Tag: life

Crossing The Line

February 24, 2025

This past week I was greeted by a line.  A vivid pink line.  I marveled at it, thinking it reminded me of something, although “the what” escaped me.  And yet, I kept observing, because I kept thinking of “crossing a line”.  We cross so many lines in our lives, and seldom do we contemplate why.  At least that’s me.

I turned away for a few minutes, and when I returned to keep observing, I was greeted with a different image altogether.  Gone was the line and the pink.  Instead, there was a silvery sun with its silvery reflection.  It is times like these that I wish I were an artist, and could capture the beauty of a sunrise like this one.

Sea, sun, sky and a straight line.  Crossing a line.  I always think about my family and friends and acquaintances who are no longer here.  Someone once said to me that I was “tetric” (meaning gloomy).  Well, it is a common word in Spanish, and we used to use it in school in English, when I was growing up.  It turns out that apparently, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, it is an obsolete word that has been out of common usage since 1810 or so.  Go figure!  I still use it, so, baloney.  

And then it hit me, my tetrical self.  The crossing of that line:  a meditation on death!  A boat, the sea, the light, the tides, the sand.  And yes, the crossing of the bar.

CROSSING THE BAR
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,
      And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
      When I put out to sea,

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
      Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
      Turns again home.

   Twilight and evening bell,
      And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
      When I embark;

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
      The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
      When I have crost the bar.

The Circles of Life

November 17, 2024

My convoluted thinking…

I woke up today to the view of 2 circles: the rising sun and the lingering moon. I thought of that carousel of life, the circle game. So I pondered about a washing machine, that I watched -mesmerized- the other day.

Why? Because it kept spinning right about two circles, but kept twirling left about 3 times, and then turning right again another 2 circles. And on and on for half an hour.

My mind was spinning as well, as I was reading yet about another circle (Solzhenitsyn’s In The First Circle), and reflected about my own life that sometimes has spun forward once or twice, and then backwards three or four times! And on and on.

For some reason, when I went back to read, the pages had flipped back to the beginning, to the Russian author’s note. I was struck with what he said about his novel,

“ In order to give it even a feeble life, to dare show it, and to bring it to a publisher, I myself shortened and distorted it—or, rather, took it apart and put it together anew, and it was in that form that it became known. And even though it is too late now, and the past cannot be undone—here it is, the authentic one. By the by, while restoring the novel, there were parts that I refined: after all, I was forty then, but am fifty now.”

Well, we cannot change our past, but old age gives us a chance to refine it! Of course, with some caveats. I do believe in karma, so you can’t really go quite “tabula rasa”.

That washing machine day happened to be my Father-in-Law’s birthday. He would have been 102 years old. He died at 70, way too young nowadays. So, looking at today’s circles on a beautiful morning, I thought of him, and the other old dead relatives of mine, and how strange the whole cycle of life is. Nasty surprises always await around a corner.

I am reminded of my poor Father who at 77 years of age went to buy his New York Times early one morning, strolling down his favorite sidewalk in his little town, only to be hit by an out of control Mercedes Benz, and ended up seriously injured for almost half a year. His big thick head cracked the windshield, and the totaled car cracked his bones. Yet, he recovered and lasted another 10 years.

One never knows when we will get either clobbered and wiped out, or get the news that our days are numbered.

The other day I took my dogs for a walk, and they instinctively went chasing after a flock of little white birds, and made me fall and dragged me a few inches. I didn’t break anything, but it was quite a wake up call. As my younger brothers jokingly said, “well, this is how it all starts, right? A broken bone that doesn’t heal and then POOF, that’s it!”. Never fails to have younger brothers with a macabre sense of humor.

I have always been attuned to serendipity, and lo and behold, I am reading various articles this morning, after my encounter with the circles, and came across a Psalm I had never read, and one section stood out:

“Seventy is the sum of our years,

or eighty if we are strong,

and most of them are fruitless toil,

for they pass quickly and we drift away” (Ps 90:10)

Old age, the carousel of life, the circle game, the fruitless toils, the alpha and the omega, birth and death, the seasons in between, the sun and the moon on a glorious Maine Sunday morning. Life is beautiful!

The Road Not Taken? I was Foolishly Duped and Took The Wrong Turn!

November 9, 2024

Reading recently about Robert Frost’s famous poem “The Road Not Taken”, I discovered why he wrote it. (Here is a wonderful description of Frost’s “joke” and an analysis of the poem itself).

I found the story amusing, because I have also spent half a century, like his poet friend, wondering which way to take. Now, at the sunset years of my life, I have come to yet another crossroad, but this time I have decided to take the liberty of amending Frost’s last stanza:

HIS OPUS:

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

MY REFRAME:

I am now telling this with a sigh

As it has been ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I was foolishly duped and took the wrong turn,

And stumbled and fell and saw hell,

But now I found the one less traveled by,

And that has made and will make all the difference.

“Friends” and Disappointment

November 9, 2024

My little friends… Though missing here is the doe with her 2 bambis and one adopted fawn that I have seen early this September. I see the foursome early morning and they greet me by not running away. They just stare. Just like these guys. They don’t care. They feel safe.

Ah…my little friends… well… I am evaluating what the terms “friendship” and “friends” truly mean. I have had joys and disappointments with friends throughout my life, but it has only been recently, these last couple of years or so, when I have seriously pondered about what being a friend is all about.

And, like I have always said to my kids, ad nauseum, there’s nothing new under the sun and all clichés and stereotypes have a basis in truth. So, fairweather friends? Yes, I’ve known them all.

However, for the first time in my life I am faced with a conundrum: “friends” who chose betrayal rather than truth. And the perennial question is: Why? Why lie? Why betray? I will never know the truth. My biggest shock: “friends” I have known for half a century have been weak, feeble and ugly. “Acquaintances” of recent years have been solid, stolid and strong. Go figure! Another lesson to write about to my grandkids.

For some reason, my little friends remind me of guanacos!

Québec, I Remember, and How Memories Can Play Tricks

November 9, 2024

Today I discovered that Québec’s motto is Je Me Souviens, or, I Remember. Funny that I was remembering that beautiful city, which I’ve had the great fortune to visit twice, and the last time was exactly a year ago, to the day.

I remember its magnificent buildings, churches, monasteries, museums, history, food and friendly people. Time to plan another visit. It is closer to where I live than going to New York City!

Memories can play tricks on one’s mind. Some of the many sweet things I remember nowadays remain warm and pleasant and charming and fun or bittersweet, because time flies. But every now and then, there are sweet memories that pop up and are tainted by the realization that I might have been under a delusion. My conundrum: would I have been better off knowing that I was under a delusion? Or would it have been better to know the harsh realities right then and there? I don’t know.

I once returned to the Bahamas, to a place that had been idyllic and gorgeous in every sense of the words. But, between the memories and the reality of the return, the place had deteriorated to an ugly and disaster-ridden spot. It was totally depressing to accept that sometimes, you are better off not going back!

The same is true with memories of people. An old friend who had been a cherished friend, turned out to be deranged. Many years had gone by since we had last seen each other, but the reunion was special and it seemed we were continuing where we had left off. However, within a few days, the ugly truth became quite apparent, and the heartache and sadness were too much to bear.

Such is life, I guess. My parents would say, time to read Balzac’s The Human Comedy. Or go listen to Pavarotti and laugh!

Surely Goodness and Mercy shall Follow Me all the Days of My Life

October 26, 2024

Sunrise somewhere in Maine.

I just found a sermon a Presbyterian pastor once shared with me, because it made such an impact on me after the many deaths I had witnessed. It was his love song about the famous Psalm 23, The Lord is my Shepherd.

Beholding a most beautiful sunrise over calm waters this morning, the serendipitous encounter with the sermon I received in March 2019 made me reflect on a myriad of things. I share one paragraph of a series of many that the Reverend encapsulated as the essence of life:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life”…

So what about the mess I have made of my life from time to time? What about the loved ones I disappointed, the people I deceived, the compromises I made with my conscience, the scars I left on those I harmed? No one likes to be followed, but in this case I take comfort in the possibility that goodness and mercy might not get too far out ahead of me, but might follow me, picking up the broken pieces of my past and putting them back together again. The assurance here is that goodness, which is the benefit of forgiveness; and mercy, which is the basis of every new chance at life, will follow me all the days of my life.

Lost in the Cradle of the Deep…

October 18, 2024

…was one my Father’s recurring refrains, and whenever I stare at the horizon or any body of water deep in thought, it comes back to me bathed in nostalgia, and sometimes with a flash of joy.

In the last year of his life, I remember how he sat on his favorite red leather wing chair, staring deeply into the flames in the fireplace, his big blue eyes lost in thought. When asked “Daddy, what are you thinking?” he would blurt “I am lost in the cradle of the deep”. And that was it. No explanation. Just that.

So yesterday, while I was ruminating about Dante’s circles, I thought of him. And down my rabbit hole I went.

My Father, John Dillon, lost his Father when he was a young 14 year old. The absence of his Father weighed heavily all his life. His Mother, my Grandmother, had worked for RCA Victor in Buenos Aires, and had a collection of old 78s. I believe I found the source of my Father’s saying, although it was not “lost”, but rather, it was “rocked”. The source was an old hymn, the lyrics of which were written by an amazing woman, Emma Willard (1787-1870), of Connecticut.

Willard moved to Middlebury, Vermont and had requested to attend classes at Middlebury College, but had been denied the opportunity. A persistent visionary, she was a pioneer in women’s education, and in 1814 started the Middlebury Female Seminary. Irony of ironies, today, her home is the Middlebury College Admissions Office. 

Emma Willard’s indefatigable pursuit of women’s education brings to mind my Mother in Law’s own common refrain, of British origin, so in order to rhyme you have to use English pronounciation:

“Patience and perseverance made a Bishop of his Reverence!”

So now, with patience and perseverance, my next project is to edit and publish my Father’s prolific writings which he only did for his children: a history of the Dillons, an autobiography “Don Juan Nadie” (Don Juan Nobody), and a novel “Murder on the Bullet Train”. They are too good to be kept all in the family!

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep
Author: Emma Willard

Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho’ stormy winds swept o’er the brine;
O, tho’ the temptest’s fiery breath
Rous’d me from sleep to wreck and death,
In ocean’s cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

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.