became a refugee of my own family, I had to flee them to survive. So, I took what I had, which was next to nothing, and they made sure it stayed that way.Yet, my home is cozy, warm, has love , security, peace and joy. I fails all the requirements my parents would ask of it, it has no luxury, no expensive furniture, no expensive art, or objets d'art, no Oriental rugs, no silver, crystal, no one to impress and nothing to impress them with. But is has something they sacrificed, a family who stands together and loves each other through thick and thin. So I think I will take the clutter, because the clutter kindly holds the treasure of the love I have with my husband and son in a most humble, quiet but real and very happy way. Things rarely are what they appear that way because it is sure true that not all that glitters is gold and not all that is humble happiness defies.

Francis I

Like quite a few people I was very skeptical about the election of the next Pope. Then , as the papal conclave got under way, and the short list of potential candidates started to be discussed in the media, I felt a sense of curiosity and hope. The Cardinal from Boston, and the Cardinal from Brazil, and the Cardinal from Ghana were talked about at some length. This seemed promising. When the white smoke appeared from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel, I was definitely excited and very hopeful that the Catholic Church had chosen a Pope who would bring new breath to the 1.2 billion Catholics world wide. When it was announced that the newly elected Pope was Cardinal Bergoglio from Argentina, who chose the name Francis I,  I felt a wave of emotion and joy. He took the name after Saint Francis of Assisi, known for his devotion to helping the poor, and apparently Pope Francis I is known for his humble service to the poor. He apparently refused the privilege of a limousine as a Cardinal and used public transportation, and lived in a simple flat. Now, there's a Pope for you, a man after Christ's heart. As soon as I saw the newly elected Pope step to the window of the balcony, and saw his smile and heard him say the simple words to the crowd, "Bonna serra "," good evening", and saw the radiance and warmth of his presence, I felt engulfed in a deep gratitude and elation. Good still exists, good things can still happen, even on a grand scale. It was wonderful. The simple prayers he prayed together with the crowd, asking them to also pray for him, as well as his predecessor, were deeply touching. His request to pray in silence with him for a few minutes, turning the entire 10,000 plus crowd silent in sincere devotion was amazing. Pope Francis I charisma was almost instantaneous. I was born and raised a Catholic in Belgium, and am now a member since the last 19 years of an African American Baptist Church. But I believe that today it did not matter whether you were Catholic, Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, or Hindu, what mattered was that all believers saw a man who stands for compassion, humility, kindness, service and surely the world is in great need of those very timely qualities in the largest organization on the planet. Saint Francis of Assisi has always been my most favorite saint, and to now have a Pope named after this amazing Italian saint is nothing short of fantastic. I think tonight all of Rome and Italy is already quite taken by Francis I, and soon the rest of the world will be. Today, there is a new bright light in the Vatican, and how bright it shines already.

The Texas Connection

A friend of mine in Texas is an artist, a painter, and a rather good one at that. We accidentally met on Face Book, and are sharing experiences with literature and art. He recently expressed concern about the need for a larger studio space, for a series of larger canvases he is doing. That triggered memories of my father who helped a number of struggling artists with consistent resources. Sometimes it was exhibit space, sometimes rent during a trying stretch between showings, sometimes house rent. I remember how supportive he was of one artist, Raul Vanden Heede, who was struggling with a whiskey addiction that was severe enough to be threatening his eyesight. It was so interesting as a 10 year old , spending time at Raul's tiny house and studio, listening to him sharing stories about his other favorite addiction, prostitutes, as the pungent air of turpentine and oil paints filled my nose and eyes. It is no wonder I developed a taste for the novels of Heinrich Boll by the time I was 16. For all the isolation of the last eight years, I am glad the fire of art is being passed on to my son, and how I enjoy watching him draw, as his skills blossom and develop. My father passed away from complications of Alzheimer's disease 5 years ago. The circumstances were so tragic, as he languished alone in an Alzheimer's center in Oostende, Belgium, abandoned, kicked out by our crazed alcoholic mother when he was already ill, having lost me because I could not see over the mountain of lies and intrigue that separated us in time and space. By the time I was able to reach out to him, write to him, send him warm sweaters and pajamas, he no longer knew who I was. He was a good man, addicted to a spoiled woman, our mother, who proved as lethal as cyanide, destroying any semblance of a family, one poisonous drop at a time. I am glad my son is an artist, and to have an artist friend in Texas, a place that I will always remember as a second home. There is a saying my father was fond of repeating, "Bredero zei : Het kan verkeren", which translated from the Flemish means: "Bredero said : things have been known to change." Yep, they sure did for our family, and yet in all the destruction, there is , a Texas connection to a good painter, and the joy of watching my son follow his artist skill and heart. Oh, by the way, Bredero was a 17 th century Dutchman, connected via the Royal Dutch Navy to the House of Orange.

The Yellow Rose of Texas

It will be 25 years this spring since my husband and I moved to Washington State. When we moved here, I knew no one here but my husband, who had lived here before going to graduate school in Austin, Texas, where we would meet in the fall of 1984. Before moving to Washington State, I had lived almost 11 years in Texas. One year in Dallas as a foreign exchange student attending a local high school, four years attending TCU, and six and a half years in graduate school in Austin. When I was about 5, I wanted to be a cowboy, and had a toy pistol and a red cowboy hat. Little did I know I would spend ten years in Texas, between the ages of 19 and 29. I have recently gotten back in touch with my brother's ex-wife, and gotten to know via texts and some pictures, my brother's 21 year old daughter, whom I have never met in person. I also got back in touch with two friends from TCU and started an intellectual connection with a local artist in Fort Worth, who graduated from TCU. It makes for some strange emotions, to re- visit a place that holds a lot of meaning, and memories. At TCU I made friends that would allow for trips to Mexico City, Guadalajara, Cozumel, Kinshasa, Costa Rica. Those trips were wonderful adventures in culture and personal connections. At Austin, I met my husband of 27 years, I got married there, and to this day I am friends with three very dear friends I met while in graduate school in Austin. My French friend Catherine, who has worked and lived in Paris for the last 28 years, my friend Eduardo, from El Paso, who is now a Jesuit priest and professor of theology at Berkeley, and my friend Driss  from Morocco, who is now President of Al Akhawayn University in Ifrane, Morocco. Wonderful memories of all three friends, then, and a great connection still with them to this day. Then, there are the strange memories. the dark ones. The beginning of my youngest sister ' s illness, the bizarre circumstances of my mother's last years when she was living with my divorced brother. She died in Texas, but my father died in Belgium. There are also the happy memories of my host mom, Dottie, who now lives in Weatherford, Texas, and of my friend Ellen, the first friend I ever made at TCU, and who is my friend still. When I left Texas in January 1987, I left everything familiar behind to move to Washington State across the country where I knew no one outside of my husband. I am Flemish born and lived in my native Belgium for almost 20 years, but 10 years in Texas made that state a second home in my heart, at least experience wise. Washington State is home, where we bought a house that we have lived in for the last 24 years, where my son was born, and where I made some lasting friendships with some very good neighbors, and a very wise pastor at the African American church where I have been a member for going on 19 years. I was sworn in as an American Citizen in Seattle on September 29th, 1994. So, for all intents and purposes, Washington State is home. But, I cannot deny, that on the rare occasion I hear the song "The Yellow Rose of Texas", that my heart skips a beat, and a wistful smile covers my face.

A Whiter Shade of Pale

There are probably few people who grew up in the rock and roll generation that are not familiar with Procol Harum's famous song, "A Whiter Shade of Pale", released by the British band on May 12th, 1967. It is a song I remember hearing as a rather lonely 10 year old, not comprehending its words or meaning, but recognizing it for its haunting emotional quality and inherent sadness. Today, it was playing on the classic rock station I was listening to in the car as I was sharing with my 20 year old son my anxiety about finding my way back on an unfamiliar road home, now that his job address changed. I thought back with quite a bit of frustration and anger mixed with sadness, how my parents had ignored my social needs, among them, my driving, and how that has haunted me my whole adult life, causing quite a bit of anxiety as to my technical self confidence and mobility. I manage now, but I still don't drive on freeways, or at night, or out of town on my own. My father was too busy to notice my distress as a teenager, and my mother was way too worried about her hair and clothes, and next boyfriend, to have any "spare" time to concern herself with something so "minor", as her oldest daughter social and emotional well- being. Damned that whore, I was fuming today, as I steeled my resolve to get going on an unfamiliar road, and managed to get home, relieved, happy. I quickly got in the house, and text ed my son, to make sure he knew I was OK. If you have children, or are young enough to plan on having children, pay attention to them, or don't have any kids. They are not furniture, to be dusted off when ever you remember they are around. Your action, in-action, affect them directly and can leave scars that can last a lifetime. I fight every day against things that are second nature to most 16 year olds in this country. So many times I wanted to go places, but was locked in fear and insecurity. It has gotten better with time, but it will always be a struggle, and my talents for writing, art, travel, took a serious dent over the years, as I was often unable to get where I needed to go on my own and was too embarrassed to ask for help or none was available, to get to a new friend's house, to church, to a poetry meeting. It left a numbing, stupefying sadness, and frustration, that I deal with as it comes up. Confiding about this is embarrassing too, people look at you like you are some kind of mental case. So, today, I got another taste of that challenge, and today, with my husband's and son's support and a renewed sense of dignity and confidence, I made it. A Whiter Shade of Pale. I know that song is supposed to be sexual in its intentions and mood, but to me it always takes me back to a lonely childhood, and how that mark makes me struggle for visibility, and make me noticed, even though my soul feels very pale, clear, not as in oh, yes, I can see you, but as in, very pale, a whiter shade of pale, I don't see you.

Rambo

I think quite a few people are familiar with the Rambo movie series, starring Sylvester Stallone. There are four movies in the series, spanning between 1982, and 2008. I love all of them. I can watch them all in a row, and I am fascinated with, well, my fascination with them. Sylvester Stallone, in my opinion, is brilliant in his role as Green Beret John Rambo. He also, let's be fair, looks amazing in his muscular body, the guy is a powerhouse in these movies. So, I got to thinking, why does someone like me, with an interest in literature, poetry, nature, love these movies so much? OK, I am a Tae Kwon Do black belt, and obviously enjoy physical fighting skills. But I think my fascination with the Rambo character is all the stuff that gets blown up. The bad guys really get it in the rear , and I find that very satisfying. In real life, there are very persistent problems we have to deal with over sometimes many years, or even a life time, and we have to grind away at them, slowly, persistently, like a snail sometimes. It gets trying, and I think we all have the fantasy at times, of thinking how wonderful it would be to be allowed to "blow up" our problems, in a big, fiery explosion. Kaboom!! Problem solved! Next! Especially in the 2008 movie, where Rambo mows down an army of evil dudes. But in all four movies, he blows up the prison camps from a helicopter, and I find it satisfying every time, to see these places of living hell be blown into smithereens in a huge cloud of noise, fire and smoke. To me, John Rambo personifies a deep desire to eradicate suffering, to right terrible wrongs, to stand up to indifference and corruption. I am so glad Sylvester Stallone did these movies. I watch the whole series every year, and it feels like therapy. I love how passionately Sylvester Stallone embraces his role as Rambo, he really becomes the frustrated hero. There are many things I have to accept, just like most people, I suspect, with enduring resolve and patience, and it is fun, and healing to me to just get riled up about Rambo tipping the balance, for a few adrenalin fueled hours, in favor of the good guys.