Faerouz

In 1984, a friend of mine gave me a music cassette titled "Faerouz : Songs and Music from Mais El - Rim, Volume 1". I was in for a real treat. At the time I was friends with a woman from Nebraska, Lisa, who was married to Mohsen, an engineering student from Egypt. They had friends from Tunisia, Morocco, as well as Egypt and I got to meet them and spend time with them. The culture intrigued me, as did the language and the music. The first time I listened to the cassette with Faerouz' songs I was blown away by the range and the beauty of the Diva's voice. There's a love song on that cassette that just haunted me, leaving me almost transfixed. I kept the cassette, and it moved with me from Texas to Washington State in 1988. I recently re-connected with a Moroccan friend who was part of our group of friends in Austin, Texas, and last weekend I decided to try and find the cassette. I did, while sorting through a shelf that needed cleaning up. I wasn't even sure if the old cassette would still work, but my husband assured me it was just fine. We were eating outside, as the weather has been hot and perfect to enjoy BBQ. on our deck and patio, and we put the cassette on. It was in good condition, and within minutes I was transported back to all the memories and emotions of 1984 in Austin, Texas. Faerouz's powerful voice, strong and melodious, rang like a crystal bell through the early evening trees and sky of our backyard. I smiled. The heart has no time, it seems, my friends'faces came back to me as were it just yesterday that I was eating dinner with them,enjoying their laughter, their voices. Thirty years vanished. When I would listen to Faerouz's music, it instilled in me a sense of dignity and purpose connected to the memory of these friendships that has stayed with me. Faerouz's music touched me deeply, warmly then, and it still does. I wish I could have seen her in concert while she was in the US. The beautiful Diva is 77 now. What a satisfying feeling it must be to an artist like her to know she touched the lives and hearts of millions of listeners worldwide. She left an impact on me. Part of me wants to be her, because part of me feels empowered and beautiful, strong and proud when I hear her voice ring through my soul now, as clearly as it did 30 years ago. Shukran, Faerouz.

Och, Was ik maar bij moeder thuis gebleven

For some reason an old Dutch song that I hadn't thought of in ages came to my memory. It is a song that became hugely popular in Belgium and the Netherlands in 1961, and is still popular today, by a Dutch singer by the name of Johnny Hoes, who passed away two years ago. The song is a sentimental story of a young enlisted soldier who falls in love only to discover his beloved blue-eyed  blond girlfriend decides to leave him for his platoon commander, making him wish : "Och, Was ik maar bij moeder thuis gebleven": "If only I had stayed home with mother". It is a lighthearted song, but with a  hint  of bitter-sweetness, because of the disappointment it describes of the betrayed young soldier's heart. I remember hearing the song play many times on popular Flemish and Dutch radio stations, like the popular Dutch station Radio Veronika, hugely liked to this day. Why this song would come back to my mind made me wonder. Then I understood today that to me it refers to a broken heart as well, but the heartache of someone who leaves their motherland to meet and have to overcome many challenges, only to ask at times, why did I make my life so complicated by leaving my native country in the first place? To me the " moeder" in the song is my native country, Belgium, that I left when I was 19. Having lived in the US for 37 years now has been an amazing journey with experiences I never could have had ,had I stayed in Belgium. The friends I met that allowed me to travel to exotic places, to experience so many different cultures, languages. The chance to study overseas, to learn yet another language when I started studying Spanish, the wonderful years in graduate school at the University of Texas in Austin, where I met my American husband and friends I am close to still, my marriage of 27 years now, my son Nicholas, becoming a Tae Kwon Do black belt trained by a 9th degree Korean Grand Master, becoming and being a member of my African American church for 19 years now, my experience dealing with Animal Rights in this country and taking in abandoned and unwanted dogs and cats for going on 28 years now, and the experience on a daily basis of making the US my home are irreplaceable. But there are times I wish I could speak my native Flemish tongue, that I could visit the house where I grew up, that I still had family left, that my family had not been torn apart, that I could be seen in context, and be appreciated for what I have accomplished and survived. As it is , there are very, very few who know or care and I soldier on virtually invisible. Who knows what my life would have been like had our family decided to make a go of it in Belgium. Maybe it would have been OK, or wonderful, or maybe completely ordinary and irrelevant. Still, the song in my head makes me wonder what it would be like to have a close, loving family all close at hand, sharing life together. I do not know my husband's brothers' children, neither does my son. I have not seen my sister's daughter since she was 3, and she is 16 now, and I have never met her 13 year old brother. I have never met my brother's 21 year old daughter, or seen his son since he was 11. He is 26 now. Thank God for Face Book, because I can talk to my sister's daughter and see what a beautiful girl she is and how happy she is with her school, life and friends. I have also met this way my brother's daughter who looks so much like him, and who has a sensitive, artistic heart. Perhaps our family would have fallen apart anyway, as there was already much wear and tear on my parents' unhappy marriage. It was fun to listen to and see the song on a YouTube video of 1987, seeing the original singer perform the lighthearted song at an event sponsored by Radio Veronika Nederland. The grass is always greener on the other side. Maybe. Or perhaps it just feels a little softer underfoot.

Danse Macabre

Our bedroom window faces to the backyard on a very quiet street. By 4:30 in the morning in spring and summer the birds start singing cheerfully. Ours is a very peaceful garden, full of flowers, birds and bees. You can hear the slightest breeze, as it stirs the Buddhist style chimes. Late at night too, it is so quiet , you can hear the stars sigh. That silence is precious to me, in the wake of recovering from the destruction of my family. The death of both my younger sisters, of both my parents, the loss of my only brother, and no support or empathy from my in-laws. When sorrow takes over my heart, the silence becomes a weight on my chest, suffocating my spirit. I finally got some relief from those deafening moments of grief-stricken silence this weekend, when I looked outside my bedroom window, and music started to play in my head, opening up space and relief in my aching heart. The hypnotic violins of Camille Saint-Saens 1875 "Danse Macabre" started its music in my head. The famous piece of music celebrating a night of dance and merriment by the dead on Halloween, leaving their graves for one night, started playing its fantasy, and my heart's eye saw my two sisters dancing together in white, sweeping gowns, escaping their eternal sleep as they swirled around on the grass of my lawn in the pale moonlight. My father never enjoyed dancing much, but here he was, swaying slowly, dressed in a warm light brown sweater, his eyes far away in a place only he could see. My mother was fully made up, glittering in jewelry and a taffeta black gown, cooing to herself as she swirled in big circles, laughing. I watched mesmerized, as the music gained crescendo, and noticed a faint smile and contented sigh come to my face. They twirled in synchronicity now, and I started humming quietly. The music swelled to full orchestra. Then, a warning form the violin and a last frenetic swirl from the dead dancers, and they fled, and all fell silent, leaving me with the moon and swallowed tears. But now the music is here, amid the silence of the dead, and the scent of cemetery in those grieving moments is fading, finally. Eight years after the height of the trauma, mercy and prayer have found a way and the silence now is filled with music. I let out a deep, relaxed breath. Peace has finally come to my garden. Sleep, Ludwina. Sleep, Goedele. Sleep, mother. Sleep, Papa. I'll be here when you want to dance again.

Airport Run

Each time I take my son to work, we pass by the Municipal Airport here, and it is so much fun for me to see the small leer jets, small helicopters and Cessna planes land or take off as they zip overhead the car traffic. As I was leaving the shop where my son does the books, a rather large military helicopter was coming in, thundering its noise through my car, with the blades leaving a quick shadow over me. I enjoyed the slight tremor, and smiled, thinking how there was a time when I was friends with five pilot students from what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I met these rascals un peu louches, in the library, of all places, with my Algerian friend Yasmina, when I was a senior at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas. These guys were a riot, semi ex-patriots from Belgium, Israel and Italy, whose families were trying to make sense of their at times precarious lives in Zaire. They were mischievous and quite hilarious. Dany, Jean-Pierre,Solomon who went by the name Kiko, Harold and Michel. I was like the mascot of the group. It was like being the only girl in a riotous band of pirates. It seems these days they mostly lead quiet lives in Belgium, but there are a couple of the group whose whereabouts remain shrouded in a tropical like thick mist. So driving by the Olympia Airport, as mundane as it might be to the drivers around me, fills me with both smiles and nostalgia. It also reminds me of how fortunate I was as a student to have the opportunity to travel often, and to exotic places, like Costa Rica, Panama and Zaire. Kiko and I dated for a time, and I went to visit him and his family in Kinshasa for the Christmas Holiday in 1980. The experience of two weeks in the heart of Africa remains one of the magical experiences of a lifetime, for a number of reasons. The magnificence of the forests and its animals and vegetation, the local population , hearing them speak Lingala, trying to communicate with them, the open air markets, the anxiety the political system brought on a daily basis, the delicious local food, the heat, the complete darkness each day by 6:00 p.m. because of being at the heart of the equator, the warm, intense rains, the marvel at seeing the mighty Congo River and seeing Papyrus plants at its edges. Standing next to a real Baobab tree, where previously I had only seen a cartoon drawing of it in Antoine de Saint- Exupery's brilliant book " Le Petit Prince ". So, quite often as I drive by the airport and see the small planes zipping by, a sigh not without delight, escapes me and I dream of the time, when, perhaps, I can travel again, and maybe meet up with the next band of pirates in a far away land.

Oh Traveler

There is a song by bad boy musician and rebel activist Algerian born singer Rachid Taha, called "Ya Rayah" that I have been fascinated by ever since I first heard it. My French girlfriend in Paris sent me a cassette of "Carte Blanche" in the late 1990's and "Ya Rayah" became the most popular song on that album. I felt strongly drawn to the song, and only very recently learned that the song is about the emigrant, the traveler, the man or woman without or between countries. As a Flemish immigrant who came to the USA in 1976, I am all too familiar with the melancholy of losing slowly one 's identity of one's country of origin only to struggle with taking on the identity of the adopted country. Unlike Rachid Taha who was born in Algeria in 1958, and moved with his family to a suburb of Lyon in 1968 where his father toiled long hours at a miserable pay in a textile factory, I came here as a student of comfort. However, my status took a good beating, and I lost both my sisters , both my parents and my brother under tragic circumstances from any point of view. The song resonated deeply with me emotionally, before I knew what it was about, which speaks of the considerable talent of Rachid Taha who is famous now for his musical ingenuity and diversity. Now that I know what the song is about, it means so much more and astounds me with the deep resonance it provokes in my heart and soul. As someone who is quite isolated from my country of birth, and who has not been back to Belgium since 1987, I know first hand the longing and illusion of going home again. I became a citizen of the USA in 1994, and enjoy a good relationship with my American husband of 27 years and our 21 year old son, but there are definitely times I wish they understood, both emotionally, culturally and intellectually, what it is like to lose sight of a shore, to try to embrace the land on another far away shore. Rachid Taha captures the at times maddening pain and melancholy beautifully, with power, compassion and great lyricism. Arabic as a language has always had this ability to reach me emotionally, even though I do not speak Arabic. I remember seeing signs in restaurant windows in Brussels in the late 1960's, reading "Interdit aux Nord Africains", and as a 12 year old Flemish girl whose language and identity were not welcome at the time in the Walloon dominated politics of the capital, these signs were shocking and revolting. To me the people and the music of North Africa were beautiful, even though that was not a popular opinion for a girl to have in my economic and social circle, and I never cared if my passions and convictions offended the adults in my world. I love Rachid Taha's music, its range, complexity, anger, dare and lyrical talent, because it speaks to the part of my soul and heart that was lost forever, and that also knows suspicion, rejection, anonymity and the fierce longing for dignity and belonging.

Le Copain

J'ai un copain qui s'appelle John, il vit au Texas
oui, c'est tres loin.

Je ne sais pas s'il est pirate, Merlin ou dandy frivole.
Il sait le francais, est peintre et aime les lapins.

Je ne sais pas sa voix, je ne connais pas son rire,
est-il sympat, ou insupportable, gentil ou mechant?

Je me sens mal a l'aise envers son etre, comme une enfant
curieuse avec cette amitie electronique et les rondelles aux visages inconnus.

J'ai un copain qui me fait lire des livres de Griffiths et Sandburg
donc, c'est au moins interessant.

J'aime bien ses photos et ses peintures, mais peut-etre
est-il simplement un snob.

Juan See Mas, illusion de sa propre defense,
mais comme l' Alice trop curieuse

tetue et solitaire, je cherche pour le pirate, le cowboy
le magicien qui me dira que tout est bien.

Et voila mon poeme et chanson pour cet inconnu et frere
Juan See Mas, John Qui Ecoute Encore.


Trudi Ralston
July 22, 2013. This poem is dedicated to John Carlisle Moore, an artist living and working in Fort Worth, Texas. By his own choosing, he refers to himself at times as Juan See Mas, the name I use for him in the poem.

Le Jardin

J'aime beaucoup l'aube dans mon jardin les matins d'ete. Les oiseausx chantent, ivres avec la promesse at l'abondance de la saison. Les couleurs des fleurs sont superbes, les  fuchsia si belles dans leurs costumes brilliantes, come des ballerinas un peu arrogantes. Souvent, il ya un vent doux, qui me rappelle des vacances de Pacques a la Cote d' Azure, a Beaulieu, en 1975. Les citrons frais et leur parfum vif me transportent au magasin du boulanger ou on achetait la tarte aux citrons. Les tournesol revent silencieusement dans le soleil, et je souris voyant les abeilles travailler si dure dans la chaleur qui s'annonce deja. Il ya quelques amis qui me manquent ces jours doux de nos etes. Toujours, ils sont tres loin, en Europe, en Afrique du Nord. Cela parait etre part de mon destin, d'etre heureuse mais solitaire, me battant avec courage contre la tentation de la melancholie, qui me suit comme une ombre tetue. Parfois, j'ai l'impression d'etre prisonniere dans un jardin enchante, ou la chanson des oiseaux me tient immobile, incapable d'echapper. Ayant survecue la guerre de famille, je me trouve seule, meprisee, isolee et c'est bizarre pour moi de decouvrir qu'il ya une certaine paix et dignite malgre le chagrin dans cette condition un peu tragique. J'ai paye un prix enorme pour ma liberte et il ya des jours ou la peine parait etre une blessure recente, plein de sang et torture. Les jours existent aussi ou je me trouve legere et tres heureuse comme un aigle libre dans le ciel, sure, fiere. Le manque de dialogue, d'interet et camaraderie dans ma vie et son histoire n'est jamais evident. Mon jardin m'offre l'espace et la beaute tranquille dont a besoin mon coeur blesse, et malgre l'absence d'un clan, je me trouve avec la confiance necessaire pour apprecier mon bonheur silencieux mais reel avec mon mari Michael, mon fils Nicholas, notre chienne Yara et le chat Tigger. Lao-Tzu serait fier de moi.

Ramadan

A friend of mine who I have not seen in 29 years, but with whom I have maintained communication via New Year's cards, and the occasional letters, and recently through e- mail messages, sent me a wish that made me feel hopeful. On the first day of Ramadan for him, he wished me and my family all the best during the Holy month of fasting he will be observing as a devout Muslim. My friend and I were in graduate school together. I got my Master's degree in Spanish and Latin American literature, he pursued a Doctorate in linguistics and education. We grew up in different cultures, with a shared influence of French culture, he as a citizen of Morocco, I as a native of Belgium. We both speak French and English fluently, he is also a native speaker of Tamazight and Arabic, and I am a native speaker of Flemish and also speak Spanish fluently. He grew up in the Muslim faith, I was raised in the traditions of the Catholic church. Because of modern technology, we can communicate as often as we wish, and after many years of sporadic communication, we can now catch up on each others'  lives, interests, views, concerns, and wish each other well on birthdays, anniversaries, and Holidays. There has always been a mutual code of respect and discretion, a deliberate effort to respect each others' privacy and to allow space for questions and doubts on challenging issues like politics and religion. That is why his kind wishes at the start of what is an important month spiritually for him, touched my heart. It is so easy to find things in our friends that annoy us, or that irritate us because it involves habits or points of view different from our own. It can be even more tempting at times when those friendships cut across cultural, racial and ideological borders. I personally have always looked for and welcome the challenge, as it makes sure I keep an open mind, eager to learn and understand. To find common ground, in my experience, takes heart. I have always been intrigued by different cultures and have had many friends from many different countries with languages and habits and religions very different from my own. Friends form India, Bangladesh, Egypt, Morocco, Nigeria, Tanzania, Japan, Vietnam, Mexico,El Salvador, Puerto Rico, Argentina, Peru, Panama, Costa Rica. This exposed me to Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Shintoism, and a very devout strand of Latin American Catholicism, long defunct in the Europe I grew up in. The heart can transcend these differences of beliefs and convictions with a fair amount of ease in my experience. That knowledge gives me great hope. My Muslim friend reached out to me with confidence, respect and a fair amount of affection, letting me know that he believes, as do I, that what binds us together is bigger than what keeps us apart. In a world that at times is boiling with the rage of fear and hatred, his message is both powerful and courageous. I answered him thanking him for his kind wishes, and expressing a wish in turn that this Holy month will be a true blessing for him.

Pet Diary : Sneakers' Paw

Each day, since my kitty Sneakers died on June 4th, I walk to the quiet place under the hazelnut trees where my son and husband buried her in a small wooden coffin they built for her. I miss her. She was quiet, easy going, soft, and had these clear, liquid pale blue eyes that spoke of tolerance and patience. She purred before you even started petting her, loud and with a rhythmic, repetitive pattern, that was soothing and entertaining both. She did this one thing with her paw, that was so endearing, it looked like something a puppy would do, and I always wondered where she learned to do this. When she wanted to go outside, or come in, she would put up a paw, in a pleading gesture. I have had four cats in the last 13 years and she is the only one who did that. I think of her today, and that is what comes to mind, the paw up, pleading hesitantly, but persistently, as if she was always surprised I understood what she wanted. I still have to laugh when I think of how much she loved tuna. I would give her and Tigger some each Friday, and she knew it was coming. She would get excited before I even went into the garage, like she was watching my routine that would lead up to me walking into the garage where we keep the canned goods, and she would start hobbling her generous body mass over to the kitchen counter, on her tiny feet with the spindly old legs. God, I loved her open heart. She loved being fussed over, and loved it when I would sit with her in the sun , on the deck, one of her favorite places to hang out. She was constantly cleaning herself, with that paw of hers, trying to get to her big body,and realizing , without getting discouraged, that she was only able to clean a very small part of it. On the few times she saw me cry, she would come sit with me, look at me with her clear blue eyes, and put up her paw, unsure where to put it, just wanting to let me know she was concerned. She loved pillows and blankets, and she is buried with her favorite periwinkle blue old sweater of mine, and her favorite super soft blanket. Sneakers had such an ability to enjoy each moment, she was like a Buddha - cat, big, happy, wise. Her fur was super soft, like the fur of a chinchilla. I know this, because a friend of my son had a chinchilla for a pet, and I remember petting the chinchilla, and how my fingers just sank into its rich, thick soft fur when I petted it. That's how soft Sneakers fur was. She was soft in every way, easy, flexible, agreeable, a wonderful pet companion, a friend to me for 13 years. Maybe in the spirit world, we will some day meet again. I would like nothing better.

Hangover

It is nice and cool in the house, with the fans pushing out the hot outside air. It is 81 Fahrenheit  and quite sunny, and will be for the next four days. The Fourth of July 's firework noise lingers in my brain, as I am listening to the Algerian- French singer Rachid Taha, looking forward to a call from my friend in Morocco next week. We went to graduate school together in Austin, Texas and talk on the phone once or twice a year. My husband and son are out driving together, and I am thinking back on the gathering at our neighbor of 24 years house for the Fourth of July weekend. They have been married 40 years, raised 4 children and have 12 grandchildren. I was raised in a large extended family, with lots of aunts, uncles , cousins, with grandparents on both sides of the family, and it remains stressful and difficult to do without a larger family clan. I have no immediate family left, and only have contact with less than a handful of relatives and friends in Belgium. There is very little contact with my in- laws, and both my husband and son are friendly but solitary creatures. Maybe that is why listening to world music, like Rachid Taha, makes me feel less alone, because it connects me to a larger family through music, the human family. I do not speak Arabic, but have felt a real emotional connection to the music and feeling of North African culture. Irish music has a similar albeit it not so strong effect on me. I had always wanted to be a photo journalist, writing stories as I traveled the world over. I did quite a bit of traveling before I married at 29, and I am grateful for those experiences and memories. Holidays are always bitter-sweet to me, whether it be the fourth of July or New Year's. At one time, both my parents, my two sisters, my brother and I were all living in the US. My father spent a fortune sending all four of us through private college in this country, TCU, in Fort Worth, Texas. He spent a fortune paying for my youngest sister's medical bills when she was battling her bi -polar illness, before she committed suicide at age 35. Then my parents' marriage turned toxic, and my father succumbed to Alzheimer's illness and died a lonely, tragic death. My mother died at 74 of complications of kidney and liver failure, after a long history of alcohol abuse, and my other sister died of cancer at age 44, leaving an 8 yr. old daughter, and 6 yr.old son who returned to live in Belgium with her husband. My brother and I became estranged. I have a family, and I am grateful, my husband of 27 years and my 21 yr. old son. And as we celebrated a cozy, quiet Fourth of July together, I realized I am happy, because I understand after enormous loss, that family is everything and that you need to value , respect and love them, small or large as that family unit may be. We cannot have large family gatherings, that are loud and make you proud and happy to be part of a large, healthy clan , but I am part of a family, and a very wise man once said : " Where two or more are gathered in my name, meaning to me, love and understanding, there I will be in their midst ", which I understand to be that love is present divinely when people are gathered in kindness and good purpose. It is not easy to accept all the loss, but it is getting easier all the time to be grateful, as I watch my husband and son laughing  together, as we cook and eat together, learn and love together. Home is where the heart is, and my heart was broken, but it is mending nicely as another day draws to a close in our cozy modest home, and I say a prayer of gratitude as I watch the stars sparkle over our flower strewn backyard, and I smile as I walk back inside my home where it is safe and warm.

Cop Land

There is a 1997 movie directed by James Mangold, called " Cop Land". The title sounds ordinary enough, but if the title does not get your attention, the stellar cast should : Sylvester Stallone, Robert De Niro, Harvey Keitel, Ray Liotta. The movie tells the story of a corrupt town in New Jersey, where all the cops are in the pocket of the New York Mafia, under the reluctant tolerance of a frustrated and out maneuvered Sheriff Freddy Heflin, played by Sylvester Stallone. A suspicious killing by a young cop of two black teenagers leads to a cleverly planned exit plan for the cop accused and a swift resultant investigation by Internal Affairs Lieutenant Moe Tilden, played by Robert De Niro. Sylvester Stallone is nothing short of brilliant as the powerless Sheriff weighed down by his frustration he never got to be a true cop because of permanent hearing loss in one ear when he saved a young woman's life. He is in love with this woman, who is now married to a cop in town, who mistreats her, only adding to the emotional paralysis of Sheriff Freddy. He is sluggish, physically and emotionally and morally, allowing the deadly corruption of the town to continue unhindered. But, slowly, in tune with his character, Freddy becomes tired of playing the dunce, and encouraged by Ray Liotta's character, who expertly and very convincingly plays a crooked junkie, who is also tired of the outrageous abuses of the police department, Freddy shakes the shackles of his inaction and brings justice to the town and final involvement by IA under the determined drive of Lt. Moe Tilden. It is a great movie, and a very interesting role for Sylvester Stallone, who usually has all the energy, physical strength and weapons on his side. As Sheriff Freddy Heflin, he has to overcome enormous odds, by being physically challenged due to the hearing loss and being out of shape, and feeling inadequate also intellectually and morally. I am glad Sylvester Stallone got the Best Actor Award at the Stockholm International Film Festival for his unique portrayal of Sheriff Freddy Heflin. It is a tour de force that is very convincing, and he holds his own against the forever irascible Lt. Moe Tilden of IA played superbly by Robert De Niro. Harvey Keitel is equally brilliant as the hopelessly ruthless Lt. Ray Donlan, who is willing to kill members of his own family in order to keep the benefits of his corrupt practices going. The movie keeps your attention from the first second to the dramatic tense conclusion. A gem. Check it out.

Messages

Since my kitty Sneakers died on June 4th, I have found it hard to rationalize my sorrow for her. Kind of like when you have a cut, that you wash out, to stop the bleeding, only to discover that as soon as you stop running water over it, it starts bleeding again. By some marvelous coincidence, the poor neglected and mistreated dog across the fence had been crying again, howling his despair at his continued confinement and isolation for many years now. I have tried time and again to get Animal Services involved, with very little result,and as the animal is not visible, but very audible from where we live, I cannot document with photos and logs what is going on, as I have done successfully with animal abuse cases in our street in the recent past. So, when I hear the animal cry, I go out and talk to him ( or her, maybe?) gently, and in a comforting way. It always stops the sorrowful cries. It made me reflect on the importance of contact, how even spare contact, when born out of genuine kindness and concern, can bring hope where before there was little or none.In that sense, modern technology through e-mails and Face Book and Twitter, enables people to connect almost instantaneously. I have a friend in Morocco, with whom I continue to feel a strong emotional and cultural-intellectual bond, in spite of the huge physical distance between us. It continues to astound me how our brief interchanges via e-mail have the ability to lift my spirits. My friend is exceedingly busy, but the fact that he takes the time to send brief messages acknowledging and responding to mine, is very encouraging to me. I think that is why I know that my acknowledgment of the poor, desperately lonely dog two houses over, whom I have never met, and only seen briefly from the street in his kennel, makes a difference. I often wish the animal goodnight, as it is barking for its miserable owners 'attention, saying "Goodnight, honey ! Good dog !" It may sound naive, but there is a small star that always hovers at night right over the yard where the animal is confined, and I wish each time I see it sparkle in the sky that the animal will be free and happy some day soon. Meanwhile, like my Moroccan friend who takes mercy on my solitary life sends me kind messages out of a sense of devotion and camaraderie going back to when we first became friends in graduate school in Austin, Texas 29 years ago, I keep wishing the dog well, even singing to him sometimes when there is a stifling silence all around his isolation year round, and I keep talking to her, praying too, for all suffering is an abomination. So, thank you, dear friend so far away, for your sensitive soulful heart, that allows me in turn to understand the importance of  comfort to a hapless creature that so much wants contact with some kindness and hope.