Tinker Bell

The Tinkerbell character,apparently should be spelled Tinker Bell. The fairy first appeared in J.M. Barrie's 1904 play "Peter Pan" and its 1911 novelization "Peter and Wendy". She is world famous now, and has always been my most favorite Disney character in their animated version of her. Her fascination to me goes back to my childhood when I first saw her in the Disney movie "Peter Pan". The fun thing to me about her was her strong will, in spite of her small size. The fact that she could fly and because of her small size get in and out of tight spots, literally, only added to the appeal. She was important in spite of her diminutive size, and she was not afraid to throw her importance around. She also left that cool trail of gold pixie dust, and wore those fun slippers and that cool outfit. She was not afraid to be angry or shrewd if need be,I thought it would be fun to be Tinker Bell. In spite of only making a tinkling sound and not being able to verbalize, she was very effective at getting her point across. In a world of seemingly befuddled females, Tinker Bell was quite independent and for the most part quite unimpressed with male shenanigans. That is probably why I still get a kick out of her and have a Tinker Bell figurine, and even a Tinker Bell necklace. As someone who is still trying to figure out an effective way to get my needs met and respected when it comes to men, Tinker Bell is kind of an inspiration tucked away in a corner of my brain where the childhood memories and struggles are stored, dealing with domineering male cousins, uncles, and a rather forceful father when it came to gender lines. Not to mention my adult brain now, still fuming at times, quite like Tinker Bell was known to do, when dealing with my strong willed husband and some of his confounding attitudes. Tinker Bell keeps me smiling at my struggles without giving up my determination or perspective.

Standing Still in Time

A couple of days ago I went through some prints my father left me of the Flemish artist Rogier van der Weyden, who was born in 1400 in Tournai and died in Brussels in1464. I was thinking specifically of his exquisite portraits of noble women, enchanting because of their peaceful atmosphere both in the rendered detail of dress and accessories and character depth. I was sitting outside, working on an embroidery piece of a family of red-eyed tree frogs, my hair being teased off and on by a very warm breeze, and smiling contentedly at the concert of happy birds all around me in the backyard trees. The sky was bright blue, with bright white puffy clouds. I was sitting at the glass table on our deck, partially shaded by a huge canvas umbrella, and our ranch style red house, quiet, together with the peace of the day, reminded me of some of the back ground scenery in Rogier van der Weyden's paintings, like the one surrounding Marie-Magdalene. I felt like time was standing still, a sensation enhanced by the stitchery project I was working on, and the quiet all around me, with the outdoor absence of any mechanical noise. Often, by 8 o'clock in the mornings on weekdays, the white noise of the freeway 15 minutes away is very audible in our back yard, but as it was Saturday morning, the familiar noise was blissfully absent. Noise was replaced by sound, very pleasant sound at that, of breeze, and rustling leaves, and buzzing bees, and singing birds. Time seemed to be taking a nap somewhere under one of our fruit trees. I felt outside of time, yet part of it in a larger sense, in a sense of time already spent, and time yet to come, but with a perspective of experience, history, not the urgency of having to press on. It was a delightful feeling, full of possibilities and space. I breathed contentedly the fresh, sweet air that was permeating my hair, my clothes like a fragrant incense floating all around me. I was not necessarily just me, I was a timeless woman, any where in time, working in her garden on an embroidery, in a quiet street, in a quiet house, surrounded by sun and birds, much like a woman might have been doing on a Saturday morning in the Flemish part of Belgium more than 600 years ago. The realization filled me with a deep sense of peace. For a couple of hours, I was standing still in time, free from cell phone, computer, television, car, stereo, laundry machine, dishwasher, land line phone messages, noise of overhead plane or helicopter. And as much as I appreciate these comforts that to even a wealthy woman would have been pure fantasy and science fiction, if not witch craft 600 years ago, I was truly enjoying my timeless morning without them.

Flock of Geese

The morning started out beautiful. A blindingly bright white disk of sun already heating up the new day. Birds chirping energetically under the turquoise of the sky, and in that glory, in the distance, behind the trees, the sound of a flock of returning geese. Their triumph was undeniable, my heartbeat sped up in spontaneous appreciation of their joy. The honking grew louder, and then, suddenly, there they were, a big flock, in perfect V- shape formation. And then, without warning, it happened. I started choking with tears, streaming down my face like small rivulets, as I started heaving in an effort to control their flow. My eyes were blinded with the sunlight, as I stood, feeling so small and helpless in my early morning slippers and pj's, looking up at these free creatures, parading their beautifully synchronized return with spring. A family. A big family. Of birds. As I stood looking up, alone, reminded of my isolation and loss. How I wanted to be one of them, be there, flying high up in the sky, full of purpose, full of meaning, making my struggles seem so speck like insignificant. It seems all the cards are against me in this immigrant life of mine. A disastrous family, cold and indifferent in-laws, a super solitary husband who is not much for conversation , and personal challenges like agoraphobia with driving that make life this far West only more challenging still. The geese disappeared in a clatter of proud music and I wiped away my tears that no one would see, took a deep breath and went inside to take a hot shower and wash away the aching in my heart. At the height of his isolation, my father, before my mother unceremoniously booted him back to Belgium, told his youngest sister Lieve : " Ne meins is toch moar alleene in da gro land", meaning "A person can sure feel totally alone in this huge country". I know all too well what he meant.  

The Dandelion Seed

The weather yesterday was just sweet. Warm, sunny, bright blue sky with a concert of happy birds, a gentle breeze. Ah, spring, t'is a sweet thing. I was sitting on the deck with my two cats, all three of us grateful for the luxurious lunch break. I looked up at one time, just enjoying the ease of the afternoon, when I noticed a dandelion seed just dancing in the wind. It seemed to enjoy its blissful ride across the back yard, tumbling upside down, on what looked like a very fun ride. I thought how the seed would eventually twirl down to the ground and take root in the soil, and eventually grow a whole new dandelion flower. It made me reflect on our hopes and dreams, how the best we can hope for is to trust the wind of our inspiration, and hope our intuitions and efforts land those dreams in the right direction so they take root and grow strong and blossom. Today, the mood is different as I am reminded of an upcoming annual medical exam, bills, unpleasant relatives, far away friends and the general state of affairs in the world, rife with violence and challenges. But, when I think of my sitting in the sun yesterday, and that playfully floating dandelion seed, I smile. Its whimsy and freedom, and complete surrender to its destiny were wonderful to see, and an inspiration to my doubts and concerns today on this morning that left frost on my daffodils and pansies.

Pleased To Meet You

The Rolling Stones opened their 1968 album "Beggars Banquet" with the now very famous song "Sympathy for the Devil". It is a brilliantly performed song about the sinister pervasiveness of evil and the hypocrisy often connected to the power of evil. One of the most intriguing phrases that runs repeatedly through the song is "But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game", implying the complexity and complicity of evil in the world. Another catch phrase, "Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name " that precedes the famous "But what's puzzling you Is the nature of my game", has a wry humour to it that adds a twist of mischief to the dark subject matter. The song was playing on my favorite classic rock station this morning, as I was musing about the emotional and psychological aftermath and impact of the tragic bombings at the Boston Marathon just one week ago. Violence is inherently evil and when it is on a big scale it quickly becomes incomprehensible and very disturbing. Indeed, we are puzzled by the nature of its game, as there are more questions than answers at this point. The brilliantly executed capture of the suspects that had more than a million people under a siege in their own city was reminiscent of science fiction movies with a western style twist of inevitability and precision. There is no precedent like it in modern American history. It left the country emotionally rattled and quite startled, even though it did not take away any of our determinations and spirit and Boston and its citizens came through with amazing resilience and courage. It is easy to think of evil in abstract terms. But an act of violence of this magnitude at a peaceful, joyous gathering makes evil very concrete and devastating in impact. But because there are so many questions left, the evil is also insidiously elusive, as to the why and the more precise who behind the monstrous deeds. So, evil seems to laugh at us , telling us in a very cocky way, oh," pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name." And for now, we do not know its exact name, or who precisely orchestrated it. I hope we get to the bottom of it, so it can stop its macabre dance of insults and deception and bring some much needed closure to the victims and their families.

Surrealist Reverie

A friend of mine in Texas is a painter who keeps intriguing me with his work. This morning I noticed he had posted a photo of a piece that really caught my eye. The artist, John Carlisle Moore, who lives and works in Fort Worth shows a photograph of a small monochromatic multi-media piece that he calls "String Theory Ballerina". I was immediately struck by the rhythm and melancholy of the work. Beautiful in its surrealist rendering that is reminescent of Wassily Kandinsky's art. Wassily Kandinsky had often strong and bold colors in his paintings. What fascinates me about this quiet but very noticeable piece of John C. Moore is its mostly monochromatic vision that manages to create a powerfully reflective and highly poetic mood. It is a beautiful piece, elegant and highly effective. John Carlisle Moore is an interesting artist, in that he constantly challenges himself to go outside his comfort zone. He is also a skilled photographer. Look up his work. You will not be disappointed.

Allez Gauw

Even though I very rarely get to speak Flemish any more, Flemish words and phrases I remember from growing up,often pop up in my mind. When I get a feeling of being somewhat  discouraged, I find myself saying quietly, but out loud, "allez, gauw". This translates into the equivalent of "come on now". When I catch myself doing this, I can't help but smile. After 37 years in the US, I still have these little linguistic tics. Interesting. My father had a wicked sense of humour, and was a great story and joke teller. I remember bits and pieces of his jokes and they will come to me, at seemingly unpredictable intervals, and bring him to life again, if only in an emotional way. One of my favorite sayings of his is " da gebeurt me de slimste est, moar me de dommste meest." Translated from the Flemish dialect to " this sort of thing happens to smart people too, but mostly to stupid people." He would often say that whenever we as kids complained about some minor mishap that befell us. If he saw a heavy chested woman, and this is before the days of sexual harassment, he would say : " Ze zoeden beeter flechen op eur zetten, vo accidenten te  voyrkommen." Meaning : " They should put blinkers on her, to prevent crash injuries ". As kids, we would roar, as his humour tended to be a bit off color, or at least socially dubious. Once when he noticed a couple with a large number of what he deemed very unattractive children, he quipped : " Zen d'este drie moeten weg smyten." We were blushing with guilty embarrassment, as this translates to " They had to throw their first three kids away", implying how awfully ugly the first attempts were. Of course, as an eight year old, you had no idea that daddy was out of line, you just laughed thinking that was the most awfully funny thing you ever heard. I remember him having friends over at our house roaring laughing with one of his pranks or stories, that often had a starting point in a real anecdote, as he traveled a lot and was around a lot of people all the time. Switching tea out for coffee at hotel lobbies was a favorite trick of his, as was changing the sugar packets for salt ones in restaurants. Changing the breakfast orders hung outside hotel rooms, switching the shoes left outside the rooms, just sent him into a tizzy of mischievous delight. In those  moments, he seemed to be someone separate from the dad we knew him as, he became one of us, it was very compelling. Those memories of the mischievous part of his nature stuck. They are still with me, often on darker days, when my spirits need a lift, and I remember one of his hilarious risque phrases or pranks. Allez gauw, come on now, things will be allright, right, papa?

A 1,000 Lies

On the way home today, I heard a beautiful song by the band " 3 Doors Down", called "Here Without You", that has an amazing line: "A  1,000 lies have made me colder". The song deals with the lingering sorrow and scars of losing someone you love, and the effects of carrying on in spite of the pain. The song, also very beautiful in its melody and soulful rendition, brings to mind many people that have disappeared from my life in bizarre and tragic circumstances right in my immediate family. Both my younger sisters, through illness and untimely death, both my parents also due to tragic illnesses, my only brother due to family feud, many a loved friend, due to time and distance, or simply too complex a circumstance. Yet, I carry on, and like the song explains these lost connections show up in our dreams at night, and we meet those dear to us we lost, and talk to them, travel with them, love them all over again, in situations free of struggle and pain. We laugh with them, cry with them, and they are so real in our dreams, that we often wake up wanting to call them, only to realize with the agony of a reopened wound, that they are dead, gone, too far away, either emotionally or in real time and space. And we carry on, telling everyone we are fine, pretending we are intact, and so, like the song, as time goes on, "A 1,000 lies have made me colder", have made us colder, as we try so very hard to cover up the damage done by the heart aches time and time again. The human condition is a puzzling affair, because we are all on a stage, just like Shakespeare said all those centuries ago, and we carry on, best we can, in our costumed and groomed appearances, to fool very one around us, but never half as much as we manage to deceive ourselves. Of course, what other choice do we have? Those of us who give up all together, because they can no longer stand the pain, and take their own lives, like my youngest sister, are considered with unease, a threat to the uneasy truce the rest of us have made with the realities of our confounding lives.

The Compliment

When I was in graduate school in Austin, Texas, my third year I was there, in 1984, I met a wonderful French friend from Pruzilly. Catherine B. and I became good friends and room mates, and are friends to this day. In  her group of friends there was a French guy from Macon, France. I remember his first name, Didier, but not his last name. Anyway, at a dinner outing with a group of French students, he decided to compliment me on my French accent, and assumed I was French. He was trying to figure out what part of France I was from. Well, I had to tell him I was not French, but Belgian, and Flemish at that. His enchantment with me plummeted immediately, and he became hostile, angry. He ignored me from then on. I did not care, I did not like him anyway. But I was rather surprised at his animosity because I turned out not to be French, I just spoke it well enough to fool a native. I thought that was pretty cool, but he did apparently not think so. It's a good thing my friend Catherine turned out to be such a cool friend, because the impression Didier left, with its prejudice overtones, was far from positive. The same year, a woman from Uruguay, a graduate student visiting friends of hers at the Spanish Department where I was getting a Master's degree in Spanish and Latin American Literature, paid me a compliment along the same lines. She thought I was a native from Columbia. A good compliment, because the Colombian accent is considered something of the bees knees in Latin American accents. Now, when I told this woman I was a native from Belgium, a Flemish native, and that I had only been speaking Spanish fluently for about four years, and only studied it for 7, she was truly impressed. She made me feel good, special even, and the rest of the dinner party agreed with her. Apparently, one compliment is not like another. Now a days, few people even notice I have a slight European accent when I speak English, so these two anecdotes of two very different compliments on my linguistic ability in two languages neither of which are my mother tongue, are somewhat remarkable, even if I say so myself.

The Muppet

A year ago this coming May 7th, we adopted a young Flemish Bouvier- black Lab mix female dog, named Yara. She has the sweetest, biggest brown eyes, and this ebony black, furry coat over a lumbering body with endless energy and a ferocious bark. My husband observed her for a couple of weeks, and said : " She looks and moves like a big Muppet". Nicholas and I both laughed approvingly. Yes! Yara does look and move like a Muppet, a bit awkwardly, like someone else is responsible for her movements, and she goes along with it, best she can. It suits her though, because her fierceness is only matched by her vulnerability. My husband is not much of a talker, but when he does say something, it tends to be right on target. The name Muppet to refer to or call Yara has stuck, so now we all know who the Muppet is, and she does too, and seems to know the name has a cool meaning. Every so often Michael will say things I remember , like when he answered to what makes a good friend, "Time", while most of us come up with a long list of qualifications, from trust, loyalty, compatibility, etc. It is an endearing and intriguing  trait of his to be laconic in his best observations and conclusions, very Spartan, if you wish, and clever. An economy of words. Very interesting for an extroverted  person like myself. It is a challenge to get along with people on a daily basis, and to appreciate what you find unique about those in your life certainly puts things in a positive perspective. I at times wish my husband were more open in his communication, but his naming of Yara as the Muppet, is a reminder that even when he does not say things in so many words, he does feel and observe them, often in a very unique way. The Muppet would agree.

Lessons Learned

Once in a while a neighbor will discover I am from Belgium originally, and show some interest in what they think it must be like to be a first generation immigrant. Often the person will assume I came over here to better myself economically, or to escape political repression, neither of which are the case. My father was a very successful self-made CEO, who made a lot of money and provided very well for his wife and us four children. Well enough to be able to pay for four years of private college in the US for all four his children. Belgium has a very good social and political democratic system that takes very good care of its citizens. No one goes bankrupt paying for college for their kids, or for trying to pay off huge hospital bills. So, no, I did not better my financial and social security by immigrating to the US. But, 37 years into this American adventure I have learned some very valuable and apparently necessary lessons. Our family looked perfect from the outside, successful financially and socially, four good and smart kids, status, connections, a beautiful home. However, as time went on, it became apparent our family was riddled with serious problems that eventually tore it completely apart. As I was going through my daily routine of laundry, dishes, making beds, feeding and cleaning up after our three pets in our modest, cozy home here in Olympia, I realized how many important things I have been learning. Humility, patience, kindness, tolerance, resilience, determination, respect. Humility as an upper middle class kid towards every one who works hard for a living, who is not born with a silver spoon in their mouth, who with energy and resolve works towards a better life for themselves  and their families. Patience in reaching goals, patience in resolving conflicts and issues that my father would have resolved with saying, "How much?" Kindness towards myself and everyone around me who did not have the same opportunities or experiences. Tolerance for different lifestyles, different goals, different dreams. Resilience in reaching goals that require bridging at times huge gaps in approach, in philosophy, in culture and background. Determination when dealing with setbacks from college tuition for my son, to getting the best price or mechanic for fixing one of our used older cars that broke down yet again. Respect for skills that are far different than mine, respect for the mechanic, the electrician, the school cook, the gardener. My father, who was a self made man, once told me something I always remembered: " Have at least as much respect for the man who taught himself to play the harmonica as you have for the intellectual who understands the subtleties of a Mozart concert." In other words, respect every one's efforts, every one's intelligence, no matter how different from your own abilities. Respect the worker as much as the artist, the cook as much as the college professor, the man in the mansion as much as the woman feeding her family in a humble row house. His wisdom in these matters has proven invaluable. For someone who grew up in luxury as the daughter of a CEO, who ended up in much humbler circumstances, a love and respect for every one's abilities and talents has proven invaluable. And as someone who grew up in a dysfunctional family, I often appreciate others ' tolerance of my weaknesses and resultant struggles. This week, my husband and I bought a 2004 Buick Le Sabre for sale in Renton, near Seattle. Simple enough, right? A logistical nightmare for us, because of my agoraphobia when it comes to freeway driving. But, because I have been blessed with a wonderful friend and neighbor, Brenda Barron, who I met when our sons were both in Kindergarten back in 1998, we were able to get the car, because she drove one of our cars with me as a relieved and grateful passenger. She never questions my weakness, my problem, she just helps whenever it is needed. The human connections, that have allowed for deep and lasting friendships that span big differences in background, culture, education, skill, have proven to be a treasure trove in my journey in this challenging, complex country. I may speak and write four languages fluently, have studied six years of ancient Greek and Latin, have a graduate degree in Spanish literature, traveled all over the world, but without my faithful, compassionate friend Brenda, my graduate degree educated husband and I would have been in a real jam, because he is technically very adept, so self reliant, he has never invested much in human connections, so without reaching out, things would have been really frustratingly difficult. I have learned that we as humans in this experience called life, are all one, are all members of the same journey that becomes so much more valuable and rich when we understand we are not only on the same journey, just different paths, but also we are the same family, no matter what most people say about that part of it.

White Dog behind White Fence

For going on six years, I have been driving my son first to high school back and forth daily, and then to his job now he has had for the past two years at a local wood products firm here in town. The road to and from the high school that also runs partially along quiet country. And for the past six years I have seen this beautiful white dog, sitting in this yard, on a lead, alone, always alone. Sometimes he just sits, looking lost, sadness in his dark eyes. I was saddened to see that all these years later the same dog was still sitting in the same yard, still alone, still sad. To have no purpose is probably the worst destiny any creature can befall, whether as an animal or a human. As a human race we sure take our time to evolve when it comes to kindness, both to our fellow man, or animal companions. Why is this so, I wonder. To be deprived of purpose, of family, whether you are a human or a gregarious animal, like a dog is living life in a solitary hell. This morning, the birds were chirping cheerfully, in anticipation of a warm spring day, and as I was getting ready to take a shower, I heard another lonely animal that lives behind our yard, howl her loneliness. I have done what I can, communicated with the family, got the local Humane Society involved, who only actually went over once, when the owners weren't home, and now when I hear the dog cry, I talk to her, soothe her, and it helps. I find it hard to accept the callousness so many people have when it comes to suffering. Indifference to suffering, to me, is the worst lack of morality, and I am not alone in feeling this way. George Bernard Shaw said : " The worst sin towards our fellow man or fellow creatures is to be indifferent. Indifference to suffering is the essence of inhumanity. " How much longer before we understand this ? It did not help that I saw a movie about the horrors of the Holocaust. I cannot think of any genocide in recent human history that is as baffling and horrifying as the Holocaust. It defies any parameters, any precedent, any and all explanation, and it happened in a part of the world that is supposed to have been past such fathomless brutality and monstrous cruelty and depravity on such a bottomless scale, organized in such a dark and meticulous way with such implacable efficiency and finality. Ten thousand years could pass and the horror of the Holocaust will not diminish in its incomprehensible vileness. What a wonderful day it will be, when we are kind to everyone we care for, every one around us, every one in our family, in our circle, and every one we meet. It does not appear to be in the near future.