Yes!

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

Blue Musing

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

In Praise of the Ordinary

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

Arabesque

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

Clutter

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

Francis I

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

The Texas Connection

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