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?

D.H. Lawrence

The English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist David Herbert Lawrence ( 1885- 1930 ), who achieved notoriety for " Lady Chatterley's Lover", and "Sons and Lovers", was apparently not impressed with American culture : " The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic and a killer. It has never yet melted." That is a pretty pessimistic view, but I cannot deny its powerful impact. I have lived in the US for 37 years now, and there have been many times that I shuddered at the harshness of its psyche. The US is a country of extremes, and if the political climate is any indication, the cultural void created by it seems to fall in line with D.H. Lawrence 's prophetic pessimism. There is an inherent harshness in the way this country treats its children that perhaps explains the deep loneliness of the current generation. In all fairness, perhaps the reason this country feels so indifferent to me, culturally, is because it is a confluence of so many cultures, as evidenced in cities like New York. Perhaps the malaise is felt so strongly here, because there are so many elements to contend with. D. H. Lawrence felt absolute contempt and nausea for the lack of substance to the English psyche of his time, and there have been many times and there are times now, when I feel the same contempt for the US cultural soul as the English writer did a hundred years ago for England. Perhaps it is an artistic over-sensitivity I have been accused of by friend and foe alike, but I suspect the reasons are deeper than that. There is a fundamental element of isolation built into the American experience, and it did not end when people stopped trekking across the West in covered wagons. It seems built into the genetic code that doing things on your own for the pure sake of it is a basic requirement to being considered a full fledged American. My husband fits the reality of that. He is a deeply convinced loner, not just by nature, but by instinct. How we have managed these last 27 years with my gregarious and clan- driven nature will be the subject of future concerns and speculation. I think our obsession with things in American culture, which we now happily spread across the globe, is a telling story of how isolating the American experience has become and the difficulty at achieving true dialogue, even on a political level, let alone on an individual level. Modernity has reached an impasse, and the biggest stumbling block is our inability to have perspective. We are chasing our own tails, and getting high on the dizziness it causes. If D.H. Lawrence lived in the US today, his nausea existentially would be surprisingly similar to the nausea he felt a hundred years ago when he had grave reservations about the culture. About California he said : " California is a queer place- in a way, it has turned its back on the world, and looks into the void Pacific. It is absolutely selfish, very empty, but not false, and at least, not full of false effort. " It seems so unfortunately accurate from a philosophical point. The inability of this country to wrap itself around the issues that matter and save democracy for the future, is a sore and deeply sad reflection at its inability to come to terms with itself as a phenomenon. It has me worried. Dr. Toni Morrison was the last writer in this country to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature 20 years ago. Such a powerful nation, and where has its soul gone in the twenty years? It is lost, and we are adrift without a compass. And a nation without a soul is at risk of fading into the sunset, sooner rather than later. Let us hope that momentum will come about to turn the clock back on this most depressing scenario.

The House by the Side of the Road

On the road to my son's former high school, and now his job, there is a large house, grey in tones,with a big bent tree in the front yard. The place is dark, silent and it feels empty. I drive by it, notice it and it never leaves me indifferent. It hurts to look at it. When I imagine people in that house, I see my father in one of his soft sweater vests, checking the mailbox. He is alone, looking like he is waiting for someone. Maybe me, maybe my mother who turned him out when he was already ill. Maybe he is thinking about my youngest sister, who hung herself when she was 35. Maybe he wonders about his other daughter, and her children. Maybe in the spirit world, he learned she died of a fast spreading cancer when she was 44, three years before he died himself of Alzheimer complications. Maybe he is looking for my son, who he knew as a small child, and who is now 21. I have no way of knowing where people's essence goes once their bodies die. I think they go and look for those they loved. In spite of my mother's valiant efforts to the contrary, I loved my father very much. She poisoned our hearts with endless deceit and lies, about him, about her own marvelous virtues as a wife and mother. The house by the side of the road is a sad looking place, but I look at it with longing, because I imagine that our family could have made that place a happy home, where there were no lies and deceitful games of betrayal and deadly bitterness. A home where the four of us children felt safe because we were, where our mother and father loved each other, instead of one hating my father, and the other being slavishly devoted to her every whim, only to be betrayed horribly. A home where my sister Ludwina never knew despair and was still alive, where my other sister was still alive and in a happy marriage with her two children. Where my brother was happy with his family, his life. But as I drive by, I see the house is ugly, dark and empty, and that my family no longer exists. Only ghosts live in that house for me now. Parents have no idea of the power they have to bring either hope and strength and happiness to their children, or tear their children apart with their determination to pull their children into their dysfunctional relationship. I was lucky. I married a very steady, solid and honest loving man, who overcame growing up with a violent alcoholic father and an emotionally twisted mother who encouraged the abuse. His strength helped me get the determination to believe in my own strength, and we are a good team, after 29 years of being together. If I have learned anything from the war that destroyed my family,it is that when people decide to have a family, with children, they better have their story and line-up straight, because whatever they bring to the relationship, good and bad, will affect the next generation 's hopes, dreams and talents. And the way their heart either breaks or smiles when they see an old house sitting by the road as they drive by it on their life's path.

The Long Way Home

There is a beautiful song by the British rock band " Supertramp ", called "Take the Long Way Home". It is on their sixth album, "Breakfast in America", released on March 29th, 1979. I love the album ,and all of its songs, but the one that gets to me every time I hear it, is "Take the Long Way Home". The existential anguish expressed in the song take on an even deeper meaning to me as someone who has been living outside of her country of origin, Belgium, for 37 years now. I have been a citizen of the US for 19 years, have been married to an American born and raised citizen from California for 27 years, and we have raised together our son who turned 21 this summer and is an art student in his third year in college. Along the way, the parents I grew up with, and both my younger sisters, died tragic and heart wrenching deaths. My family fell apart like things fall apart in a war, and there was nothing but dust and rubble and death left when it was over. A suicide at 35, a death of a deadly cancer at 44, two small kids left behind with more questions than answers, Alzheimer's, divorce, alcoholism, betrayal, deceit. Did I leave anything out? But life goes on, so to speak. Your heart can be broken in a dozen or more pieces, but it will go on beating anyway. I have focused all my energy and strength on my small family with my husband and son. We are strong and united. That does not mean that it is easy to start from scratch, and without any support or interest from my husband's family. They might as well live in Australia for all the kindness and caring they have shown over the years. That is hard. No family on either side. Rejected by one, ignored by the other. Such a deal. So I take great pride in the fact that my husband and I are still going strong after almost 30 years, and that we have a great relationship with our intelligent and talented son. I am fiercely protective by nature, a bit of a tiger when threatened, and that feeling only became stronger as I fought hard for my and my husband's and son's dignity. Perhaps I feel so at home at my black baptist church for going on 20 years, because the African-American story in this country is one of forever struggling and standing up for dignity, acceptance, belonging, a long and hard search and fight for the re-integration and dignity of family life, hope, and future. Perhaps to some people the famous Negro spiritual song " Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, alone, alone", may just be another beautiful song, but to me, having been betrayed by my mother, and her family, and trying to make another country my own against at times discouraging odds, the song hits a raw and painful nerve. I am still on that long way home, sometimes the road is smooth and hopeful, other days it feels endless, empty and cold. I will not deny my life makes for an interesting perspective, with some very fascinating experiences, but there is a silence in me few can understand, a wound that never heals. It will be so good to go back to church, because it is one place where the warmth, compassion, spiritual wisdom and soul lifting music and its strength can recharge my battery and make me feel I matter after all, in spite of it all.

Perte Totale

L'ete s'acheve presque comme un souffle. Le soleil est encore present, dans un ciel bleu, mais il y a un frisson dans l'air tot le matin. C'est toujours dur pour moi de voir se disparaitre la chaleur et joie d'ete, et je me bats contre la melancholie chacque annee quand s'annonce l'automme. J'ai un ami qui vit tres loin, mais qui a une gentillesse malgre la distance, et un talent d'avoir la patience dans ce monde presse de prendre le temps de m'ecouter. La blessure invisible de la melancholie est bien sur liee a la perte de beaucoup de personnes dans ma famille. Perte totale, et je me sens sourier quand meme un peu. D'une facon ou autre, je m'imagine qu'on est tous des " pertes totales", a cause des choses que la vie nous a faites soufrir. Mon copain me fait realiser, souvent pas avec des mots longs ou des jugements penibles, mais avec une patience et de la diplomacie exacte , qu'avec lui ce n'est pas question de validite, mais d'integrite, la mienne autant que la sienne. Cela montre une capacite de gentillesse qui est impressionante pour moi, et qui addoucit souvent mes crises existentielles. Il ne juge pas, il ne rejette pas. Il ecoute, et essaye de comprendre et donner une perspective nouvelle, realiste. Recemment, il me disait que chez lui, on dit "Seulement Dieu est parfait", me faisant comprendre de ne me pas prendre trop au serieuse. Perte totale. Oui, beaucoup d'entre nous sont bien imparfaits et blesses. Mais avec un peu de chance, on a tous un ami ou amie quelque part, proche ou loin, qui nous rappelle qu'on est bien aimable malgre nos defauts et incertitudes. La vie est comme un chemin sur lequel on se trouve, et la promenade est plus agreable quand on rencontre quelques personnes qui  nous rappellent la beaute et la dignite d'avoir des compagnes sur cette route plein de mystere, ou on a tous plus des questions que des reponses.

The Art of Imperfection

This year we did our spring cleaning in August, which made us laugh. It just turned out that way. But, we were successful, each and every closet, drawer was gone through, and emptied, washed out, and what ever item of clothing or otherwise, was no longer used, was cleaned , folded and given away to the Salvation Army. The books were taken to our local library. It has always been my philosophy to give away what you no longer use, or have need of. Mend it, wash it and fold it and give it to another who can have good use of it. So, I was looking around my small country house, pleased with myself. Then, as was inevitable, I noticed old kitchen cabinets that looked a little bit outdated, some paint that could use refreshing, a garage screaming "Yard Sale!", and sighed, then just smiled. The thought came to me : the art of imperfection. The ability to live with things imperfect. It is an important one I believe, because things imperfect are connected to people imperfect, and we often live with these imperfect people, and they often live with our imperfections in turn. This is my home, meaning this is where my heart is, where my husband's and son's hearts are. So, if things are not quite as immaculate and organized as I would really like them to be, it is far less important than that my family feels as comfortable as I do, and that I am as tolerant of their at times infuriating stuff as they are of my campaign to eradicate it. Ah, breathe, relax, it is just stuff. But I am happy that my two guys are praising me for my hard work these last two months getting the place more efficient, more spacious and as a result more peaceful in spirit. For someone like me, who likes things clean and airy, living with two collectors and enthusiastic hobbyists leaving a path of their treasures around, electronic and otherwise, has been an exercise in patience, resourcefulness, tolerance and humor, trying to perfect the art of imperfection, in the name of home and love. However, there are a few things left on that list of cleaning up I need to remind my men of. Now, where did I put it?