Eating Time

The process of healing is a curious thing, whether the healing is physical, emotional, or both. In both cases, healing requires rest, so our mind, heart or body can repair itself. The curious thing is that in both instances time is a crucial ingredient. The best medicine or the best counseling available will not be effective if the factor of time is ignored or dismissed. And where time is a sensitive commodity patience is required. Patience is an acquired skill, that demands obedience to eat willingly the dry bread of healing, slowly, deliberately as we chew, one unseasoned bite after another, pieces of time stolen from us. Healing is eating time, to find it back, to regenerate it, to claim it back. Some people cannot retrieve the time lost, and their bodies fade as their mind and heart can no longer keep up, they can no longer digest time's appetite requirements. Other people eat too much time, and it slows them down awkwardly, they seem to stand still, seemingly perpetually eating time, but not going anywhere, and the healing becomes trapped in their sluggish bodies and minds. I have done both, neither of which is pleasant. Ideally, time flows through us like rhythmic motion, and we are in balance, making good use of our talents and the clock. But just like any mechanism that becomes corroded, due to neglect, overuse, misinterpreted instructions or directions, we lose the smooth working of the wires and connections in the time sensitive machine that is our life, and the only way to grease the gears again, to permit the healing to take place, is to eat time, but, eat it very cautiously, very respectfully. Time is not a palatable dish, it tastes bland, dull, and it does not look appetizing either, about the colour of smashed potatoes, it seems. Yet, if we learn to develop a tolerance for it, with enough practice, we can find the energy to eat enough time this measure around to avoid having to sit on the side lines one too many rounds before our machine is beyond repair and eating time no longer is an option, because our clock ran out of strokes.   

Halloween

The weather today is perfect for this holiday celebrating ghosts and goblins. The air is thin, cold, wet, the clouds hang low and a capricious wind is kicking around the dry autumn leaves as would a bored sprite. I was looking forward to getting out my witches' hat and setting out the bowls of candies for the neighbourhood kids who would come around to trick-0r treat. It is always fun to see all the costumes, from the little bees and fairies, to the werewolves and ghouls. I like to dress up, and I miss the Halloween parties my friends and I would give in graduate school. Dressing up is a fun way to express your inner whimsy and also innocence, and inner child. It taps into the longing for mythology, for fantasy and escape of humdrum of every day modern life. It expresses a longing for a deeper reality, for the invisible being brought to relevance. We can be wizards, and knights, elves, we can be mischievous or noble, gentle or fierce, ugly or very pretty, meek, or powerful. Dressing up allows us to express what remains hidden in our daily attire, that rarely reveals our deeper longings and character. We can be a pirate, a ninja, a mighty warrior, a king, a queen, a witch, a mighty beast or monster. We know it is not real, but the fact that we enjoy dressing up so much tells me we wish it was. The extremes are revealed when we dress up, because what we wear becomes a reflection of inner thoughts and aspirations, be they naive, forceful, scary, inspiring, funny, revolting or sexy and daring. In our daily lives, our faces are our masks, our disguises, that reveal  very little as to what kind of person we are behind that face.When we dress up, our costumes become the signature to our face, one face comes off, to reveal another. So, whether we dress up or not, or like to dress up or not, we are always in disguise. It is only when we agree to dress up that we reveal the mask our face is, and that can be a lot of fun, and very therapeutic,too. It is also a way to bond, to let our friends and neighbours know what we like, and that feels good. If we all dressed up all the time, we might feel closer to each other, closer to our own spirit and heart, and it might also bring to view that we are all connected in the deep longing to be understood, recognized, to matter, to have an identity that can be seen, and that would remove some of the soul deadening anonymity of modern life.

Espoir

The sky against the bright red, orange, and yellow autumn leaves blowing in the playful morning wind created the illusion of an impressionistic water colour painting. The vision put the French word for hope in my mind, espoir. Hope is such a small, humble looking word, and yet it conveys so much power, so much necessity. It is really strange that something invisible like the concept of hope, matters so much when it comes to the flesh and bone reality of our daily lives. Often hope is something we convince ourselves of, an energy and determination we impose on our will, our aspirations and dreams. When we feel those goals are within reach, we are confident our hope is justified. A lot of times, the conviction that our hope is justified is all it takes to keep us going, putting one foot in front of the other, each and every day. The days and times that are hard, is when we lose sight of that elusive wizardry that keeps our energy going. How many challenges have been overcome, how many partially crushed longings and ambitions revived, because we told ourselves that there was hope, in spite of logical evidence to the contrary. Hope seems to be as much an energy we create in our circumstances as it is a real and factual reality. So, hope seems twofold : it comes in real, tangible assistance and relief, and it comes in the invisible force of determination that gives us that jolt that gets us out of a jam we thought we were stuck in. There are many things you can live without. But hope is not one of them. In  its invisible energy form, it allows humans, and animals, too, to survive trials and horrors that without it, would surely have caused surrender and death. Hope might be the most convincing argument yet that the universe has an angle to it that defies rationality, a spiritual dust so to speak, that is sprinkled invisibly on our most dire circumstances to make sure our physical being does not collapse. Hope. It is a beautiful thing. It should have a much grander name, like galaxy boost, or Milky Way Vitamin. This small, oddly enough four letter word, hope , was done an injustice by its ordinary name. Perhaps on purpose, so this planet could learn eventually, that things invisible matter as much as things visible. If you doubt my take on this, study up on the latest theory in astrophysics dealing with dark, or invisible matter.

Woman

The Algerian born Kabyle poet and singer Idir has songs that deeply touch my heart. He sings mostly in Arabic, and also has songs in French. I speak and write French fluently, but when it comes to Arabic my knowledge is less than basic at this point. But with the music of Idir, the lack of understanding Arabic does not stop me from wanting to know the translations, which fortunately do exist, or from being deeply moved by this unique singer's songs. He has this kind habit of explaining his songs 'meaning to his audience, and there is one song he sings about his mother that just hit my heart head on. The song is about isolation, a burden millions of women live with, in the past, and to this day. The song stirred a deeply buried pain in me, as I am not a stranger to isolation and its devastating impact on self confidence, hope and talent. I love my husband very much, but there is no denying that I have endured long stretches of isolation during my marriage, and I am going through one now. I have often thought of my father's mother, the grandmother everyone affectionately called "Meterke", "Little Godmother". She became a widow at age 38, with a son  and three daughters. She never remarried, and had she so considered, it probably would have been frowned upon in a small Flemish village of post World War II. My mother thought her bitter, but I remember her as a quiet, strong woman, devoted to her children and grandchildren. She lived with my father's youngest sister, who never married and was living with her until Meterke died at age 70, and my single aunt was 36. I remember spending weekends at their city apartment in Oostende, Belgium. My aunt worked full time in the social welfare sector, leaving my grandmother alone all day until evening time. She never complained and encouraged her adult daughter to go to the theater and movies, and go on trips with her co-workers and friends. She was alone a lot. That sense of her aloneness soaked into my impressionable child's mind and memories, and like a stubborn dye, it never faded. In my stretches of isolation and loneliness in my marriage, I would visit her memory and resolve, and draw strength from it, as I still do now. My isolation is not the result of being a young widow, but the result of living with a kind but exceedingly solitary man, who is very hesitant to socialize and has very little understanding of my gregarious nature and the sadness the isolation has caused and causes me. That I am susceptible to his strong will on this is not just his personality, but my own weakness when it comes to standing up for my own needs, that being the result of being emotionally neglected as to my social needs as a child and teenager. I have had times when I was able to break through that isolation, and then I would fall back into that trap, thinking I was moving too far away from my husband, only to realize he does not have the same needs, and having to start all over again, which I am dealing with again now. It is not something visible to neigbours and casual friends,and I do not speak of it, until now, but it is a very difficult and at times heartbreaking challenge. Idir's song dedicated to his mother brings home the awareness I am not alone, or outdated in that concern, as it seems to be a burden time and again, of being a woman in many parts of the world, regardless of status or culture. It is one I fight bravely against and like the tides of the oceans, I have had the pleasure of seeing the high tide, as well as the low tides through which I am wading now. I was invisible as a child, and now I am struggling with invisibility as an adult. That I am a woman only reinforces the acceptability of this struggle. Idir's beautiful  song made that  crystal clear to me as I recall his words so well as he introduced his haunting ballad :  " Il n'est  pas evident d'etre une femme dans ce monde, que ce soit dans une societe moderne, ou que ce soit dans une societe de fortes traditions. "      

Present Tense

It is one of those rare autumn days where the sun pours its liquid warmth on the bright blue sky and the golden, red and orange leafed trees that seem to be everywhere this year, as we have had very little rainfall. A gentle breeze adds to the delight of the beautiful day here, and it feels awesome to feel sun reminiscent of a summer day. The whole feeling has this effect of slowing down time. Present tense. The here, the now. It is taking me time to let go of the past, and not to fixate on the future, to see the gift of each day and live it with its challenges and joys. It is an ability that I have seen and see in all the dogs and cats we have taken into our home over the last 25 years. In a way, when you live in the present, you slow down time, because you deal with the moment in all its aspects. I smile at a couple of squirrels playing in the cherry tree, chasing each other around. I delight at the mess of leaves twirling down into the backyard lawn. I notice a dragonfly sunning itself on a towel hanging outside. A few fat spiders are blowing around in their webs, seemingly unconcerned about winter coming. The moment is all we truly have. Sure, it is important to plan tomorrow, and learn from the past, but all that wisdom should enable us, not disable us, to enjoy and make the best of each day. It is sunny and peaceful today, and even though there are many things I could be upset about, I choose not to and live in the moment that is given to me now. As a first generation immigrant, I often feel the pressure to make each day something special, unusual, and many days have been just that in the last 37 years I have been living in the US. And many days were lonely, difficult, frustrating, confusing. Some were and are very happy and fulfilling. So, it is only in the last couple of years that I feel entitled to just ordinary days, too. Days where I just enjoy and allow them and myself to be. The ordinary, the invisible, the quiet of my days are precious too. In their silence is part of my journey, too. Part of my soul, my heart, my story, my strength. The present tense is a part of me and more and more, it is part of my deeper self, of the fruit of my labours and efforts to make something worthwhile out of the unique journey I chose, away from country, language, culture and family, to reinvent myself into the person I am today. Not the person I was yesterday, not the person I will be tomorrow, but the person I am and can be each and every day again, with each gift of sunrise and the new chances that light brings one precious, unique moment at a time, adding one stitch at a time to the continuing needle work patterns that life leads me to explore.

Holes

It was one of those almost stiflingly quiet, grey days, the kind that makes the sky look like it has breathing problems. I walked outside with our dog Yara after an exchange of uplifting messages with an old friend from El Salvador from my undergraduate days in Fort Worth, Texas. Yara and I always feed the birds together and she was running alongside me excitedly, barking at the idea of seeing a squirrel or two to chase. My conversation with my friend laid bare some of our mutual sorrows when it comes to family. The idea of holes came to mind. The kind that happen in clothes with excessive use and time. Holes in your heart can make you feel naked, cold, just as they do in worn out clothing. I thought about that for a minute and the visual held. Just when I thought I would get attacked by an unsuspected bout of melancholy at loss and its inevitable regrets, another idea took hold. Holes, not as in gapes, wounds, but holes as in openings, possibilities. When you can't see where you are going, and you can't see a hand before your eyes, tearing a hole in what obstructs your view is not a bad option. It won't be painless, or effortless, but it will lead to other options, other paths, other perspectives. Holes also create a deeper view, bring fresh air, more light, and even make whatever you carry lighter, by the sheer laws of physics. I suddenly felt better. My friend and I discussed various concerns, and it was apparent that he and I each carried our burdens of varying weight, but the holes in our lives looked better somehow, maybe because we had a chance to talk about them, without feeling the need to fix those holes. They were there, but they do look different now to me. Holes. Big, small, round, jagged, just starting or threatening to take the whole item of concern, they are also opportunities, challenges, road indicators.With that new frame of mind, even the sky started losing its constricted look, I heard the happy twitter of the birds who were finding the bread crumbs I had put out for them. I went inside, put on my favorite Rachid Taha CD, and started writing. Like big O's, the holes in my own life seemed like they were dancing to the rai rhythms, like big bubbles, expanding and popping, revealing colour and light, making them sights of hope and resolve.

Fog

The last two weeks we have been dealing with some persistent fog in the mornings, that tends to stick around until the early afternoon, causing havoc with traffic in some areas. As I was driving back from the luxuriously green entrance to Evergreen State College, I was enjoying the nice fall colours of all the trees, that were shrouded in a thin, opaque layer of fog. I have always been partial to fog, because it softens contours, and makes everything look like an impressionistic dream. Of course, I do not enjoy it when it is thick and dangerous, that is an entirely different matter. But the fog like it was at 10 o'clock this morning, makes me feel like I am safe and justified in my fuzzy perception on certain things.It occurred to me that whether or not we realize it, we are all fuzzy on a lot of things while we believe we have a razor sharp vision on life. That is of course a fantastic illusion. There are many things we have a very slippery hold on. The family we are born into, the place that happens, the way our parents treat, or mistreat us as children, our genetic inheritance, the fallout of certain relationships, a measure of our health, how long we live, and when our time runs out. Oh, sure , we can alter and control some of these things, but when all is said and done, there are many things that remain hazy as to the finer points of human existence. Whether we are born at a time of war or peace, how that affects our ability to express and pursue our talents and dreams, whether we are born into a society that smiles on human rights or violates them, and when we leave a repressive system, whether we will have any better luck in our newly adopted land. Yes, some of that too depends on will and personality, but some of it will also be plain luck. So, fog to me is very pleasant in its milder forms, because it brings to mind the elusiveness of precision as far as our lot on this earth is concerned. Fog is vague, and it always has a relaxing effect on me. There are only so many things we can control, and when I start stressing about aspects of my life I wish were more exact, more precise, or even more clear, I look at the fog hanging about sleepily on the trees and houses around my street, and it brings a smile to my face. Do your best, but don't be afraid to let the fog's wisdom do some of the rest. All of your worries may just dissipate to some extent like fog before the sun, because unlike us humans, fog knows very well it will vanish when the sun comes through, it seems to have very little illusions as to its temporary nature.

The Announcement

Today on Facebook, my niece Julie in Belgium posted the anniversary of her mother's death in 2005 at age 44. Goedele was my sister. She was four years younger than me. Due to excruciatingly bizarre and complex family circumstances, my mother and I became strangers to each other , and because my mother and sister were very close, in turn, Goedele and I became very estranged by the time of her death. My mother made no efforts to try to repair that. So, it is an odd feeling seeing the announcement. The sense of detachment has not improved, nor the baffled and stunned emotion at my mother's strange behaviours. But thinking about my niece and her younger brother who were 8 and 5 when my sister died, softened my musings. No matter how well off you are, growing up without a mother must be very painful. But because of all the messed up family conflicts I chose to send Julie a personal message rather than engage in the easily treacherous waters of leaving a notification. It is a hard reality to try to come to terms with, that when the dominoes start to fall in a family, they tend to fall for quite some time, long after the offending parties have left the scene or died. My niece is a beautiful and smart girl at 16, well liked and loved by her family and friends, and that is a huge relief for me. She looks so much like my sister did at the same age, it is quite uncanny. Both my parents died in 2008, within 5 months of each other, and my youngest sister died by her own volition in 1998, and I have not seen since my brother since her death. So, there is no conversation with any one on this matter. My husband is a therapist, who listens to people all day,and had very little appetite for my thoughts or needs on the issue, so it stays mostly in my heart. But tonight my heart is longing for openness, and wishes I could be there for Julie and her pain, in a way that is mutually free from preconceived notions about each other. The sins of the fathers, so to speak, are the inheritance of the next generation. As I inherited the disgust with the intrigue and deceit and manipulations, so did Julie have an inheritance with her mother's death. Hers is the inheritance of grief, of an emptiness and a longing that cannot be filled and the life long brave attempt to come to terms with that. Fortunately for her and her brother, she has a supportive and loving family and many a good friend. That will make all the difference.  

That will be all, Ms. Fine

I have a small television screen in my kitchen. It is a nice way to catch up on the news, or watch a favorite sitcom while preparing dinner and my husband unwinds on his computer and my son does the assignment for his college classes. They are busy, and it is rare they come in the kitchen and keep me company. So, the TV is a willing substitute. It adds a small measure of light heartedness to the inevitable repetitiveness that is the daily ritual of making dinner. I catch myself laughing at the antics of the actors, shedding light on the hilarity of some of the aspects of daily life. One such show I enjoy is a show from the nineties, " The Nanny ", with Fran Drescher in the the title role, as a very resourceful and funny woman from Flushing, Queens, who lands a job as a nanny to a wealthy family in Manhattan. She plays a character that is in your face, funny, smart, sexy, warm and ingenious. She wears outrageous outfits, bold and loud, and is a kick in the pants. As I was going through the motions to get dinner ready, it occurred to me how many people, knowingly and unknowingly, help us get through our days, in big and small ways. On first glance, a comedic actress's show from the nineties would seem to have little to do with putting a smile on my face at dinner time. But she does, as I am sure many an actor and actress do who make us laugh, and forget the troubles of the day, give us a feeling of belonging briefly to their world, allowing us to escape the limitations of our own world for an hour or so, creating a sense of community as illusory as that may be. To people who have a lot of family and connections my observation and admission may be perceived as pitiful, but in the absence of that abundance, I am grateful for the many comedians who put their talents to good work, now and in the past, and bring me some cheer and warmth, and perspective, through the technology of that ever present device in much of modern life, the TV. It allows me to imagine some days that it is me who is the feisty Ms. Fine, getting yet again out of a scrape she got herself in with her boss, or her overbearing Jewish  family, making me wish I still had an extended family who would squabble and fuss over me. I will never meet Fran Drescher, but I feel like I know her , and I am glad she created Fran Fine, who brings me a good chuckle every time I invite her and her antics into my kitchen. Thank you, Ms. Fine. I was also impressed that Ms. Drescher is a uterine cancer survivor, and a staunch supporter of women's health and LGBT rights, and is known for her work as a Public Diplomacy Envoy for Women's Health Issues for the U.S. State Department. That is pretty impressive, inspiring me to give the best of my talents each and every day. Thank you, Ms. Drescher, for bringing both a measure of laughter and hope to women. I can use both.

The Land before Time

It is a beautiful, warm day, quite different from yesterday. I couldn't stand being inside anymore and took our dog Yara into the backyard with me. I let out a deep sigh as I looked around the wasteland the garden was right now, not having been cleaned up yet after summer. Huge sunflowers drooping their dried out big heads, looking sad and blind , as all their seeds had been picked out by the birds. That was a good thing, but dead sunflowers always make me sad, and these sun warriors needed to be taken down and recycled. The dry stalks cracked like so many dead bones under my feet. There was a slight and sweet wind, the sky overhead was a summer blue, and the air felt like fresh linen. I proceeded to take down the green beans towering over me on their skinny leg towers. The left over beans looked like something out of a fairy tale, too big, and too hairy. They were turning into dust in my hands, and I reflected, not without a fair amount of chagrin, on the days before my husband and son made computers and video games their main passion. Our garden never used to look like this,and last fall too, I was the one who started cleaning up the garden, tired of waiting for the guys to join me. I miss those days where we would spend the whole day outside, planting, cleaning, just filling our lungs with fresh air and good exercise. Now our garden looks abandoned, unloved, in the fall. In the summer it still looks good, because of all the flowers, and I am very grateful for that. I watered the green house, and it too was a pitiful sight. I smiled, because the spiders had taken over, so at least it was a good thing for them. I gave Yara a big bamboo stick and she trotted off happily. She reminds me more and more of myself. Strong, smart, full of energy and passion and having so much trouble expressing and controlling it effectively. She scares off other dogs when we take her for walks, yet she is incredibly kind and loving with us. I cannot take her for walks by myself, because she pulls so hard when she decides she sees another dog she wants to challenge, and I am strong, but she is stronger. So, I cannot take her, and that frustrates me ,because I would love the exercise, and she is frustrated because she and I both have to wait for my husband and son to accompany us. Too sad and weird. We are now thinking to get another Bouvier, so that maybe she will both calm down and able to walk more calmly, giving both her and me the chance at more peaceful walks, and also reduce the stress for my husband and son. Being outside did me good, made me realize how much work we have to look forward to this weekend. Right now, the place looks like the land before time, and it will be nice to change that before winter. Yara likes being outside with us, so at least she will get exercise running around from one end of the yard to the other, helping in her own way, with her cheerful energy. Bouvier have a lot of strength and energy, how I wish she had a little herd of cattle to keep in line, like her ancestry and breed was used to. I could use that myself, a small herd, as in a project or job to expand my energies in. Maybe that is on the horizon for both of us.

Rag Doll

A cold has fallen early, with temperatures about ten degrees cooler than usual for this time of year. The sky hangs mute and grey like an uncomfortable blanket, with a thin wind blowing its chilly air indifferently through the dry, fallen leaves scattering them all over the lawn and street. I wrap my mind around the day, and decide to take a break from an embroidery project I am close to finally finishing. Just yesterday, I reconnected with another friend from my graduate school days in Austin, Texas, a good friend from Panama City. This friend always had this ability to make me laugh, a quality I always treasured in him. He travels a lot as an engineer,and catching up to his life brought home my quiet life, that rarely sees travel these days. The feeling of a rag doll came to mind, with the rag doll being me. Someone who never really broke free of her limitations, from being ignored by my mother, feeling inadequate for very long, willing to fore go my own dreams and talents, because the strength was never put in me to stand up for myself, until just the last couple of years. A rag doll is easy to fold into a smaller shape, bends easily, and is sweet and vulnerable, but that very vulnerability is her strength, because you can drop her to the floor, throw her even, and she will not break. And that is how I often have felt, without understanding it, until very recently. Vulnerable but also resilient. And that resilience has gotten me through, each time. Another thing about a rag doll that I can relate to, is that a rag doll is not exactly built for fast motion. No batteries, but also no remote control. The longing to break free, to tear down walls invisible but to me, to set myself and my talents free, to cease being a rag doll, and become a bird with working wings. I try this one day at a time, one awareness at a time, to tear down a life time of crippling convictions and rebuild myself from scratch. That takes insight, determination, patience, some measure of luck and no small amount of faith and good humour. Some of us are built for speed, some for endurance, others yet for style, or sturdiness, some to inspire innovation, others to just stand the test of time.  And some of us are easily overlooked, because we are built to overcome, to survive.

The Dream

I woke up early, before light, to the loud crack of gunshots. Hunting season. I fell back asleep into an unusual dream from which I woke feeling warm, connected. In the dream my deceased ( since 2000 ) father-in-law got really tired, tired enough he wanted to lay down on the living room floor. I guess I was at his house. He teetered about, looking exhausted, and finally fell down on the rug, face first. I was afraid he had passed out, and went to look for help. As is the habit in dreams, time moves like molasses, and I felt like I was going through a maze just to get to the kitchen to let my husband and mother-in-law, who is 88 now, know what had happened. I found my mother-in-law, and she seemed unconcerned, and proceeded to show me two long silk skirts, the colour of polished steel, very pretty in style, with matching knit short sleeved tops.She was excited for us to try them on. Now, mind you, our relationship has never been close or fuzzy-friendly, even after my being married to her oldest son for 27 years. But she was genuinely willing, and so I went along and tried on the new outfit. Next thing I knew, the dream took us to a different time, and we were both little girls, giggling in the snow, looking into Christmas shops for candy and gifts. Like we were the best of friends. Then, as my anxiety for my father-in-law's well-being grew, I heard him lumber slowly into the kitchen, telling us , out of breath, he was all right. He looked sad, very much alone, but somehow was able to tell me that love and effort for family are worth it, even it it kills you. A gregarious but socially frustrated man in his 55 year marriage to my mother-in-law, he was a life long alcoholic and heavy smoker who died of complications of emphysema at 79. I was deeply surprised and touched by his effort to communicate his feelings, considering the grave discomfort he was in during the course of the dream. My father-in-law was part Native American, Blackfoot heritage, and maybe his spirit sensed my distress at times at the effort required from me since my immediate family fell apart, and what it means to me to keep our small family with my husband and son strong and together. I have seen Bald Eagles circle three times, in groups of three each time, above my house at the end of very stressful times, to find the crisis, sometimes lasting several years , has been beautifully resolved, with a peaceful and definite solution. Spending time in solitude has its rewards. I got up, smiling at the sight of my sleeping husband next to me, at the sight of our dog, Yara, sleeping on her cozy bed next to ours, and at the sound of my son's contented snoring, as I walked past his bedroom to the kitchen, and saw our cat Tigger curled up like a little fuzzball on the living room futon. I was home, and like my father-in-law's spirit reminded me, that was all that mattered. A Flemish born woman with a husband of California with an English,German and Native American heritage, and son with all that heritage plus my Flemish, French and Spanish blood, living here in Washington State, a member of a black baptist church, a Tae Kwon Do black belt, with a Vietnamese hair dresser and a North African song in my heart, as a tune by Rachid Taha and Idir both hummed through my head, I was home. I am home.      

Ge ziet da van hier !

For all the times I have been homesick for my native language of Flemish, in the past and just the other day, there are those happy times like today where remembered conversations from the past rummage about pleasantly in my head. Parts of conversations, like many colored pieces of scarfs bumping about in the suitcase of my language's memories. I hardly ever get to speak Flemish anymore these days since the disintegration of my family 8 years ago, except for the few times, 3 or 4 times a year at the most, with my aunt Lieve in Oostende, and cousin Marc in Koekelare, in Belgium. Other than that, the Flemish conversations I have are in my head. Either imaginary conversations with people from the past, or imaginary conversations with myself, and people I imagine are still in my life, alive and well. Often, the conversations are humorous, recalling jokes and light hearted banter, like the expression " ge ziet da van hier!", meaning "well obviously !" In my mind I recall running into friends and relatives on the city streets, and the exchange of casual conversations, from the latest local political mishaps to the latest divorce or other local gossip. As a child it seemed to me adults had this ability to make conversation out of the slightest material. The memory of their laughter and chuckles and the various Flemish colloquial expressions stuck. And on a day like today, hazy and cold and quiet, those memories of innate conversations in Flemish feel warm and soothing like a hot cup of tea or coffee, if you will. It is hard to be isolated form your native culture, not by choice, but by circumstance, but memory is a wonderful thing that way. I may be deprived of those connections now, but they are a part of me, a part of my past, but a part of me nevertheless. A kind friend of mine recently got back from a whirlwind tour across the US for his job as university president. He is a native speaker of Tamazight, and of course learned Arabic and French as a child in his native Morocco, and English in graduate school. As a university president, he uses Arabic and French and English on a daily basis, and it just occurred to me that there must be days he longs for his native Tamazight, reminding him of less complicated days, of closeness to his ancestral roots, in spite of his appreciation of all the heritage Arabic and French brought to North Africa, or his comfort with English as a tool to reach out globally in his large educational network. That realization made me feel less alone. Often it is not so much what happened or happens to us, or not, but how we view it, and today, thank the Gods, the absence and lack and the holes, feel painless, interesting, and even all right. Well, obviously! Ge ziet da van hier! 

Pretez-moi

Pretez-moi un peu de votre peau
laissez-moi toucher un coin
de ton ame.

Dans les couleurs calmes de votre voix
mes angoisses s'effacent.

Touchez un petit coin de mon coeur,
juste assez pour me rassurer,
que ce que je pense et je dis
existent dans un petit village
de ton univers.

Pretez-moi un peu de ton present
et donnez-moi la chance d'ouvrir
une porte sur le futur.

Ami du passe, copain d'aujourdhui,
laissez entrer l'air frais de l'espoir
sur cette fenetre agreablement ouverte
qu'est pour moi votre amitie.


Pour D.O.
Trudi Ralston
October 17th, 2013.

Broken Knife

Time goes around in circles
when it comes to you.

Like a clock on a long string,
going around and around again.

Now you see it, now you don't
your face drifts into the distance
and reappears,startling my sleep.

You never speak a word, you just
stare at my emptiness, wondering
why this never happened and happens
all the time.


Tick, tock, you are gone,
Tick, tock, are you here?

Oh, pull that knife out, would you,
and let me bleed out. I am so tired
looking for you.

Time goes around in circles
when it comes to you.

Ashes to ashes, you fall down.
ashes to ashes, I fall down.

You like how sunflowers smell
you liked my scent.

In the silent warmth of the light
of day, I wonder if you ever see
my longing in your dreams.

for JTW. Trudi Ralston
October 17th,2013.

Geronimo

I have always had a great fondness for rabbits. When I was growing up in Belgium, we had a rabbit hutch for many years, and we would let the rabbits hop around in our large lawn. They were so sweet, so gentle. As children we were amazed at how fast they would reproduce, and how large their families quickly became. The rabbits would end up as rabbit stew, but as small children it took us a while to put the facts together. Once we figured it out, the whole thing became less charming. It got worse, of course, once we started naming the rabbits. My youngest sister, Ludwina, became very fond of a black and white rabbit with lob ears, whom she named after the fierce Apache chief, Geronimo. At the time, my sister must have been about 8 or 9. She would feed Geronimo every day after school, and was  promised he would never be hurt. We were still eating rabbit stew, just not the favorite ones that were personal pets. Then like something out of a bad movie, on a night we were eating rabbit stew my father announced we were eating Geronimo. I still remember the cruel gleam in his eyes, there was something really awful about the way he announced this. My sister was so stunned, she just sat there, with this horrified look on her child face. My mother was of course complicit in this, she just had tried to get away with thinking my sister would not have noticed Geronimo was gone. We all sat in horror, and no one said anything, while my father in a most unconvincing and nauseating way tried to make the whole thing seem a fantastically clever joke. Such fathomless cruelty towards his youngest daughter, who was already a very impressionable and sensitive child. It was like an ill conceived episode out of " The Munsters" or "The Addams Family". My father was not sorry, he seemed to enjoy his moment of gratuitous cruelty. It is one of those episodes in our childhood I have never understood, squared away or forgotten. Why Geronimo? Why tell her, why do this to her? We could have done without eaten him. We were not going hungry, it was totally useless, pointless. The look in my father's clear blue eyes at that particular moment, became unforgettable. There was malice in them, the way only those who enjoy hurting others show malice in their eyes. I am glad it was the only instance I recall willful malice in my father. But the experience was enough to allow people in my path, and my sister's path, who enjoyed hurting us emotionally, well into our adult lives. I keep a poster of a very sweet lob  eared rabbit on our bedroom wall. To this day, I feel pain and sadness when I look at it and a deeply frustrated ability and longing to protect vulnerability.  

Incomprehensible

It is a sunny, clear and crisp day, one of those early autumn days full of fragrance and energy. I am listening to Rachid Taha 's sensually charged, virile voice on his CD collection " Made in Medina". The early afternoon sun filters in gently thorough the kitchen door screen, as I am writing at the kitchen table. The Algerian singer's confident voice booms through my small house, energizing my writing efforts. I am learning basic Arabic, so at this point except for a word here and there, his words are incomprehensible to me. But I find that comforting, to listen to someone whose words I do not comprehend.Some of his songs are sung in French, or have French words thrown in. I do speak and write French fluently, so that adds both intrigue and ease to his songs. I am not bothered by not understanding his words, because it allows me to relate to him in an unusual way. I feel like I might as well be a mute a lot of times, because what I say seems to matter little, and very few people know about my life and what my immigrant experience has been like. So, the words I do speak, the ordinary language of every day, like nice weather we're having, what do you want for dinner, what a mess the government is in, does not reveal what matters to me, or what I am thinking of, so it is like singing in my head in a language no one hears, or speaking a language no one hears. So, listening to someone passionately singing in a language I do not understand, is strangely comforting.The songs speak to me emotionally, as do Idir's songs, and when I learn the lyrics of some of them, I am always happily surprised they deal with a theme of estrangement and longing for one's homeland and culture I  can relate to, like Rachid Taha's song about the expatriate longing for his home shore, "Oh Traveler". My husband and son are both kind people, but have very little interest in other cultures or my own circumstances, so even with them, I feel I might as well speak Arabic most days, when it comes to my deeper concerns and dreams. Perhaps that is why I feel so close to animals in the care of humans. They too are deprived of being understood, and struggle to make their needs understood, often at the varying degree of amusement of their owners. As a result, a lot of people underestimate both their intelligence and suffering, and find their efforts at expressing themselves to be signs of simple minds. I myself have been considered on many an occasion sweet and naive, just because people do not take the time, my husband among them, to understand my point of reference, culturally and intellectually. It  is like being in a play you know you don't belong in, but you manage the best you can. Writing is a way to start chipping at that wall of isolation. Emotionally too, the music of Rachid Taha reaches me, moves me, inspires me, makes me feel less alone. It is like a catharsis, a mineral bath for my tired, aching heart and mind. As an Algerian who left his homeland when he was 8, and moved with his family to France, he knows the loneliness of the expatriate, and the rage of not being understood, or seen, with respect and acceptance. His song " Douce France, pays de mon enfance", got him in trouble with the French authorities who took offense at the sarcastic tone of  what they initially assumed to be a song about his love for his adopted homeland. I cannot relate to the racism people of North Africa suffer in Belgium and France and other West European countries, but I can relate to the sense of estrangement all immigrants have to come to terms with. Incomprehensible. Invisible. I so welcome the times I can listen to music in a language I cannot understand that makes me feel emotionally safe and briefly visible. 

The Courtyard

The silence of our backyard and the backyards of the neigbbours in our street is unsettling at times, especially now that summer is over. The sound of lawnmowers and the happy chatter of campfires and BBQ. dinners have stopped. My son and husband and I are no longer enjoying eating outside, talking together rather than being inside on our computers. The disquiet triggered a memory from when I was about 13, visiting my father's mother and aunt, who shared a small rental apartment in Oostende, in a very quiet part of the town, on a square called "Het Vlaams Plein". My grandmother, who became a widow at age 38, and never re-married, lived with my father's youngest sister, Lieve, who devoted her entire life to work in the social assistance sector and never married. I loved spending time with them, and my respect and admiration for my aunt stands to this day. They rented the bottom half of a row house which consisted of a very small kitchen, a small living room, a toilet in the hallway, a small bedroom they shared, and a dining room. There was a bathroom, with a bath and shower they shared with the couple renting the rooms upstairs. The one grace the place had was access to a small, walled backyard, with a few shrubs and flowers, and an almost surreal view of a field, edging the urban scene. The silence in that backyard was final, unnerving,enhanced by the walls separating the next door row houses. I would take a walk in the eerily silent walled enclosure, while my grandmother would busy herself making us lunch, and the memory of that abyss of silence stayed with me. I had not thought of that memory until recently, when the equally unnerving silence of our backyard, haunts me in fall and winter. No more children visiting our son, no more Birthday dinners and BBQ.s, very few friends coming over now that our son is grown. No family of course. My father's youngest sister says I  look like aunt Denise, my father's and her older sister, who has lived for the last 60 years very close to the village where she and my father and their other sister were born and grew up, Leke, in the west Flemish part of Belgium. Aunt Denise and her husband, my uncle Noel, have been married more than 60 years, and have three children, one of whom, my cousin Marc, who is divorced and 59, lives with them, and runs a beauty shop out of the big front room of the house, which used to be a deli my aunt Denise ran for many years until she retired. Her life and that of her husband and son is a very quiet one, as is mine now. As I am in my mid fifties now, and have a hair colour and smile, and even glasses similar in style to hers, I too can see the resemblance between my aunt Denise and I. A resemblance physically and also emotionally, a resilience in the face of challenges, isolation and frustrated talents. Like me, my aunt Denise has made her family her priority at the expense of an intelligent and creatively talented mind. It made me wonder about free will. Is there really such a thing? Or do we fall in to patterns long established before our births by family dynamics, circumstances and genetics? I have tried very hard, and still do, to break free of my family's traps and pitfalls, only to realize that that chain will give, but rarely break. I see that struggle also in my husband, and even in my son, the next generation, alert to stay free from the shadows of  both my husband and my families' dysfunctional codes and behaviours. So far so good. I feel best when I focus on each day, and leave the past and its luggage in their lockers. Given the tragedies locked in that suitcase, it is no wonder that the question of free will  tugs at my convictions certain days. The steadfastness of my father's sisters and their families gives me great hope. These  people are strong, determined and honorable in heart, spirit and soul. So, as disconcerting as that silent backyard, both the one from the past ,and the one I live in now may be, I will take it any day over the path of destruction my mother inherited and she so stubbornly denied, until the facts started taking over.  

The Little Mermaid

There is a fairy tale that left a deep impression on me as a child. I had a fondness for these imaginary tales that lasted into early adolescence. As any child, I was of course captured by the beautiful illustrations in the books, that only enhanced their magic. One story stands out to this day, " The Little Mermaid ". Perhaps because in the original version, she does not get to live happily ever after. She sacrifices being a mermaid to be with this human man she falls in love with, she gives up what makes her uniquely a mermaid, her tail, in exchange for her voice, with the help of an evil witch. What the little mermaid does not know is that her prince is in love and about to marry someone else.So, she perishes, reduced to a bit of foam on the ocean, as she watches her beloved marry someone else. She  sacrificed everything for love. She lost everything, but the mercy of a benevolent god, who took her spirit's broken heart into his paradise. When I was in college and graduate school, my world was open, with friends, travel, a family. Ten years later, my world closed. It was just what happened, marrying a loving but very solitary man. It took me ten years to open up that world again, when I joined my black Baptist church, became involved in my son's school, made friends, got involved in Scouts and Tae Kwon Do, and then both my sisters died, my parents' marriage became toxic and turned deadly, and I went into hiding. I went into therapy 4 years ago, and re-established contact with my church, my father's sister, I started writing, and became very devoted to helping the animals in my neighbourhood. Almost ten years later, again, I am struggling to break down the walls of isolation, as social contacts are not a priority for my husband. This isolation is hard to break out of, because I put myself there, and my husband is who he is as am I, and we are older now. The tiger does not change his stripes. So, I try each and every day, to be as loving and kind as I can, to take pride in my marriage and son, who I saved from the disastrous kind of marriage my parents had. I was so ashamed and disgusted with my mother's endless list of affairs, because of what they did to her relationship with my father, and her children. She encouraged her daughters to be promiscuous, with terrible results. I managed to get away without any permanent damage to my husband and son. My youngest sister went from one miserable relationship to another, with the exception of the wonderful, honest and kind man she was engaged to at the time of her death. My other sister had an unhappy marriage by her own admission, but stayed in it for her two children, and because she got hooked on the wealthy lifestyle. My mother stood by and watched these train wrecks, indifferent, because she wanted her daughters to be like her, to justify her own selfish choices. I escaped that fate, but only barely. So, I wanted to be clean, to wash away the filth of deceit, and I focused completely on making my husband and son priority number one. I know, sacrifice like that is not without complications, and what I could not foresee was that with the limited family  connections left, I painted myself into a corner of isolation. There are days that realization is very hard to deal with, but I do take pride in the closeness and warmth we have as a small family of three. A family that is real, without deceit, without hidden relationships, " All for one, and one for all ". I had to dig myself out from underneath the family rubble, and some of the bricks did land on me. By the grace of God, I believe, I got away from an abusive relationship I was terrorized by emotionally for 6 years during my marriage, with an emotionally violent and cruel lover. All because my mother kept rejecting her virtuous daughter. I was disgusted with what she turned me into, and coming clean with my husband was one of the victories of our life together for me. Who this man was is irrelevant, he was a useless person and a total waste of time, but for what it helped me understand about what happened to me growing up with a promiscuous mother who hated nothing more than innocence in her daughters.So, it is hard to break down the isolation I put myself in in order to get a clean break, but I will take the peace of mind and true pride and hard earned happiness it comes with any day over the cheap, soul deadening thrills my mother advertised her whole life. I feel I am at risk of being like the Little Mermaid some days, but like they say, a brave man or woman only dies once, and a coward dies a hundred deaths. Give me a clean, proud death any day.In the words of one of my most favorite American actors, Sylvester Stallone, in Rambo 5 : " Live for nothing, or die for something".  

La Tournesol

Debut octobre, et il fait deja froid les matins. La chaleur d'ete n'est qu'un souvenir en ce moment. Chacque annee, je garde une des tournesol de notre jardin quand elles commencent a se secher. Je choisis une qui est tres petite comme souvenir. Cela me surprends toujours comme les tournesol gardent leur couleur et parfum une fois sechee. J'adore leur parfum de miel, me rapellant l'energie des abeilles qui visitent les tournesol toute l'ete. Les tournesol sont pour moi un symbole de l'amitie. On a tous dans les souvenirs de notre coeur des amis dont la gentillesse reste avec nous longtemps apres qu'ils ne sont plus dans notre vie. Une amitie heureuse a les couleurs et parfums d'une belle tournesol, et comme cettes fleurs, les couleurs et parfums nous restent quand nos amis ne peuvent plus etre avec nous. Le parfum d'une fleur n'est pas du tout la meme chose que la fleur elle meme, mais dans l'absence de cette fleur, la tendresse qu'evoque ce parfum et la couleur encore vive et jaune de sa tete surement est agreable a l'ame et ses espoirs. La nature a sa propre sagesse, une patience qui est rafraichissante dans notre monde presse. Cela peut etre difficile de manquer des etres aimes, mais comme le poete libanes Kahlil Gibran nous dit : " La memoire est une facon de se rencontrer a nouveau" ( Ecume et Sable ), et dans cet espoir il y a une beaute et rassurance qui peut renconforter les coeurs les plus cyniques. La petite tournesol sechee restera sur mon bureau tout l'hiver, pour me rapeller qu'arrivera a nouveau le printemps et l'ete, avec des tournesol fraiches et vibrantes. Juste comme le souvenir d'une belle amitie peut nous rassurer que notre coeur reste capable de decouvrir des amities nouvelles dans le jardin de la vie. 

From Yesterday to Tomorrow

It seems there is no way around it. A friend of mine form my graduate school days in Austin, Texas seems to have become part of the threads of inspiration and perspective when it comes to my stories in "Lioness in Exile". He has an easy, calming charisma, the willingness to listen and a keen insight and perspective. Ambitious, highly successful, driven, he is kind, patient, tolerant and even though extraordinarily busy, willing to listen, truly listen, with interest and concern. No wonder he is the President of the most prestigious university in Morocco. We were friends in graduate school and somehow our connection survived, and was re-established courtesy of modern media technology. After he graduated with a doctorate, he returned to his country and became highly effective and successful in the education field. He lives the future, living each day building his country's next generation the solid foundations for optimal chances to succeed in the 21st century and beyond. I graduated with a master's degree, married an American psychology graduate student who finished his master's degree, we moved to Washington State, raised our son, who is now a junior in the liberal arts college here, Evergreen State. For the past 8 years I have been busy building a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow, trying to make sense of the present tense lost when my family imploded. A tough spot to be. Therapy finally made me turn the corner, but the present tense remains still elusive on many a day. My world shrank in self-defense, and apparently isolation is a feature of shock, trauma , and grief. So, I started writing on my therapist's suggestion who said : "... the way you talk, use words, you paint with words, you should write... " And as it turned out, I started writing in high school, so I was only to glad to follow up on her vote of confidence. My friend Driss is far away, on the other side of the planet, but it is fascinating to me as disparate as our worlds are, how the desire to build a solid tomorrow somehow is a common thread. My world is a micro-cosmos now, in spite of past international travels, and having lived in the US for soon to be 40 years, in spite of speaking and writing fluently 4 languages, and having intensely studied 3 more, in spite of having been a member now for  19 years of my African- American church, of being a first degree Tae Kwo Do black belt trained by a 9th degree Korean Grand Master. The isolation of the last years has made me invisible and unnoticeable. I am trying to break that wall, and writing is one way of doing that. From yesterday to tomorrow, that is my challenge, as the bridge needed to get there, today, is still very shaky and often invisible in the fog of yesterday. My friend Driss needs to know that his willingness to listen, to take seriously my concerns, my stories, my photographs of flowers, are building blocks towards re-structuring my sense of hope, self-esteem, purpose and self-confidence, so that I can start walking with assurance across that " today " bridge to a more solid future, to the benefit of my husband, my son and sure, myself so I can truly be  a worthwhile neighbour and friend, writer, and use the strength of lessons learned towards a future with a mind and heart open to new horizons and new lessons. I do not know if my friend ever has days where he gets discouraged. If he does, he does not let on, and if he can make a difference in my life with his encouragement long distance,  how much more must he be effective on a daily basis in the lives of his students, colleagues, and community members. I know how much more. Enough so that the King of Morocco appointed him President of the country's most cutting edge university. That is awesome. Everyone should have a friend like Driss somewhere in their life story. His world is a macro-cosmos, but he is wise and kind enough to make time for those whose lives are undeniable micro worlds. That is class, intelligence and heart. And when was the last time the world had an abundance of those qualities?   

Setting the record straight

A highly intelligent and very well educated friend overseas took a sobering point of view on my entry " Here I Go again". I was slightly taken aback as he wondered as to the relevance of sharing that story. I let it sink in a bit, then decided he made a valid point. The terrible boat tragedy in Italian waters that was reported on the news yesterday, as I have the habit of watching BBC America to get a more accurate international viewpoint, sure shrank my concerns to a shrivel. More than a 100 people dead, more than 200 missing from a smuggling boat loaded down with 500 people being brought in illegally into Europe from Northern Africa, once more brings the grim business of snake heads into the spotlight. It reminded me of a riveting book written by Patrick Radden Keefe, an FBI investigator who spent years of international efforts on finally bringing to justice Sister Ping, a notorious snake head operating a worldwide  human smuggling network out of an anonymous storefront in New York's China Town. The book spares no details on the unbelievable abuse and degradation these unfortunate illegal immigrants suffer at the hands of these ruthless snake heads and their minions who make millions by their hapless victims' suffering. It puts my own story to shame in comparison. But my story is mine, and real. My friend does not realize that even his rather restrained appreciation of my story and its perspective helped me. Why? Because it briefly connected us, it made me part of his world and point of view, just because I took a chance and reached out. Friends do not always have to agree, or see eye to eye. Communication is a flawed art and privilege, but I do feel better after sharing my story, and I do appreciate his point of view. My story is a walk in the park, compared to the people who ended up on that ill fated, overcrowded boat, many of them children, who died a gruesome death in an ill conceived fire on a desperate boat. People whose journey started as far away as Eritrea, who must already have been exhausted and hungry, before they got on that boat to Europe. A horrible fate, and a story that plays out all over the planet on a daily basis, often unnoticed or noticed too late to avert yet another human tragedy. It is not my story. At the same time, I can appreciate the longing for another shore, the dream of making another country yours in hopes of achieving something unique, in hopes of a new, hopeful start. I did not leave Belgium to get away from war, poverty and persecution, but I did and have to make an effort to make sense of my story, and the loss of my family and roots. I can only tell my story, because that is what happened to me. I can certainly learn from every one else's story, as I hope people can learn from mine. So, thank you, my friend, for allowing me to reach out, even though my story is one of a far, far lesser degree of gravity. Your suggestion to share this particular story with people of similar points of view and concerns is a wonderful thought, but perhaps the reason I write about it, is because in my world these people are far and few in between. Even though you are living on the other side of the planet, your travel and education experiences, and the sharing of friendships and connections in graduate school allow for an interesting perspective on your part, and in turn, being able to share with you my point of view and experiences as a Belgian transplant into the US, gives me just that bit of hope and energy I need to keep putting one foot in front of the other, each and every day, again and again.

Here I Go Again

I have always had a fondness for Bob Seger's songs. There is a melancholy to them that brings back my years as an undergraduate student at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas in the late seventies. On the way back from my son's college here in Olympia, the Evergreen State College, the Bob Seger song "Turn The Page", from 1973, came on the radio. The song is all about road weariness as a rock star traveling between concerts. It is heartfelt, honest and hits a nerve with anyone who has ever tried to accomplish a dream in the face of exhausting schedules, challenges and lob sided odds. "Here I go again, playing star again,... turn the page...", wearily sings Bob Seger. Yes, playing star again. Playing being the key word for me. I am so proud of our son being a junior at Evergreen State College, one of the best liberal arts colleges in the Pacific Northwest. I can share that pride with very few people, as my family shrunk considerably over the years. As an immigrant form Belgium, with no family left except a few kind older aunts there, and no family connection with my inlaws, there are many times I wish I could share my triumphs and challenges that may seem ordinary to many, but to me and my husband and son are the result of great discipline and effort. My father was a highly paid CEO and we lived exceedingly comfortably. He paid for all four of his children, that being myself, my brother, and my two younger sisters, to have a four year college degree from TCU. My life became very different after my family fell apart, and my life style is modest now. I am very proud of our son and how well he is doing, having graduated with honors from high school, with high honors from the South Puget Sound Community College here, and entered ESC now this fall with a tuition reduction because of his high GPA. The only person I can share that with back in Belgium, who can appreciate the context, is my father's youngest sister in Oostende, who has known me since I was born in 1957. I talk to her once every 3 months or so, and it makes me proud I can tell her what is happening, what our struggles and victories are. For those brief moments, I feel like a star. I do not feel like I am playing a star, which is how I feel most of the time , as I have very few references. That alone-ness makes things harder, and can lead to sadness and a longing for more than a very strong faith in oneself and one's own energy. I am glad I am blessed with my husband and son and even if they do not often verbalize that they appreciate my relentless efforts and encouragements, at least I see the rewards. But I suppose it is only human to want to share your triumphs and your goals. I recently saw that great movie again, "My Big, Fat Greek Wedding", ( 2002 ) a heartwarming story about a young guy who marries into a gregarious Greek- American family. It always tears at me, to see this guy falling into this great clan. That did not happen for me, and it did not happen for my husband, and our son. Our family motto is " All For One, And One For All". My son even did a drawing about that for us. We are a clan, of three, and I try to make it as cohesive and worthwhile and strong as possible. That is no game. But, there are times, when giving in to fantasy and perhaps illusion, that I wish we were part of a larger clan where our challenges and triumphs would go noticed, where we could go on stage, so to speak, and play the part where we get some praise and applause. So, Bob Seger's song is bittersweet to listen to. I am road weary on more than one occasion, like a traveling singer, and often feel unnoticed and even invisible, and his feeling of just going through the motions again, playing star, ring true to me. Except in my case, it is playing the part of the invisible, unseen, unnoticed, displaced immigrant, playing star again. Star, in my own mind, because if it wasn't for a bit of an inflated sense of self-importance and even a healthy dose of vanity, I might just want to bow out of  the show I put on for myself and perhaps a kind little fairy somewhere.  

Lady Chatterley's Lover

There is a quote from " Lady Chatterley's Lover " that cuts to the bone every time I read it : " And dimly she realized one of the great laws of the human soul : that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only appearance. It is really only the mechanism of the reassumed habit. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise, which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst. " For each of us, that wounding shock to the soul is different and individual, depending on our life story. For some, it is the loss of a very young child, and the ache of regret and guilt that won't go away. For another person, it is the tragic illness at much too young an age of a loved one that took away the hope and dream of a life together. For yet another person, it is the wound and shock of betrayal , for someone else,the ache that never ends at the loss of country, due to war or other dire circumstances. Sometimes, it is the pain of  being in relationships that slowly kill the heart and soul and the inability to walk away from them, due to lack of resources or deep insecurity. We all walk around wounded, to varying degrees. D.H. Lawrence's profound insight into this most enigmatic reality of the human condition is worded exquisitely and so mercilessly accurate. They shed light on my own circumstances, and in spite of the clinical coldness of the observation, there is an undertone of mercy in them. My psychic wound is twofold, one directly related to a mother who forever pretended to care about me, the other tied to being in a country too vast to hold my soul's bruised roots. And yet, again, I do not feel sorry for myself. I am too analytical and rational in spite of my passions, to give in to that hypnotic drug. I am fascinated by the predicament, and the process I laboriously pursue to break free of the clutches of isolation this bruised soul of mine has put me in. My body has recovered from all the family trauma. The insomnia is gone, so is the perpetual monologue of rage, the aches and pains in back , neck and shoulders. So is the OCD, the nausea and anxiety. But what is left, perhaps to stay, is the silence, the absence, the cemetery like quiet that is never far away on days I feel insecure and disconnected. But, I can sing again, and hum, and laugh, and yes, cry, all of which froze in me for almost 7 years. I have hope again. That does not mean it is still not hard, but I have more good days than sad or bad. I realize that I am at the point now where I have to deal with the terrible after-effects of the wound to my soul. But I am ready to accept that and work through it. There was a time I thought my pain and wound were unique. Perhaps in circumstances, but not in scope. I am just one of many, many people who were dealt a nasty blow. A lot are dealt kinder cards, and a lot are dealt far worse. Sharing is becoming a way to re-connect. The fact that D.H. Lawrence's words ring so true and run so deep a hundred years later, is proof that the human condition has a stubborn streak in it regardless of country or origin, or time reference. That realization could be cause for concern, and it is, but I also find hope in it. If heartache and sorrow can isolate, it can also bring us together in empathy and enhanced strength. I have no idea of knowing for sure if I will succeed in breaking the wall of isolation I valiantly struggle against, but I will tear at it, each and every day, one stubborn mortared brick at a time. Hello there, how is your day going?