RSS Feed

Monthly Archives: September 2012

My best friend ? …


Acceptance ©copyright2013owpp

Acceptance
©copyright2013owpp

My best friend
—————-

I have one best friend, silent and faithful, manifesting her closeness, seldomly, frequently or randomly, according to my needs.

She’s my ” reminder ” she keeps me in line, as a commander to his soldier. There was a time I hated her for that, I wanted to be free, thinking that was the answer to my happiness.

I had many friends in my life but this friendship is still going strong after twenty five years.

At first it was just a slight presence, a hide-and-seek pattern, if you want, I could have tossed it out of my life, turned a blind eye,
instead I embraced it as a long lost sister and welcomed her for her honesty, for letting me know she inhabited my space that long.

I had ” wheezed ” her and ” suffered ” her in the past, limiting my movement in order to prevent confrontation. She begged for acknowledgement, for the willingness to let her accompany me in a quiet way.

After years of fumbling, tripping in the dark, gripping at anything I could grasp, I realized this was no ordinary friendship.

I had to get her name.

But life goes on and I got busy with bedroom renovations… Symptoms worsened and despite my ignorance, I could refute it no longer. I took a
brisk walk to our family doctor on a typical winter drizzly day and with embarrassment heard myself wheezing loudly in a very quiet, jam-packed waiting room.

He dropped his verdict as an ax on a stump, without mincing his words. He threw in my face the harsh realities and eventual emergencies of Asthma.

Lack of oxygen… possible death if left untreated… were the fragments of sentences piercing through the fogginess of my brain.

I was stunned!

Who would’ve thought Asthma in its extreme scenario could lead to fatality?

My mind then, went full gear and my next mission was to glean as much information as possible. I thought, ” maybe that might alleviate the alarm building in me “. But what I discovered, were cold medical terms falling unto me as glass shattering on ice, in a clatter, echoes resonating through dark
shiny white tunnels.

I found out, Asthma is characterized by a predisposition to chronic inflammation of the lungs in which the ( Bronchi ) airways are reversibly narrowed.
In total, it affects three hundred million people worldwide. During an attack ( exacerbation of Asthma ) the smooth muscle cells in the Bronchi, constrict,
the airways become inflamed and swollen and breathing becomes difficult.
” Well, I thought, that wasn’t hard to guess, anyone could have told me that! ”
It went on specifying, there’s no remedy to this day, which didn’t bring too much comfort to me, but various medication ease symptoms.

In short, I understood that with Asthma, Doctors are at loss, but my journey through Alternative medicine proved otherwise. I learnt to understand, listen
to my body, discover and follow my intuition too.

It finished grandly, bringing more numbers and statistics stating four thousand deaths a years in the U.S only…
It was a frightening exposure to the condition of my unfortunate circumstances. reading about the facts nevertheless, gave me acceptance. As long as a diagnosis
wasn’t pronounced, I couldn’t lay out a plan.

I couldn’t take full responsibility.

The fear it provoked and the relief that proceeded was a paradoxical concoction I required desperately, to put my life back in order.

A whole new world unfurled to me. It was a sesame-opener and I discovered treasures of potential. For one, I discovered, life wasn’t to bear. It was full of color that can’t
exist in darkness. Second, that my personality has the facets a rough gem holds but only noticed to the eye when cut open and left raw to the light of the sun.
Third, that as a result, I traveled on a expedition of self-discovery, took many paths that all led to the long road of redemption, towards the neglect I had
caused to my body.

The road is long so I won’t encumber you with details of a tedious trail of self-help books, diets ( mainly Macrobiotics as the answer to my problem ) Homeopathy and O.A which shaped me into the person I am today.

In the beginning, Asthma, tip-toed into my life. Symptoms being more of a hindrance than anything, But it eventually caught up with me and I was faced with the
handicapping stage that enabled me to walk short distances without feeling there wasn’t enough air circulating to provide me with the amount of oxygen needed for
my lungs.

Rest, was the only way to improve this state.

When I look back at those years people call ” life “, they were of struggle, frustration, misery and darkness. Adversely to the quality of life I have today.
Yet, those years of exertion were a preparation. They molded me into an appreciative and knowledgeable person. I realize, now, it was the best thing that could
have happened to me.

I wouldn’t deliberately invite it, but if I had the possibility to wish it away… Do not laugh at what I’m about to say…

TODAY, I do not want it out of my life. I’ve accepted it as my teacher, my barometer, my faithful companion, my mentor. Not only have I accepted it, but I see it as a necessity to my existence. A requirement if you wish. The head-lamp to a miner digging deep under the earth or a compass to the explorer in the desert.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Friendships can start off sometimes painfully but given the opportunity, can grow to be the essence of your life, the blessing you’ve long searched and prayed for.

So, when some form or other knocks on the doors of your entity, don’t cast it away on it’s ugly appearances, it might just be the answer to the fundamental
questions, haunting your very nights.

Invite it to shine, to encourage you to draw the path you had sketched in your mind…

To reveal itself to you and most importantly, to help you proclaim your inner-beauty.

My pencil, my passion, my emotion 1987 ( Translation of French original text in post below as ” Mon crayon,ma passion…” )


my pencil

my pencil

My pencil
———

Line by line
It travels your face
Line by line
It recognizes your wakes

To start
It traces
To continue
It always searches

In the lesser details
It discovers
All the ” stitches ”
And, the door opens…

The stitches that were missing
Is the key needed
To open the door
Of your secret garden

My pencil
A miracle
Not an obstacle
But a passion

Passion for a life
Empty of ambition
Stifled without reason
By stupidity, by inertia

Inertia is a vice
Devoid of any smile
Where the sun cannot survive
In a heart in delirium

Cutting the bridges
Which connects to this madness
That denies life
And all its medallions

That was my secret
The ” stitches ” that were missing
The key needed
For happiness newly found

And, line by line
—————–
With my pencil
I recognize your face
While searching my village
And finding my home !

Mon crayon, ma passion, mon émotion 1987 (French Poésie translated in post above as “My pencil,my passion… )


my pencil

my pencil

Mon crayon
———–

Trait pour trait
Il parcourt ton visage
Trait pour trait
Il reconnait tes sillages.

Pour commencer
Il contourne
Pour continuer
Il recherche toujours.

Dans les moindres détails
Il découvre
Toutes les mailles
Et, la porte s’ouvre…

Les mailles qui manqué
C’est la clef qu’il fallait
Pour ouvrir la porte
De ton jardin secret.

Mon crayon
Un petit miracle
Pas un obstacle
Mais une passion.

Passion d’une vie
Vide d’ambition
Etouffée sans raison
Par bêtise, par inertie.

L’inertie est un vice
Démuni de tout sourire
Où le soleil ne peut survivre
Dans un coeur en délire.

Couper les ponts,
Qui relie à cette folie
Qui renie la vie
Et tous ses médaillons.

C’était ça mon secret
Les mailles qui manqué
La clef qu’il fallait
Pour un bonheur, enfin trouver!

Et, trait pour trait
——————-
Avec mon crayon,
J’ai reconnu ton visage
En parcourant mon village
En trouvant ma maison.

J’espère que vous avez aimé,
Bonne journée !

You are my sister, my friend ! 1989 ( English translation in post below as ” Toi, tu es ma soeur ” )


poésie de mon coeur... ©copyright2013owpp

poésie de mon coeur…
©copyright2013owpp

Thou art my sister
——————

Poetry of my heart
Story of happiness
Tenderness and gentleness
Thou art my sister

Fairy of the meadows
You take away my cares
The whole world you lighten
With a soft smile

Filled with virtues
I had not noticed
You lend an ear
To the crazy little detail

Poetry of my life
Unending story
Tenderness of today
Thou art my sister, my friend !

Toi, tu es ma soeur 1989 ( French poetry translated in post above as “you are my sister,my friend!” )


poésie de mon coeur... ©copyright2013owpp

poésie de mon coeur…
©copyright2013owpp

Toi, tu es ma soeur !
——————-

Poésie de mon coeur
Histoire de bonheur
Tendresse et douceur
Toi, tu es ma soeur.

Fée des prairies
Tu enlèves mes soucies
Tout le monde tu éclairci
D’un sourire adouci

Rempli de vertus
Je ne m’en suis aperçu
Tu as l’oreille tendu
Au petit détail farfelu

Poésie de ma vie
Histoire infinie
Tendresse d’aujourd’hui
Tu es ma soeur, mon amie !

Can we erase confusion and lead a fulfilling life? 2009


The beginning of dawn... ©copyright2013owpp

The beginning of dawn…
©copyright2013owpp

Quiet is what they called him
——————————-

He wished he could start his essay as Scott R. Sanders had. With ” My father drank… ” Those circumstances were  clear cut. However confusing it
will always be for a child, ( To say the least ) Scott knew more or less, where he stood.

Mark’s father, never drank. He was a self-erased man. A man people would call, ” quiet “. As quiet as a mouse hiding in his hole from the big white
cat’s claws.

A self-imposed cat.

Robert,( his father ) was a shadow, moving silently, going in and out of his house, about his business, never acknowledging nor muttering a polite greeting.
He was absorbed in his tortured sickly thoughts, obsessed by negativity, doom and gloom.
As children, Mark, a frail blond boy, and his siblings, never had much contact with Robert. He was there but wasn’t. He officially was their father,
but wasn’t either. In their eyes and heart, he didn’t matter much.
He probably had, what you’d call today, ” an alcoholic personality “.

Thinking of it, Mark could count on his fingers, the playful moments, shared with him. Those moments, fooled them, into believing, happiness was within their reach. Those same moments confused and blurred their senses of right and wrong.

Cruelty became kindness, compassion. It was justified, was a consequence of their acts. Was legitimate. It was teaching, molding them into correctly-behaving
adults.
Kindness became twisted with Robert and Anna’s ( Mark’s mother ) guilt.
It showed ugly, tortured faces. It wore sometimes, the mask of truth, the dented grin of uneasiness. The inadequacy of their love, made the children cringe
and retreat with disgust, hate, love, a load of question marks and riddles, burning into their hearts, engraving their souls, marked by a burning rod, as a cattle to his master.

Belonging yet fighting for an identity as for a lost cause. Trying to disown their loaded past, but confronted time and again, after long periods of comfort
and peace, as with this essay ” Under the influence “.
This essay had opened Mark’s wounds. It had opened his conscience. It had woken him up after long years of slumber. It had given him, the possibility, to write down, on a pure white page, the long dreaded words. The words, that would kill, hurt him to the core, and label his past, in a way, where retreat into denial,
wouldn’t be an option anymore.
It would throw him into finality, into acceptance. There’d be no going back. No way of waking up into some kind of fantasy. No room for doubt. None, for the hope
of mistake, miscalculation and yet, as painful as that was, he could say it. He could let it soak the page. Take its place and belong to a past, in order to be able to live the moment, while gazing toward the rays of a bright light and creative future.

Mark could finally say, after two pages of warming up, plucking up his courage, ” my father was violent “.

Robert, a square looking short man, went into fits of rage and manipulatively hid behind false principals as, education, religion … Whatever worked.

They lived on tender-hooks. In a make-belief. When all was quiet in the best of worlds, and life flowed on peacefully, their family appeared to belong to the
” regular ” category. But the flows were treacherous. It was a volcano in making.
They persuaded themselves into the life of their own invention yet, lived in anticipation of the next outburst. Living in a haze, a daze, with no defined lines.
They lived life without using the pair of glasses usually given to see the definitions, the colors, feel the wind, see the sun, appreciate the beauty of
handwork, a carved stone…

Their souls slept in waiting.

Never suspecting life could be a happy place to be in.

Anna, their mother, was … who she was. Hysterical, manipulative, couldn’t protect them in time of crisis and sometimes, provoked them herself. Went into fits
of rage and then tried to make it up to them by using tears and guilt as a means of patching up the shreds of their hearts, the pieces that left behind them a trail, that followed them obsessively. Which they tried to shake off but clung to them like poisonous jelly-fish. Never suspecting until this day, the impact,
her behavior had on them.

The terror, of all hell let loose.

The desperation of a child put in a situation, that was beyond salvation. Nor did Robert either. It’s only, as a much older Mark, wrote this down, did he realize,
the sheer madness of it all. They were all living then, on a time-bomb, in a pressure cooker and until this day, had not seen it.
As he wrote page after page, his throat burned, his heart ached, his eyes filled and his stomach was a painful knot. What tricked them, most of the time, he realized, was that on the surface and ” in between ” everything appeared to be normal. But what was normal? Could they compare? A child is not provided with
two homes ( unless their parents are divorced ) two sets of parents, the happy ones and the dis-functional.

Yes. Dis-functional. He had to reach a ripe age to accept that their home had not been entirely regular. It had a name he could use to define it.
Those were the first hesitant steps toward recognition and admission. It was a clinical word, as cold as a surgeon dissecting a body to get down to the causes of its death.
Because that’s what eventually happened.

As time went by, rifts widened, incomprehension seeped in, hurt crept back silently, love was still there, but was smothered by the twists, their characters had
been shaped into as a result. By the deep differences, the personalities, each sibling had taken and adopted as a mean of survival. The very few friendships that
lasted, were the ones that shook under the shock but never yielded under the weight of the wind blowing, the rage of challenge, the temporary madness of their parents, flaring up again, rearing in all its magnificent ugliness with a power stronger than they could ever recollect.

But the family as a unit, a whole, had gone forever.

It might not be doomed, it might take a lifetime to take care of its deep bruises, but its future was so shaky as a result…
Understanding or excusing his parents behavior didn’t make it easier. It didn’t shape his life any differently because it was ” explainable “. It was still there
as a witness of the past.

Mark’s father had gone through war and many difficult encounters in his past. As a young orphan, he had been confronted with the tribulations of life and left
unguided. The scars ran much deeper than suspected.
He had sympathized with his father’s pain and grief but could not be of any help as it had never been acknowledged, recognized nor worked upon. He didn’t feel it
was up to him to pick up the pieces. All he had thought at the time was, ” my world is caving in and there’s nothing I can do about it “.

The helplessness experienced by a child in a time of chaos, will always play a major role in his adult life.

Anna had been an orphan too, but at a much younger age. Her war experiences, were relatively uneventful and safer. Her relationship with her sister was, destructive
and determinant in her future role as a wife and mother. If Mark’s mothers fits of rage seemed uncontrollable to him, they paled in comparison to his aunts.
It made hers seem like hiccups or, drops of rain on a freshly polished car. It probably made her feel as light as the feathers of an angel’s wings…

Generosity, goodness, tolerance, empathy are as easily taught as cruelty, madness, manipulation or dictatorial behavior.

It was fairly easy to understand. To peel off the layers. Get down to the root, but it did not, for them, as survivors, make any lighter their load. It didn’t erase those
interminably rigid years in the wilderness. It didn’t stop Mark or his siblings, from relapsing into a frenzy of some addiction or other.
One didn’t cure from this malady. It’ll always be lurking, in the form of an essay, a book, the testimonies of other lives on hold, with interludes of happiness, with rays piercing the thickness of fog, or the soothing voice of a song with promises of an easier future, peaks not as steep, ravines transformed into sunny valleys…

Did it get easier? Could he lick his wounds and go further? Can he train his mind to stop wandering into the torturous, sinuous paths he had borrowed in his past?
Can Mark stop hearing the voices of abuse? The cynical, despicable laughs of disdain as physical violence was applied,
The contempt in his father’s voice as he mocked Mark’s screams when it was the only mechanism of defense he had.
Only much later, did he realize, while writing an inventory of his past, that as a mother, Anna had never protected them from ” him ” nor from herself.

As a mother suffers to bear her children into this world, are there not given to her, the instincts to embrace, support and secure their off-springs in time of need?
An aptitude easily found in animals. Why was it not given to his mother? Couldn’t she give him the basic feeling of protection a child needs for it’s natural development?

Once again, his mind wandered aimlessly into forbidden zone. The zone that leads and still does to compulsive over thinking. He tries to train his mind back into friendly territories. To the life he’d built for himself ” after “. The love and sincerity, his wife Liz and children showered upon him. Her constant encouragement. Her belief in him.
When he doubted. When the colors of his pallet were mostly black, Patches of grey, Garnished occasionally with dots of red, yellow, Seldomly white.

Belief washes away the darkest of colors as a storm does. It brings back the fragrance of wet leaves, the strong smell of damp bark. Belief, is walking in a park after such
a storm and experience the ” relief ” of nature. Belief is an artist dusting off his canvas, stepping into his scenery with serenity, breath the cleanliness of the air and bathe in the perfection of his masterpiece.

As Mark finished reading Scott’s essay, he’d realized most of the story spoke about himself. He understood with much clarity, as a veil ripping along the pages, the reasons behind
certain behaviors, reactions, he had not connected before. It had just seemed part of his identity.

He hurt, mourned and commiserated with his past all that week-end after those revelations. He understood that something of utmost importance had unraveled in his life.

Not knowing where it would eventually lead him but, hoping it would be the missing link he’d been searching for a long time. The link to the chain of life and it’s continuity.

Being ordinary is something people never aspire to. To him, the word rang the bells of hope. Uniqueness is what is usually sought. Not to him. He had never wanted to glorify
his sufferings. Mark wanted the flatness of the ground. The winters that crept in year after year. The typical greyness of an icy sky. He wanted to cover himself in layers,
in wait of a short summer. He wanted to wake up at the same time, every morning, cook the same breakfast and give the same good morning kiss to his ten year old son and enjoy
his huge hug squeeze the last breath out of his lungs.

Mark was tired of the unexpected.

He was contented with ” ordinary ” and wanted it to last as long as possible.

He didn’t want to wait for pain to surprise him around the corner. He wanted it to be, the beast he had tamed, put at rest in the attic, never to wander down again.

Yes. Mark was very happy with, flat.

Scott R. Sanders had written his essay for his son, but as a result, helped and is still helping the people around the world, who had lived in confusion until then.
His love, is a snowball, rolling down a slope and growing bigger by the second until it reaches the foot of the mountain and takes place, where children and adults
can playfully, lovingly sculpt it, into the shapes of their desires.

Into the monument of their dreams!

Where are we running to? ” Along the passing days ” 1989 ( French Poetry “Au fil des jours” with English translation )


where are we running to? ©copyright2013owpp

where are we running to?
©copyright2013owpp

Hi everyone!

Sometimes life makes me wonder. We are always running to catch something, somewhere. Should it be, a bus, a door, an appointment, the school’s gates, a plane… The list is endless.
Where does it lead us? Are we actually going round in circles, if looked from a different perspective?
Here’s a small poem I hope you’ll like.

Along the passing days
———————

Monday,
We run but we smile
Tuesday,
We follow the road to infinity
Wednesday,
We are out of breath,but there we go again!
Thursday,
Ah! What a lousy day!
Friday,
In two hours I’ll be finished
Saturday,
Rest is not a disease
Sunday,
Ah yes! Tomorrow I shall roll up my sleeves…

———————————-

Au fil des jours
—————–

Lundi,
On court mais on sourit
Mardi,
On suit la route vers l’infini
Mercredi,
On s’essouffle, mais nous voilà repartis!
Jeudi,
Ah! Quel jour maudit!
Vendredi,
Dans deux heures j’aurai fini!
Samedi,
Le repos n’est pas une maladie
Dimanche,
Et oui! Demain je retrousse mes manches…

And there we go again… I hope you enjoyed it