Aftermath of a War

Last night I watched a movie I picked up from the library, and I can’t stop thinking about it.  ‘Grbavica: The Land of My Dreams’ is directed by Jasmila Zbanic and features two remarkable actresses not recognizable to most Americans – including me.  On August 30, I posted a blog (Remembering War) wondering about the lives of women after the war in Bosnia and this movie was almost like a poignant response to my musing. Set in Grbavica, a Sarajevo neighborhood held by the Serbs during the war – essentially creating a front line smack dab in the middle of what was once considered the most diverse and cosmopolitan of cities in Bosnia.

The movie takes place post-war. Esma is an impressive single mother of Sara, a lively 12 year old girl. Both actresses make these characters riveting. Sara has been raised with, what becomes clear, is the dubious tale that her father died a Bosnian war hero. As children always do, Sara knows she is not being told the truth and pushes her mother for answers. Finally, in a potent climax, Esma tells Sara how she was conceived as a result of countless rapes in a prisoner of war camp. The ugly violence of her beginning only makes the portrait of this mother-daughter relationship more incredible — not cloying, but like the gut punch only love can deliver.

My daughter became increasingly drawn into the story and finally, abandoned her computer-chat to watch with me. At the end of the movie, she said she was a little confused, perhaps because she came in to the story late, but I also imagine she could not fathom such places existed or of the hideousness of rape being used as a weapon of war. In a snapshot, to try to keep her usual short-lived interest in my war- stories, I told her a little bit more and pointed out the flash of yellow building in one of the last scenes in the movie, as the Holiday Inn where her Dad courted me so many years ago. Finally, we believe they will move beyond the ugliness of this terrible secret because their mother-daughter love trumps all.  I love that and know it to be true.

A Year Later

Mostly Morning Musings remains an apt name for this blog, now just over a year old. It’s mostly in the morning when I ponder and write. These almost-weekly entries began when someone in publishing suggested that it is important to have an internet presence is. Letters from agents are still piling up in my cyber-reject file and my memoir has yet to find a home, but meanwhile, I am hooked on blogging.

For a fledgling writer like me, blogs are a great exercise in mustering the moxie to keep putting stuff out there. Finding this courage has been crucial to my writing and life. Writing my memoir (written first time around as a novel because it felt safer that way) helped me to process the crazy years of life with an addict and the shock of my husband’s suicide. Compulsively writing every morning before the sun rose, my story became a story instead of a dark shadow within me. The process was healing and cathartic but also my introduction to writing about what I love: nature, books, food, the seasons – this beautiful life.

Writing – thinking about writing, and actually doing it – helps me to step out of what can easily become a mundane march of day-to-day things to be done. In pausing, I really see the world around and within me and sometimes, even discover an insight to carry with me through the day. This is what I look for when I read and hopefully, you, my dear readers, find such pleasure here. I feel humbled and encouraged and thank you.

Housekeeping

Heavy fog blankets the morning and snow from last week’s storm melts away – only the largest wind-blown drifts remain, now edged with grime.  Still reeling from retail madness of the holidays, only now am I taking stock of things and beginning my favorite thing to do for New Year – clean. Yesterday, M and I stripped our lovely Christmas tree of ornaments and collected other seasonal nick-nacks snagging dust around the house. We left up the mistletoe because, hey, any excuse for kissing is a good one.

Our house is quite small but even if it were bigger, we would face the same problems of clutter. It’s the way we are. Piles of papers and things await a decision  – toss or keep – seem to appear overnight. Glancing over at a single, cluttered shelf I see an envelope and request for money from my favorite organization: Doctor’s Without Borders. I will write that check and send it off as I do every year, at least once. Maybe today. A receipt from Barnes & Noble – I will toss. Nail polish bottle (M’s) a rock, a pair of sunglasses, a plastic cup of rubber bands, seed catalogues, a box for a camera bought months ago — this is the flotsam of my life that clutters the corners, drawing clouds of dust.  Some of it went from the table where I write, to that shelf only inches away – weeks, or even months ago.

The table – I aspire to keep it clear, ready to accommodate our family meals together. Two days ago, it was empty, now M’s school books, the latest bills to have arrived, a box of tissues, a salt shaker, two candle holders – only one with a candle, bobby pins and the warranty and instructions for my new ‘Eureka!’ (heh heh) vacuum cleaner cover the surface. And a nickel. That’s in addition to my laptop and now, empty cup.  This is the spot we all gravitate to – nestled in against a radiator, between two windows. We take turns studying, writing, reading here and when it is time to eat, push it all aside for our plates.

What I wonder is how some people move through life without letting stuff accumulate around them the way it does in our house, daily, hourly?  Is it a gene that I (and my loved ones here with me) are missing? While I am sure that much of it is learned, it is also the way we are made. Growing up, my mother was the messy one and my father, compulsively neat and clean — best illustrated by their top drawers in their shared bureau. My father’s drawer slid open easily revealing a neat pile of socks, underwear and spare change and his nail clipper. The waxy, paper liner patterns clearly visible between these neatly arranged piles. My mother also kept her lingerie in her top drawer – and scarves and socks, perhaps – although I cannot conjure up what exactly was in that explosion of chaos (except for the stale pack of Kent cigarettes I once pilfered).   It crossed my mind more than once that my father left my mother because she was a slob and he a neat-nick, a notion backed up by the fact that he left her for a woman as fastidious as he.

For me, although I like order and cleanliness, not enough to spend my precious free time trying to achieve it.  As long as the bed is made, dishes, clothes, our bodies and the bathroom get cleaned regularly, I tend to let the rest of it go until it really maddens me and then, dealing with it becomes cathartic.  I guess I’m not there today – because, now that I think about it, there are so many other things I’d rather do – take a walk, cook, read. But maybe later, ‘Eureka!’ and I will take a spin across the hardwood floors.

Snowed-In

December was a grueling month.  Six-day weeks and long hours at the bookstore – ringing at the cash register, looking for obscure or in-demand titles. Mark Twain was this year’s sleeper success and difficult to get hold of, Cleopatra and Keith Richards were more predictably popular and easy to find. (Imagining the three of them – together for a fascinating and funny chat, delighted me.) Customers sure the book they absolutely must have because it is the perfect gift, follow me about the store, desperately. Cynically, I can already see this same book, sometimes with wrapping paper still attached, coming back to us. ‘Reason for return: Unwanted’, the cash register will ring again and again through the next few weeks.

But the holidays are almost done (only New Years – less an event for books) and today, I do not have to do anything. There is a daunting pile of laundry and in the refrigerator, only enough left-overs for another day or so – but no presents to buy, no major meals to prepare for. I feel free! After writing this, I may even get back under the flannel sheets to read or sleep some more. Oh, joy!  This feeling began yesterday afternoon as soon as I returned home from work (the dread day of returns) and pulled into the slippery driveway. I drove home so slowly through the treacherous, slushy streets, cheering on my little Subaru each time we made it up or down another hill without spinning out. Settling into the couch in front of the fireplace as Rob vigilantly stoked the flames all evening, I read three days worth of newspapers and a bit of my book between dozing and listening to the howling winds, grateful for our good walls and Rob’s amazing winterizing techniques.

Today, I get to stay home. As if to underline the point, the snow is still swirling, the roads from my window look totally white: I am snowed-in.  Oh, bliss! Not even the dog is asking for a walk yet.

Winter Solstice and Lunar Eclipse

At 2:00 am, I woke to my alarm, pulled myself to my elbows and peered out the window to look at the eclipse edging over the smudgy looking moon in the hazy sky. The earth’s shadow slowly crept across the silver glow and here on earth, a fierce wind howled. Branches of the maple tree swayed and bent back-and-forth – an ecstatic wave of fractals. Glad to be between the warmth of my blankets, I burrowed deeper, forcing myself to lift my head off the pillow a few more times to check on the dramatic welcome to winter before succumbing to sleep and dreaming of a lunar eclipse. This morning, I cannot distinguish dream from memory.

Dark Days of December

In my neighborhood, Christmas lights and decorations appear within days of Thanksgiving. Next door, the light-bulb deer remain lit on the lawn all day. The house on the corner of our street looks like a Hallmark advertisement, wrapped in ribbon, evergreen swag and wreaths on every lit window. Next door to that house is my other favorite: the little red cape with the 1960s vintage decor – huge colored balls. The rest of us hang glittering lights purchased off the drugstore shelves – different garish rainbows of blinking colors. These flashes of brightness help to get us through the peak of winter solstice – the darkest days of December, refusing to succumb to the dark. I think we should leave them up through February.

While I always dread snow (the clean up and difficult driving) as I write there is a magical dusting going on – a meditative dance performance of flakes.  Earlier, walking Tetley in the dark morning, the flakes seemed illuminated – nature’s beacons of light. Perhaps I can learn to embrace this aspect of winter – to twist a little yoga saying – and honor the light of winter.

A National Day for Thanking

How strange and wonderful to have a national day that is just about giving thanks.  Of course, the history is much more complex and suspect than that, but except for grade school classrooms where the shortened story of pilgrims and Indians is still told, we only focus on the thankful part. Or at least, that’s what I do and therefore, really like this holiday. It’s a predictable pause (always on a Thursday) in regular life that precedes the frenetic month of December.  At least for today, there are no presents required – just a time to gather with loved ones to eat and be grateful, to nourish body and spirit.

In recovery programs, gratitude is a key step. Focus on the good in your life, appreciate it, savor it – hang onto it for dear life!  There is an exercise I learned about from time ‘in the rooms’ for when you can’t get to sleep: make your way through the alphabet thinking of something or someone you are grateful for, that begins with each letter.  This may sound juvenile to anyone who has never suffered the insanity of addiction, but it is can be profound and soothing, and anyway – beats counting sheep.

Today, while cooking the orange and green vegetables assigned to me by the dear friends hosting us for today’s feast, I will go through my alphabet of gratitude. Most letters will be people’s names — (A is so easy, Anne) the family of friends, near and far, it is always this bounty of love I am most grateful for.

Veteran’s Day

It should be no secret that soldiers are as vulnerable to mental damage as they are physical. This is obvious from the mental illness and drug addiction so rife in returning soldiers. My late-husband was a veteran.  Always a voluble guy, he told compelling tales of his past, of growing up in England, his travels, the movie and music business of which he was also a veteran, yet he rarely spoke about his time as a 17-20 year old British soldier in the 70s.  Like most over the past decades, the battles his government sent him into were dubious ones – even secret – and he lived with the resulting nightmares of terrible violence and shame with uncharacteristic silence.  And ultimately, he paid the price as we, his family did.

This excerpt is from the memoir I am working on:

I used to wonder why veterans are reticent to talk about their war experience. They flinch at the thoughtless question, “Did you ever kill anyone?” yet put them in a room with other soldiers, even former enemies, and in hushed tones their stories flow. Soldiers believe their experiences are too terrible to repeat to civilians. Ian did.

Can anyone who inflicted and suffered terrible violence ever really experience peace again? Maybe only those who see at least a glimmer of possibility through the demons of their past, manage to survive.  Perhaps the veterans of war keep their terrible memories locked away in the hope they will eventually disappear. And maybe I need to tell mine so they won’t.

This nod of a named-day or a float in a parade, a bumper sticker — none of these are enough. Soldiers, are claimed as points of righteous patriotism and used as political batting rams.  They return home from ostensibly protecting their country, their people — and are left with little support of the kind that can make a difference. Instead, after being feted with parties or a parade, they are expected to return to their roles of parents, children, brother, sister and friend. To carry on. Instead, an increasing number are so damaged and without support, they kill themselves and sometimes, awfully, their own families.  Something is wrong.  Silence is a killer and must be broken to save these lives tasked by governments with the notion of protecting ours.

A Time for Birds

Branches almost completely bare of leaves are now busy with bird life.  Mourning doves sit silently shifting their proportionately huge (their heads are so weirdly small!) bodies around the maple tree.  Cardinals line-up at the bird feeders and chickadees creep upside-down around the crab-apple tree at the end of our driveway, now heavy with fruit.

My neck cricks, watching all of the fluttering action on this bright Sunday morning walk with Tetley.  We turned the clocks back an hour, another milepost for the season and technically, it’s still early and quiet (no leaf blowers) enough so I heard a distant line of geese, flying as only half a vector.  Why did they fly in a straight line although there were enough of them to form a V?

Yesterday, half-a-dozen parrots decorated our oak tree. I rarely see them still – usually they flash by as noisy-green squawking mobs. But there they were – sitting, tropical green and magnificent throughout the oak’s dull branches, unusually quiet, they let out only the odd screech.  I love to see these accidental-immigrants (the story goes that years ago there was a crate-escape from a shipment landing at La Guardia airport.) but don’t want them moving onto our property — which makes me sound like some kind of bird-bigot. It’s just that they make way too much noise and their nests can overwhelm and kill a tree. So Molly and I stood beneath them, doing our best screeching imitations of parrot-speak, to say: ‘move-on!’ before collapsing in hysterics.

I hope to see our neighborhood raptor soon.  The branch in the neighboring wood where he sits in-watch or to digest some unfortunate, small creature, is visible again. In the summer we sometimes heard his distinctive high-pitch, plaintive scream, but rarely saw him for more than a few minutes, majestically floating by.  While I am sad to be edging closer to winter, I love our new view of the birds.

In-between

Waking on weekend mornings when I don’t have to go to the bookstore, it takes a few minutes for me to realize that the day is mine. I must veer my thoughts away from work-life: the calls I didn’t make, the tasks still waiting on my cluttered desk. Where I write from is so far away from that world and weekdays, while I try and rise early enough to have time to write, to exist in that internal place, there is never enough time. I need to be in almost a reverie when I work – best right out of sleep – my subconscious still primed from a night of dreams.  On work and school days, I have the finely tuned but harried, going-to-school and work rituals of making sandwiches, calling M to wake up, (again and again) before we bustle out of the door and roll into the dark morning towards our day-lives. But Saturdays and Sundays (two days in a row!) are precious – time to really look at things – within and without.

The dog still requires I venture outside and if I heed him early enough, the moon’s glow is still brighter than the sun’s. I revel in the magic between night and day, sleep and waking and these days, between the seasons. Over this past month, it is has gone from twilight to dark when I answer Tetley’s call for a quick morning walk down the street. This week, there were days when the weather was crazy-warm and as I made my way past the hedges, I heard the murmur of a summer insect, delightful and comforting.  An extension of the spirit of summer along with the weather.

There is a fleeting quality to these days. Autumn and spring pass quickly – the sweetness and drama between heat and cold and the melancholy of the brevity of this beauty is potent. So I pull myself out of the warmth of my bed, and for the time I have here in the now-cool mornings (we are reluctant to turn on the heat – as if waiting will keep the cold at bay) I do my best to pay attention.

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