Poland, a Mystical Land.

October 15, 2024

Poland is a land of contrasts, incredible beauty, sad history, and unique resilience.
Driving from the Czech Republic to Warsaw, it is easy to understand why it is a land that has been ravaged by enemies from all over… It is largely flat, like the pampas of Argentina.

While Prague is a magical city, that basically remained intact, Warsaw is a ravaged city (more than 85% of it was razed to the ground in World War II) that rebuilt itself from the smoldering ruins catapulted by the retreating Germans and gleefully observed by the Soviet army across the river.

Many have forgotten the cruelty that the Poles experienced 60+ years ago. But when you live in Poland, it is palpable (every street corner or so has a plaque memorializing the execution of Polish citizens by the Nazi Germans –the formula was for one German killed, 10 Poles would die-).

The Poles are a proud people, and rightly so. After all, the Poles were the only Europeans to mount a counterattack within its occupied country.  It is amazing how little anyone knows of this uprising.   People in general confuse it with the Jewish Ghetto uprising. The Poles are perplexed that the world doesn’t know that about 200,000 Poles died in the Warsaw uprising.

While there were some resistance movements among occupied European nations, none rose to the level of the Poles. How many people today remember that the Poles played a crucial role in the battle of Monte Cassino (1943), and that so many of them died there? It was on the fourth assault of the monastery, led by the Poles, that the Germans were defeated. The graveyard in Monte Cassino is numbing, and, in the context of history, it is overwhelming, because it was thanks to this assault that the road to Rome was opened and Rome was liberated 3 weeks later.  There is a sad last stanza of a famous Polish poem, dedicated to those who shed their blood in the battle for Monte Cassino:

D`you see this row of white crosses?
Polish soldiers did honour there wed.
The further you go, the higher,
The more of such crosses you’ll meet.
This soil was won for Poland,
Though Poland is far away,
For Freedom is measured in crosses
When history from justice does stray.

But I digress… As I said, Poland is a land of contrasts and, in many ways, it is a land that puts many of us to shame. Beginning in early November, we have no real sunny days in Warsaw. In fact, the sun may shine a few hours a couple of days, but, for the most part, the days are gray, cold, and very short. Sunlight creeps its way around 8AM and decides to disappear by 3:30PM. Luckily, the rainy days soon give way to snowy days.  One has to have a happy heart, and a strong backbone, not to be depressed or enter into a state of perennial hibernation during the winter months.  It takes great effort to get up in the morning and be ready to go.

I cannot help but be reminded every single time I walk through the streets of Warsaw that this is a city that, against all odds, fought the Germans only to be stomped by the Soviets, and had more than 85% of its buildings razed to the ground only to be re-built, brick by brick. There is not one Pole who has not said to me that theirs is an ugly city that it cannot compare to other cities, especially Prague, in its beauty. In many ways, it is true that you cannot compare Warsaw to Prague.   Prague is a small jewel that reminds the visitor that sometimes time can stay still. Warsaw, on the other hand, screams out -at least to me- that no matter how horrible life turned out for the Poles, they defied their state in life and literally came up from the ashes.

I cannot help but be awed by the Poles, when I think of all the beautiful spots on Earth that I have seen or lived in, where the weather is beautiful, the sun shines all the time, where food grows wild, without the harshness of the cold, and yet everybody complains about everything, that their problems are caused by “them” and never by “us”.

The amazing thing for me is how little we have ever been taught about Poland, and how quickly the world forgot what Poland went through. 

In a Kafkaesque moment, I had a young Russian telling me that she found Warsaw ugly, with all the dull gray buildings (built under communism), and that, compared to a Budapest or a Prague or a Paris, it was a hideous city. Some chutzpah! I just sat there, looking at her a bit wild-eyed, and tersely mentioned to her that, of course, the city had been all but destroyed by the retreating Germans, adding that the destruction had been done while the Russians watched across the Vistula river, and that communism’s legacy in the architectural field left a lot to be desired (the same hideous panelak buildings are seen all over Russia and Europe, especially in those countries that were enamored of social planning…the barren projects in Paris where the Muslim youth rioted come to mind).

Taking the train all the way to the Baltic Sea, I often visited the largest Gothic fort in the world, that was the seat of the Teutonic Knights, those pesky Crusaders who were invited to come to Poland by a Polish king, and overstayed their welcome by a couple of hundred years. Malbork Castle is a beauty, and it is astonishing to see how efficient in their engineering ingenuity these knights were. They actually had central heating!

I’m sure the Germans who returned during WWII truly enjoyed their stay there, recapturing -so to speak- what they believed was rightfully theirs… Unfortunately, half of Malbork had to be re-constructed after the war. Today, it is a UNESCO protected spot.

An hour or so away from Malbork is the city of Gdansk, the birthplace of Solidarity.  It is a marvelous city and the architecture is delightful.

Visiting the boatyard, where Lech Walęsa became famous, I had a mixture of emotions… Shock at how much has happened in such a short time; admiration at what a few individuals were able to do against the odds; awe at the mystery of what makes people leaders for a good cause; sadness at how quickly we all forget what the world was like before Pope John Paul II and Solidarity; and happiness knowing that Poland finally after WWII and the Cold War is now enjoying what it should have had after V-day and did not. 

So, echoing the Gdansk exhibit, it was thanks to Solidarity (with the Pope’s blessing, when he told them not to be afraid) that Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, Serbia & Montenegro, Albania, Moldova, Slovenia, Macedonia, Georgia, Ukraine are free from the communist yoke. The Poles started it all!  I did not know that the famous gigantic ballpoint pen that Walęsa had used to sign the agreement with General Jaruzelski to end the strike had a big photo of the Pope.  The influence of this man on the Poles, as well as the impact of Catholicism in the lives of the Poles, are monumental and I believe it is what keeps the Poles forging ahead with patience and optimism, against all odds.

It is also what annoys the rest of Europe about them as well, because Europeans have lost their Christian roots.

poland-225.jpg poland-152.jpg poland-157.jpg poland-209.jpg poland-204.jpg

The crooked house in Sopot

Malbork Castle

A Teutonic Knight

Gdansk

Lech Walęsa helps a suffering Jesus on the way to Golgotha



The Fall of Afghanistan

October 15, 2024

While time eases anguish for some, I still smart at the thought of all the work, human lives and dreams and treasure lost not so long ago. In August 18, 2021 I reflected having a very hard time engaging in every-day lovely thoughts and things.

Earlier that month had sent me into a spiraling depression. Why? Well… Six years of working with Afghanistan and many more years being engaged with the country.

I don’t think anyone other than those who were so thoroughly engaged with Afghanistan could understand, but maybe I was wrong.

I cannot begin to imagine what family/friends/colleagues of those who fought, worked and died there were feeling then -and even right now-, both in the US and abroad.

Although, for those who question today, “what was the point?”, I can only answer, the point was all the Afghans. We worked hard to make a difference for the Afghans.

Yes, indeed, contractors made a lot of money. There is a monetary value attached to high risk. And the US Government was aloof a lot of times, hiding behind the mighty fortresses of secured buildings in Afghanistan while the hired contractor employees, earning good salaries, risked much.

However, most people I knew who were hands-on (Afghans, Americans, USG employees, international employees), worked hard for a new future for all Afghans, and risked their lives. I didn’t know a lot of them, but I knew a few, who hailed from all over the world. From Colombia to Nepal.

At the time, while I did not visit Facebook that often, I had felt the need to share the overwhelming sadness I felt about Afghanistan.

Let us not forget the ugly corruption surrounding everything we worked on. What else is new? Corruption affects everything and everyone. Here, there and everywhere. The only difference is the Rule of Law as it is meant to be. Justice meted fairly for all. It is corroding around us nowadays. Hopefully, we can help save it the way we should.

Inevitably, the Fall of Afghanistan all ended up being an internecine battle here in the US, which I found not only revolting at that time, but it triggered an anger I have seldom felt.

I leave you with a quote from an email I sent from Kabul to family and friends on February of 2012:

“The snow makes the place more picturesque, but it is grim. I can handle most anything, except seeing the burqa-clad beggars sitting on the side of the roads, in the slush, getting soaked.

Yesterday, I attended for a brief period one of the classes set up for 38 judges, prosecutors, lawyers and investigators. It was fascinating. The Afghans, though loquacious, don’t engage in screaming matches like the Iraqis did. I find that my silver head amuses them a bit.

I am humbled by all the American and international advisors here who work under dire conditions. No one from the outside really knows all the work that these guys are doing. Will all these efforts yield fruit? Or will the country collapse into civil war after we pull out?

It is interesting to get feedback from these advisors who have been in remote locations. They all love working with the Afghans, although they realize that the common refrain here is: “brother against brother, brothers against father, family against tribe, tribe against tribe, tribes against country, country against the world”.”

Maine and The Lyrical Toad

October 14, 2024
No photo description available.

I love my little pond. It was the source of incredible joy for both my Mother in Law and my Father, in their eighties. So, every time I walk around it I feel their presence. It attracts strange characters, between herons, ospreys, kingfishers, snakes, and gazillion frogs.

Sometimes, walking around at night can be beautiful. However, I worry about the coyotes and bears that are too real around here. The Pepe Le Pews I can handle. Skiddle doo. And the porcupines: am ashamed to say I only learnt recently that they don’t hurl the quills; that’s cartoon nonsense. HAH! I believed the cartoons, and am a bit deflated knowing that it was nonsense.

Yet, the big bucks have butted heads with our benches, hurling them into the pond… not once, nor twice… (by the way, all old saltwater little farms in this area must have a pond, because there are no fire hydrants around!).

My Father would stare at the great blue heron and ask me for the umpteenth time: “Barbara, what is heron in Spanish?” “Garza,” I would reply. “Oh, my, watch that garza, how stealthily it walks…” And on and on. How I wish he were here today with me asking the same question, over and over again. I never got tired of it. I loved it.

It is this dear little pond with its many bullfrogs and frogs, that finally made me understand a beautiful Argentine folk song, which I have loved since I was a 7 year old. Because, whenever there is a moon, it rises and reflects on this little pond.

Isn’t it weird that a little pond in the far away North of the USA, close to the Canadian border, helped me fully understand the poignancy of a folk song that originated way, way South, in the southern tip of the Americas, close to Antarctica?

I identify with the toad, and now realize that my melancholy about the lyrical toad song was prescient. Life’s trials and tribulations have confirmed to me that the moon can be cold, because it gave its blood to form the stars, and that life can be dismal if we don’t live it with any hope.

The Lyrical Toad
By Los Chalchaleros

Toad of the night, lyrical toad,
Who lives dreaming next to your lagoon,
Tenor of the puddles, grotesque troubadour,
You're bewitched by your love for the moon.

I know of your life devoid of glory;
And know the tragedies of your restless soul
Likewise, that madness of loving the moon
Is the eternal madness of every poet.

Lyrical toad,
Sing your song,
Because life is dismal
If we don't live it with any hope

You know that you're ugly, ugly and misshapen;
That's why by day you hide your ugliness
And by night you sing your melancholy
And your song resounds as a litany.

Your voices ring out in candid obstinacy;
Your verses are in vain for their striking beauty;
Don't you know, perchance, that the moon is cold,
Because it gave its blood to form the stars?

Lyrical toad
Sing your song,
Because life is dismal
If we don't live it with any hope.








Life in the Foreign Service -War, Natural Disasters, They Obliterate the “Things”. Memories Last a Lifetime.

October 14, 2024
No photo description available.

So…instead of enjoying the beautiful Autumn Leaves in Virginia, or spending a leisurely Sunday Skypeing with children and grandchildren… Or delving into a good book… I spent the weekend sorting out various and sundry “stuff”, wondering why on earth I have accumulated so many things.

The problem that I have is that every little item I discover holds a tender memory, of my parents, my parents-in-law, my grandparents, my grandparents-in-law, my siblings and their families, my 2nd grade teacher, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. How do you discard those memories? I need them. I want them in my life. Yet, they contribute to a clutter that I am trying to resolve.

When I start packing a little cup (and I am chock-full of little cups), I remember vividly the occasion of receiving that little cup. My Polish teacher who first taught me Russian (when I was young and so excited about going to the USSR), gave me a Polish cup so that I would never forget about Poland – even though that happened about 20 years before I ever moved to Poland!

I once knew a lady who took her life in the Foreign Service as an opportunity to de-clutter her home every 3 years or so, including all her children’s stuffed animals and toys. She told me -many years ago- that her kids never, ever forgave her for being so callous. I was horrified then. Today, I am looking at Ninja turtles, lego critters, baseball cards, and wondering. Mmmm. Sometimes one needs to be heartless.

As I continue the process of filling up boxes and making decisions, I finally understand the significance of the Gospels, and why the Apostles were told -basically- drop everything and join “me”. Material things weigh heavily and draw us down. I also think about all those people who have suffered total losses with the California fires and the hurricanes. Am trying to understand my need to cling to objects that bring me close to my memories and to those whom I left behind or who have left me. War, natural disasters, they obliterate the “things”. Memories last a lifetime.

Going through old papers I found this little sketch that I had made. It brought back memories of the Czech forestry students who decorated the grounds. It also brought memories of the happy times my daughter Adriana and I spent in Prague: the times we shared with visitors (family and friends), the defining moments we shared with new friends -who have become lifelong friends-, the dead boar (THAT is another story for another day).

Oh well. I need to get back to the de-cluttering and packing. There is light at the end of the tunnel, I know. But, my tunnel is S-shaped, and I can’t see it now. But I know it’s there. I hope so!

(Originally journaled exactly 7 years ago, but it still applies! I am still grappling with de-cluttering and packing. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”!).

A Daughter’s Tribute to Her Mother

October 13, 2024

Today would have been Adriana Dillon’s 97th birthday. It has been 14 years since my Mother left us. 

Amazingly, though I spent many years remembering the dénouement, I am not sad thinking about her loss.  In fact, I don’t think of her as being absent from my life the way I did when it happened.  In many ways, she is ever more present than she ever was.

As my Mother was leaving this world, I emailed my children, who were not at her side, what their Grandfather, Aunt and Uncles and I were going through:

We have spent a lot of time laughing and crying together with her.  We have rosaries blessed by John Paul II and pray our Our Fathers and Holy Mary’s and St. Francis’ prayers… and then we will make jokes and laugh …

We are at peace, and know that Grannie is better off going to meet her parents, the Pope, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Thackeray, Balzac, Victor Hugo, and all her beloved authors.

Grannie always said she knew God would keep her in this world until we no longer needed her.  She needs to know now that we are strong enough to let go of her.

Reflecting on those last moments, I realize how lucky we were to be able to mix laughter with the tears, and to share until the very end the strong family bond that was at the heart of my Mother’s life.

I also realized then, after a full year of her death, the meaning behind the tradition of wearing black for mourning.  It was a way to let the world know that the mourner was going through a stage in his/her life that required others to understand, at the very least, his/her constant void and woeful sorrow.

I once wrote that “not all women who give birth are good Mothers, and many women who do not have children themselves make formidable Mothers. For the essence of Motherhood is in giving of oneself in a selfless manner.”  My Mother was the most unselfish person I have known.

Two years after her death I embarked on a new venture, one that would take me to Afghanistan, something that I found exhilarating and approached with trepidatious anticipation.  How I wish I could have shared with her my discoveries of Afghanistan’s history and poetry and art. There was enduring beauty I came across, despite the incessant danger and sadness of a war-ravaged place.

Her constant reflections and wisdom are my ever-guiding principles.  God’s mills grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small was one of her favorite quotes. In my own experience, it is absolutely true.

She also made the best scones and empanadas one could ever dream of, and her High Teas were a feast to behold, like Babette’s.

I am grateful that she was spared the biggest viscissitudes that some in her family have encountered since her death. I miss her physical presence, her big eyes and warm smile.  She left an indelible mark that withstands the ebb and flow of time. 

Since death is inescapable, one of these days we will all be with my Mother again.   She was an incurable romantic.  What I would give to watch Pride & Prejudice with her one more time.

If only I could leave a minuscule fraction of good will for my children to reflect on, I shall leave this world like my Mother said, when God no longer thinks I am needed around.


Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag

October 13, 2024

The daffodil represents rebirth and hope.

I have just discovered this Russian television miniseries “In the First Circle”, which is based on Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, and Solzhenitsyn himself was the playwright and narrator. I just finished watching it, and it is fascinating. 

Many years ago, I had discovered a Russian film adaptation of Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s autobiographical novel “In the First Circle”.  And, before I could watch it, life hurried by me, and I forgot all about it.  

While perusing old musings of mine, I found my reference to this gold nugget of a Russian TV miniseries in my defunct blog.  I finally started watching it a couple of nights ago and went through the ten 45-minute episodes in two sittings.  

It is profoundly beautiful, poignant, sad and, despite the anguish presented, it is deeply hopeful and redemptive.  No wonder!  Solzhenitsyn himself worked on the adaption of his novel for the series, and wrote its screenplay.  

It is a 2006 beautiful series directed by Gleb Panfilov, who had been thinking of adapting Solzhenitsyn for over 30 years.  The music score is perfection. The composer, Vadim Bibergan’s romance at the end evoked memories of Ashokan Farewell of Ken Burns’ Civil War series.

The actors are amazing in their portrayals of the characters, and how I wish I knew Russian well enough to understand the intricacies of the dialogue.  Their eyes, their faces capture the turmoil of a disastrous time in Russia and the moral dilemma they all face, whether victim or foe, while attempting to survive under a draconian and unjust episode of history. 

The portrayal of the eternal conflict between good and evil and the moral choice between escaping horror and inhumanity and not compromising one’s own principles and conscience is deeply moving. 

While some people hate all things Russian nowadays, it is interesting to note that Solzhenitsyn himself was half Russian and half Ukrainian.  

The English subtitles are not optimal.  For those who have never heard of Solzhenitsyn or have not read the book, it might be frustrating initially.  Give it more than 15 minutes.  

This is not your typical boom-boom/ka-boom series.  It is not a documentary, although Stalin seems so real in the film!  It is a lyrical series, with intertwining historical and philosophical dialogue that invites retrospection.

Am sharing because I found it to be a gem of a film.  I am still searching for my own “ataraxia”.  Come to think of it, I did not realize that it was “ataraxia” I was chasing, until I delved into In The First Circle!

“They could look forward to nothing but the worst. Yet in their hearts they were at peace with themselves. They were gripped by the fearlessness of people who have lost absolutely everything-such fearlessness is difficult to attain, but once attained it endures.” In the First Circle.

Rule of Law and Lessons Learnt

October 11, 2024

The Special Inspector General for Afghanistan Reconstruction (SIGAR) had released at the end of May 2018 its latest “lessons learnt” report covering the period 2002-2017.  It was chock full of information for anyone who is interested in “development” work. For those who follow “rule of law” issues, the report still strikes, at least to me, a very familiar chord.

In my many years of working in international settings doing “development” work, I have found that one of the biggest problems is overcoming individual egos and the posturing that comes with those egos.  “Development” work is not just altruistic:  there is a lot of money to be made and prestige to be gained.  There is a door that is always “revolving” between the implementer, the donor, the supervising entity, the inspecting authority, the academicians, and other intellectuals.  It is human nature.

Once in a while, it is good to read that some of the lonely and knowledgeable individuals who point out some of the flaws in design are vindicated.   Note that I don’t use the term “expert”, because, in my work, most experts are really “Rupertos the “expertos””.  (My own label for the a few years was “subject matter expert”!).

Ideally, the genesis of an international Rule of Law “development” project should entail the meetings of the minds between the donor and the beneficiary.  Some of us like to say that there has to be “buy-in” from the host government as well as the individual host organizations that might be involved in the project.  This would show the cooperative efforts of all concerned towards what could be the key goals of the mission:  strengthening of the rule of law and the fostering of  accountability and transparency. 

For example, a specific justice sector program’s mission might be to build the capacity of the host country’s criminal justice sector institutions through improving the ability of their professional staff to deliver fair and effective justice services to citizens.  Sometimes, the initial focus is to help a country build its police and prosecutorial capacity through formal training programs of academic instruction.

What I have discovered is that what the donor organization (which may include the program implementer as well) wants to see happen may not necessarily be best suited to the way the project should be carried out. 

One does not become an international development practitioner overnight.  While an expatriate technical advisor may have stellar credentials from his or her prosecutorial days in their particular state or country, they may have never lived in a different environment other than their own.  This can lead to disastrous results because there is a lack of understanding of, and maybe a lack of empathy for, the recipient of the technical advice.

A long time ago, I witnessed a foreign “expert” deliver a lecture on American jurisprudence and individual rights to an academic group in what was then the U.S.S.R. , a communist/socialist country.  The audience was barely curious and did not seem to engage.  What the “expert” did not realize was the group’s lack of understanding of what he believed were common concepts, until someone asked “what is the right to privacy?”  Once it became obvious that there had been such a gulf between the lecturer and the trainees, the “expert” was able to correct the situation and begin to provide examples that the local nationals could finally relate to!

I was at the very beginning of my professional “Rule of Law” work when this happened, and it was a fine lesson for me too:  borrowing from the Spaniards, there are many “Ruperto el Experto” types, but few that meet the “experto crede Ruperto”  standard.

Life in the Foreign Service – Saying Good-bye

October 11, 2024

In my peripatetic life, I have found that, no matter how many times I move, it never gets any easier.  In fact, the annoyances that come with sorting the relevant with the irrelevant don’t seem to decrease in size. They actually metamorphosize into Kafkaesque gigantic insects, which cannot be swatted down.

However, the hardest part of having to get up and go, is the realization that I am leaving behind a portion of my heart.  Partir c’est mourir un peu. To leave is to die a little. It hurts.  There is a hole, and nothing will ever fill the void.  Yes, there will be new experiences, and new friends, which will allow the hole to shrink, but a hole it will always remain.

One of the nicest memories I took away from every Foreign Service post was sharing times with most Embassy members, trying, in a small way, to serve the U.S. Government while I was there.

I was not the “employee”, but rather what was then labeled the “dependent spouse”, a moniker that I never liked because it made the spouse an appendage of sorts! And it did not reflect reality either. Also, there were lots of partners accompanying the Foreign Service Officers. But that is a subject for a future musing.

An era always ends, when so many good Embassy people leave, and a new era begins, with so many new people coming to post. 

I always imagined, based on myriad of conversations, it had to be hard for all the local employees who remained to adjust to yet another change, no matter what.  Although, in a few occasions, they were delighted that the tour was relatively short, to see insufferable characters move on! At the end of the day, though, we, the expats, come and go… but the Foreign Service Nationals are always there, a wonderful steadfast presence.

If I have two big regrets that have been common whenever I left every country I lived in it is that I failed to avail myself of all the incredible opportunities that the Embassy network and expat and local communities provided the transient dependent, and that, because of my own busy life, I did not dedicate as much time to get to know many of the Embassy member employees better. Sometimes, our paths did cross again, here or there, but not as often as I had hoped.

Those are the regrets that come with the realization that life is a river, never stopping, ever flowing, until the end.

I learnt about this poem and the song from my Mother, when we lived in Tokyo, She was a young mother then, and now I realize how she ached for what she had left behind. But at the time, she never showed her melancholy. On the contrary, we were embarking on a new and exciting adventure.

I leave you with the great Pavarotti and a translation of the French poet Edmond Haraucourt’s best known poems. 

Rondel de l'adieu
by Edmond Haraucourt 
 
To part, is to die a little,
Dying to the things we love:
We leave a little of ourselves
In each hour and each place.

Always the grieving of a wish
The closing verse of a poem;
To part, is to die a little,
Dying to the things we love.

And in parting, just a game,
Yet until the final goodbye
With our souls, we leave
Our marks at each farewell:
To part, is to die a little.

A Painter’s Ramblings on War

October 11, 2024

On May 8, 2009 I discovered Ramblings from a Painter, a painter’s ramblings of his Iraq military tour of duty. At the time I had noted in my defunct old blog that artist Skip Rhode had a wonderful gift, and made some ugly landscapes look delightful! For example, his painting of a Containerized Housing Unit or CHU (a shipping container used for living quarters by the US military in Iraq and Afghanistan) makes it seem inviting and cozy.

But what caught my eye initially was Mr. Rohde’s blog entry on Iraqi children’s drawings. He said,

What got my attention was just how normal these drawings are. They could have been done by any kid in the United States. Here are happy families with little houses in the countryside with flowers and trees and puffy clouds.  I’m not quite sure what that thing is in the sky in the bottom picture – a bird? a bug? – but for sure it isn’t threatening.  All the figures have big happy smiles on their faces.  These are happy drawings from happy kids.

Lament, the Pietà-like painting above, evokes a sorrow, an anguish that is hard to fathom. It is the inescapable grief of a Mother who has lost her son, seemingly forever. The Mother’s pained look displays some determination, in my humble opinion. This Lament makes me think that she is a woman of faith, so that beyond the sadness there is a glimmer of hope.

What a poignant painting that encapsulates the senseless horrors of feckless times.

Aurora Borealis or The Northern Lights

October 11, 2024

Last night I thought the earth and the heavens were smiling at me, auguring good days ahead. There was a shooting star to boot! I thanked God for all my blessings and for having given me the chance to see such beauty on a chilly night.

I ventured outside to capture the magic, and was jolted 3 times by hissing and jumping creatures (the foxes? last night’s coyotes? do they hiss and make clicking sounds?), but I overcame my fright and stayed out for a bit, relishing in the changing view.

I have yet to explore the state of Maine. I have never been to Mt. Katahdin, nor the Appalachian trail, nor any of the myriad fishing lakes and other scenic places members of my family and others have explored. I will get there, God willing. However, last night, I was thrilled to be in the Blue Hill Peninsula, a slice of heaven on earth.

I thought of my long-gone parents and was reminded of one of my Mother’s favorite little poems, a beautiful rhyme (XVII) written by a famous Spanish Romantic poet, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer:

Today the earth and the heavens smile at me;
today the sun reaches the depths of my soul;
today I have seen her… I have seen her and she has looked on me…
Today I believe in God!
***
Hoy la tierra y los cielos me sonríen,
hoy llega al fondo de mi alma el sol,
hoy la he visto… La he visto y me ha mirado…
¡Hoy creo en Dios!

The poem has a subliminal message. I finally understand its significance.