Sigrid Weidenweber's Blog, page 11

The Unsung Heros of Our Lives

I know that as we age, we all will meet a person in our life whom we will describe as angel, hero, friend, son, daughter and helper. A few of my friends have just such a person in their lives. They have come to rely upon this person, seemingly sent by God, to allow them to continue life with a greater amount of normalcy than could be expected. My husband and I, too, have been blessed with a person who came into our lives and, over time, became a friend, the son we lost. 

Of course to be called friend, son or daughter, such  person would have to be very special. They would have to have attributes that would make them attractive to people advanced in age and basically picky and suspicious of most strangers. So, why do I write this blog? I do this because my husband and I found a wonderful person who possess the attributes of honesty and straight talk. He is hardworking, reflective and possessed of artistic vision. Of course he has flaws. So do we--and who does not? We have chosen to embrace his flaws as we embrace his wonderfully special points. He came into our lives at the same moment we lost our son and Mark reminds reminds us of our Michael whenever we are together.

To me Mark's arrival is like a miracle, for he not only eases the problems of our advanced age by removing the inconveniences of house and yard, but he and I share many projects of artistic rejuvenation and changes in the home. My husband and I have come to care for Mark as we would for our son. Because of his self-effacing honesty he is prone not to take the proper credit due him, and I have to remind him often of his own worth. I worry about him being taken advantage off. He is very generous, giving to a fault, and I counsel him often to watch out for his own person.     

A Child's Mind

Just a little while ago my youngest grandson left. He is six and gave me a new understanding of what it means to become outdated. He asked to use my computer for a while, especially the touch screen. In two minutes flat he had found a bunch of my pictures, made a colage, colored them with different colors, framed them with different frames and chose a number of different backgrounds for them. Needless to say, I did not even know that I had that capability to do such things with my fingers. Then, as if the other was not enough to expose my computer ignorance, he found a gamebox and amused himself, defeating me at all of them. He was a very happy camper when his mother picked him up. His parting shot to me was. "I never thought that I could teach an adult about their own computer!" So, there you go!

   To me, nothing is so intriguing as the mind of a child. Their way of thinking, and expressing themselves about the world as they peceive it, is as varied, fresh and bubbling like a mountain spring. You can see clear to the bottom of their minds and that which is hidden from your vision will be brought to you by bursts, or gushes of excited exclamations. "Did you know?" is one of their most often used exclamations, which is followed by explanations that can be stingingly precise or intriguingly convoluted.

  Good, healthy little minds love the truth to the point of embarrassment. They conceal nothing and if you want a secret kept--don't tell them because they can only keep it as long as there is no one new to tell it to. They comment on their world and the people in it without fear and shame. Sometimes that leads to very dicy situations. I remember sitting in a small, nice restaurant in New Jersey, New Shrewsberry--someplace at the oceanside--with my children two and a half and four. That was many years ago. The shore was sometimes frequented by biker gangs and everyone behaved circumspectly when they were present, as they were prone to be easily insulted, reacting violently. The restaurant was half filled with a lunch crowd, nice people all, when suddenly about twenty four, or more, bikers came in. They noisily found seats, upon which they hung out their bodies and yelled for the waitresses. From the moment they had entered, silence had become deafening. People looked at their food and nothing else. Then came a moment when even the bikers did not speak. Into this stillness my two-and a-half-year-old boy, who had been watching every person and every move those persons made, asked at the top of his voice, "Mama, that man over there, the one with big, big beard, is that Jesus Christ?" The room became even stiller, if that was possible. In a carefully controlled voice, trying to sound as nutral as as I could, I said, "No, dear, the gentleman is not Jesus Christ." I envisioned having to defend my child against a biker. Wherupon my four-year-old daughter piped up in her loudest voice, "Don't be silly. He can't be Jesus because he has girl friend." More silence. But not for long, because the so discussed bearded man broke into a laughing roar. He laughed so hard tears streamed down his cheeks. "Damn," he shouted, "me being Jesus. That's rich!" His friends laughed as uproariously as he did; the rest of the people in the place laughed--with great relief, I laughed, the kids laughed. And then my daughter said ringingly, "Mom the man who is not Jesus, just said a curse word."  I decided it was time that we left. No need to keep pressing our luck.

The Problems of Aging

Gentle reader, do not expect to hear a whine about the vicissitudes of old age from me. I never expected gentle treatment from Mother Nature when I bestrode the path of becoming a formerly middle aged citizen. Which just means that I became sixty, the formerly forty. Well, I did not mind; sixty was nothing. I enjoyed it! I still wrote with words flowing easily like mountain streams in spring; I welcomed grandchildren into this world, looking forward to being their playmate; I played tennis, hiked mountains in the Cascades--in short, I did what I wanted. Then came seventy. Who could have foretold that the change would be so dramatic--momentuous--unbelievable--something so enormous that one cannot plan for or imagine it.

The worst of all the little, nasty plagues are not the wrinkles, the agues, the indignities of failing knees, no--we all can deal with those--it is the humiliating failures of one's memory that make life hell. I now view any form of writing, even a letter to friends as an exercise in punctuated equilibrium. There--I go along at a pretty good clip, writing what comes to mind and fingers. And then, suddenly---a big blank. The marvelous, perfectly fitting word I want to insert into the sentence to rescue it from blandness is not available to my mind. I sit there, angry, fretful--I know the damn word exists. It teases my tongue, my brain, my patience--I give up. I grasp for my dictionary of similies. I find different, enticing, intriguinging words--they enchant me. They are not the one bewitched word that I am pursuing. No, but they are soothing in their precision, their strength, their rightuousness. And, as I delve among them--totally distracted--the avidly pursued, the tricky, damned word suddenly descends  the convoluted channels of my brain and appears before me. I grab it, write it and go on with the text.

So, what does it mean to be older? Not much--apart from the agues. It is a challenge. If you are brave, it is the greatest challenge you ever had. You begin to think, to dress, to eat and exercise sensibly, always remembering the outcome of your action. And then, delightedly, you discover the right moment when you feel the other, the young person in your body and you go and dance, walk miles, listen to music that lifts you above the clouds--and you are fine!!!!!

The Joy of Grandchildren

Whenever I have the good fortune to have my grandchildren with me I know that there is nothing better in the world for me. They are bright, funny and loving and I would throw away a fortune for their hugs and their kisses. Now they are boys and so they do not kiss much, but they they often give me the  odd quick hug with a mile-wide smile and a "hey Grammy," that warms my heart. I am amazed that at their tender age it is possible to have so many interests that we enjoy together. We love swimming, hiking, reading, music....on and on. The best quality they both share is humor. They are funny in their own unique way but are capable of understanding a multitude of humorous expressions.

As I perused my junk mail for accidentally misfiled e-mails, I came accross a few friends who had ended so ignobly in that pile and lo and behold a few them commented on my blog. So there are people out there to read this stuff but do not necessarily comment. Well, friends, please write comments! Write what your heart desires you to put on here. I would love the conversation.

Civility in Politics is but an Ephemeral Wish

I was amused by president Obama's call for civility, as if no one else had ever asked for good conduct before. When losing the war of reason and facts, heated minds always throw the darts of incivility. I can remember having a political debate with friends, former friends now, when the lady of the house who had just served us a nice dinner, screamed in our faces that president Bush was a murderer and his wife was a wooden cow. Who can forget the stupidity of Michael Moor who, deprived of facts or reason, called for our defeat in Iraq, while calling Alkaida Islamists, who were killing our soldiers, "Minute-men." The point, that these Islamists were as much freedom seekers as the minute-men, was intellectually mis-construed. America never intended to make Iraq a colony after deposing its tyrant.

I have noticed that today everyone who falls short of reason resorts to name-calling and labeling. The reasoning seems to be that by handing someone the sobriquette: Hitler, Fascist or Mussolini, the so denoted is branded and seriously damaged. I have also noted that few of the name-callers resort to the use of Stalin , Mao or Pol Pot labels, as if these communists were not horrible tyrants at all. I just saw the latest adumbration of labeling in Wisconsin, and it boggles the mind: placard carrying teachers assault their governor by calling him Mubarak. That takes absurdity to new levels--well, perhaps not, because Michael Moor seemingly took the prize with his "Islamic minute-men" comment.

The Troubles of the Modern World

My friends and kind acquaintences encourage me daily to be more active on the web. Put the blog out so people will have a chance to read it. Get on Goodreads. Yes, duh, I have been on it for years, but I feel that in the world of links and facebooks and blogs everyone is trying to promote himself and their own interest. So far I have not felt the overwhelming rush of interest. The people who come to my website are readers who know my books, or people interested in reading a chapter before buying. Believe me, it is hard to get people to comment even on books they like. I do not blame anyone for not taking the time to leave a note. Our world is fast lived. We rush about just trying to keep up with all we must or want to do. And I know that writing takes time if you gather your wits and be coherent. However, I will take my friends advice and work a bit harder on the sites. Today I even managed to put a face to my Goodreads shadow. I feel very sophisticated now, even though I had to have four tries before I accomplished the feat. It is like my eight year old grandson states, "Grandma, you are really not very fast with these computer games. Your score stinks." On this happy note I am putting the blog to bed.

 

Time Runs through my days as Sand on the Beach runs through my Fingers

A while ago I promised myself that even when I did not have time to work on a project, I would faithfully work on the blog to stay disciplined. Ouch! Another broken promise. I have to confess though--my excuse is quite good and delicious. I have been to more lunches and dinners in the last fourteen days than in the previous months. I must especial remark on a wonderful dinner at my neighbor's. Devin Moss prepared what I call a perfect dinner and the company was wonderful. I got inspired to use more of the modern media to promote my books. I am a terrible self-promoter. If it were not for my husband none of my writing would have been published. Thank God there are few men in my life who care very much about my work.

I feel a bit unsettled at the moment. Everything concerning what I do is up in the air. Endless possibilities for things to materialize--nothing in sight to be finished. Every project hanging in the air, at the mercy for other's to decide what's to become of it. The publishing world is undergoing monumental changes. I forsee that in the near future all literatur will be read on Kindle and other such computer publishing. This bodes ill for the barely initiated. I probably will have to depend on my grandsons one of these days.

Another daunting problem is the unsettled Arab-Islamic world. So much will depend on democratic factions in these tumultuous countries winning the hearts and minds of the people;  to create secular governments before they can be co-opted by religious fanatics and led into the communal despotism of clerics. 

 

Mail and Sadness

As I was cleaning out my overflowing drawers--if it's printed and good, I probably save it, I found the following letter:

Dear Sigrid,

 

Thank you.  Actually I had ordered several copies of the book in May and I just received one of them several weeks ago.  I just finished reading it and Sigrid, words just can’t express how much I was moved to tears and emotionally involved in it!  I have no idea how many of my ancestors stayed behind in Russia, and faced these horrible circumstances, but I’m sure there were many.  I do know that some of them did die during the famines.

 

How grateful I am for my grandparents who came to Canada and the United States and embraced freedom and a new culture.

 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for writing our G/R story.  I am going to make sure that family members get copies of this trilogy, because I want them to appreciate their heritage and learn our history.  And I will encourage others to make themselves available of this opportunity.

 

I look forward to reading your wonderful speech in the Journal.

 

Blessing on you,

 

Wilann

 

Once again I was touched by the warmth and the sheer good feeling of this letter. It is not often that readers allow you to see how you affected their life. I am grateful to those who take the time to communicate. By chance I came another blog today that mentioned my books very laudably, and I wished the gentleman had written a note to me, for only by the merest chance did I find his post.

I think I was even more affected by Wilan's letter, because I am at the time of life when our friends die, suffer from illness or, if they are not afflicted they carry the physical and psychic burden of their loved-ones. A friend's husband died today, two others have withdrawn into the world of caregiving, leaving the rest of us to wonder how they are doing. I will go into the garden to cheer me.

Another Dilemma

We all encounter every day things in our life that present us with dilemma's. The psychological bifurcations we face and deal with are manifold. My problems reside deep  within and have been with me since I was an early teen. Even then I wrote and yet was deeply pained by the process of creating. I love words, I love to write and yet to phrase my thoughts exactly and put the rush of ideas in my mind into precise formulations, expressing precisely what I mean, is excrutiatingly hard. So I procrastinate. I invent a thousand small, very important chores that keep me from writing. Today, for example, I have washed, by hand, three of my best cashmere sweaters. Insane!!! I framed a picture, spent three hours in a most interesting exotic Mercado, followed by lunch. Then I read countless paragraphs of informative news and topped it all off by writing letters, cards, e-mails, cooked dinner, dined and now--listening to Spanish Pop, I began to write.

I should, if I were immersed in my usual routine, be editing and finishing an intriguing story I began writing long ago, instead I chose to moan and wring my hands over the keys of my computer. A while ago I fell out of my routine. Illness, pressing business, the commencement ceremony for my doctorate and numerous other commitments kept me following the routine that keeps me honest and productive. Now, I am floating like a leaf on a river, being carried along at a pace set by the flux of the stream, feeling light, drifting, detached from the core.   

Egypt's and the Muslim World's endless Dilemma

For the last weeks the headlines in the papers and on the TV-news concerned themselves with the wish of peoples in the Muslim world to be free. Oh, how we all rejoiced when old, decrepit, dejected Mubarak rescinded his powers and office and allowed the army to control the ship of state. Everyone fawned over freedom, rights and justice. And, everyone hugely ignored the problem behind the poverty, reaching with thousands of tendril into every fold of the countrie's fabric. I am almost seventy years old and never did I behold a well-off country in modern times that had unchecked propagation of its population. Few people, the very rich excepted, can have a high living standard while raising eight to thirteen children and educating them to the exacting level demanded by an ever higher performing world. 

Furthermore, in my travels I have not seen a country able to compete with the European countries or the USA in which women were prevented equal roles in daily lives. How can countries raise themselves from poverty when the power of their women to create wealth through their mental acumen and their unique talents remain hidden in walled, guarded homes and under burquas? I have read excerpts from the Hadith, an adjunct to the Qur'an, wherein "learned" clerics describe women as naught but " rented vaginas for the enjoyment of men and to bear children." What are the chances for emancipation for women who are peceived in such fashion?    

Of course, I know well that not all Muslim men and women are of this mindset. Many wish to be free of the cultural restraints with which they are burdened, restraints hearkening back to a time when the camel and the horse were the main mode of transportation. They, however, are not free to voice their thoughts. Even in Egypt, so newly freed, I hear voices clamoring for higher wages, for fewer restricting laws and easier ways to conduct business, but I do not hear one voice calling to make women free--equal in the eyes of law, (it still takes the testimony of two or more women against one man in the islamic court,) allow them to drive their own cars or run an independent business. 

So, until I see real change for real freedoms in this world, I believe strongly that within a few years Egypt will be ruled by the Muslim brotherhood. The brotherhood has patiently waited, acquiring knowledge of the liberal stupidities of the free world, using them to their advantage, meanwhile changing their colors like a chameleon without loosing their world conquering core beliefs.