On Bliss

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On Bliss

Many people seem to have a bucket list; a series of unfulfilled desires or needs to be realized before life comes to an end. All of it depending of course on the chance that they live long enough to enjoy it all.

chocolate_and_strawberriesI have opted for the present moment and am indulging in a bliss list; that which gives me the most immediate and rewarding pleasure without having to compromise with fate.

I pondered briefly about what I would chose to lead the list of my life’s reward and agreed that it was that most intoxicating and mysterious of foods called CHOCOLATE.

But before indulging in the present, let me dip into the past. Chocolate’s history is fascinating and covers thousands of years. Both the Mayans and Aztecs believed in its magical power and divine properties. I also learned that bee keeping was an important occupation in the Yucatan. This may account for the Aztecs using honey in their cacao mixture. There is also a rather unsavory aspect to the Aztec use of the cacao bean. It was given to sacrifice victims who felt melancholy to join ritual dancing before their death. They were give a gourd of chocolate (tinged with the blood of previous victims) to cheer them up! (The Chocolate Connoisseur – Chloe Doutre-Roussel)chocolate

Recent discoveries place it even further back in time. But it was the Spanish explorer Hernando Cortes who brought it to Spain. Nobility there disliked it at first but when they mixed it with honey or cane sugar, chocolate soon became the favorite drink of the kings and queens of Europe. It was believed to have nutritious, medicinal and even aphrodisiac properties. No wonder that Casanova was especially fond of it! And so it goes…

The Aztecs knew it all along as the “food of the gods” is now recognized to increase heart health, lowering blood pressure and cholesterol. But the flavanol, an antioxidant shown to have anti-cancer properties, neutralizing cancer causing free radicals is found in dark chocolate only! (at least 70% cacao.)

And there’s more…Good chocolate won’t make you fat because you only have to eat a small square of chocolate a day to satisfy your senses with delight. And your heart and skin will respond with joy as well. Ah the bliss of it…

heart_in_chocolateI have my own history with chocolate, which summons memories recalling my childhood in Belgium. I was in a convent, not as a nun but as a four-year-old child taken into safety from the Nazi occupation. I didn’t know French at the time so the nuns did everything they could to hasten the process. One in particular, Sister Clotilde, the chef in residence, became very fond of me. She was Flemish and the pronunciation of her name was quite an effort for me. But when I finally got it right she swept me off my feet and led me to her secret cupboard where she was hiding her stash of Cote d’Or chocolates. To my surprise she handed me a bar with the most beautiful wrapping. I tried not to tear the picture of the gold elephant resting on the brown paper. When some of the chocolate melted and smeared my fingers Sister Clotilde exclaimed in delight Oh, les sales petits doigts! what dirty little fingers. She watched me lick the chocolate off my dirty little fingers before devouring the rest of the chocolate inside the wrapping. Then she picked me up and as I leaned against her headdress to give her a kiss I left a dark chocolaty stain on that purest of white. She started to laugh. I never forgot that first taste of chocolate ambrosia or Sister Clotilde’s laughter cascading into the universe. The event has remained with me through time as well as the recollection of my first gustatory ecstasy.

*** More of the story in my memoir entitled Mindele’s Journey – Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust on Amazon.com

Brussels, the city where I was born, has remained my chocolate paradise. When I return vacation time, I head for the Place du Grand Sablon. I walk down the side of the square just as I did when I was a child and stop in front of Wittamer and gaze in disbelief at the shimmering window display of row upon row of the most incredible chocolate and pastry creations in existence. It is as if time stood still. I go in and after giving the salesgirl a brief explanation of my relationship with the store, I point with a trembling finger to the display of chocolates that filled my childhood with such pleasure. And as I walk out with my purchase I feel I am bringing a bit of bliss back home with me.

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I’ve been told that there are good chocolate shops in New York but anybody who knows – knows Godiva is not the same (you’d never find liqueur in pralines made in the States) and that Cote d’Or is now owned by Philip Morris and Leonidas is loaded with too much sugar and Callebaut is owned by Suchard a Swiss company. Oh well, truth be told I wait for my next trip to Belgium to load up on bliss.

I invite all who read my chocolate tale to share in a recipe that became my signature dessert.

Warm Chocolate Cake

(for your best friends or enemies who need taming)

Ingredients:

8 eggs
8 yolks
12 tablespoons flour
2 cups sugar
14 oz. chocolate (I use Valrhona)
12 oz. butter

– Melt the chocolate and butter together in a double boiler.
– Beat eggs and yolks with sugar ( at least 10 minutes).
– Combine the chocolate and butter mixture with the eggs, yolks and sugar mixture (beat until well mixed).
– Add 12 tablespoons flour (mixing the batter until it reaches a smooth consistency).

Place the batter into buttered and floured molds and bake 12 min. in a preheated 375o oven (do not overcook as it will not have a velvety chocolate interior).

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MAY YOUR BLISS BE ADDICTIVE!

On Nostalgia and Inspiration

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On Nostalgia and Inspiration: The Month of May 2013

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Road to Yasouj

Perhaps it’s this time of the year that fills me with an overwhelming longing for the past. I feel the evanescent beauty of spring settling into a memory. Yet this melancholia stirring sadness inside me also inspires an awareness of feelings that transcend time. Everything changes, moves on as we must. There is no destination but the journey we are on and the heart is filled with desires that light the way. The beauty of this month of May, the fragile joy of once barren trees now adorned in emerald, and flowers painting the lawns with color will soon be torched with summer heat. And as I place this scenery into my mind, images of other spring times appear.

I am traveling in Iran where I lived for two years.  We were heading, my partner and I, for Yasouj a city in the Zagros Mountains. I was falling asleep, dulled by the humming of the car engine when the most unusual sight appeared out of nowhere.  Tribal women were squatting in the river that glistened along the fields stretching below the mountains. They were washing their clothes and rugs in the stream dotted with snow that had barely melted. We stopped the car to take in the breathtaking moment that I recorded in the following poem.

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Desert in Iran

The Road to Yasouj

The cold breath
of the distant mountains
has melted
The tribal women
are washing
their clothes
in the icicle spotted
stream
just formed
around
their squatting shapes
cajoled by the froth
hitting the stones
they are touching

Silently their hands
are parting
the icy sheet
The brocade cloths
they have shed
colors the water
into exploding prisms
splintering
the winter face
of the river
into a smile

And I
passing by
must stay
awhile
to see
the magic garments
drying
in the arms
of trees
transformed
into
a tribal tapestry

© Mariette Bermowitz 2013

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Tribal women in Yasouj

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Tribal women in Iran

And when nostalgia captures my being again, I welcome it for it takes me back to places and moments that have filled my life with meaning. With summer approaching I am inspired to travel once more, to continue the journey, and welcome adventures where I can discover myself all over again.

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Spring in Yasouj

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Flowers in the desert

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Flowers in the desert.

Flowers in the desert

Sometimes we don’t have to travel very far to be inspired as with this poem I read while riding on the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

                       Voyager

I have become an orchid
Washed in on the salt white beach.
Memory
What can I make of it now
that might please you —
This life, already wasted
And still strewn with miracles?

—Mary Ruefle (1952), Poetry in Motion

Waterzooi (Recipe)

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Waterzooi

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La Ville de Ghent

Before you know it, summer vacation will be upon us. You may not have made your plans yet but if you like to travel and enjoy good food as well, why not Belgium! The reason is very simple: everybody eats better in Belgium!  I should know because I was born there and I revel in the memory of all those gustatory feasts that made such an impact on my childhood.

It is not well known but Belgium has more three-star restaurants per capita than France. As a people, Belgians are fiercely protective of their culinary status which was well established as a result of the spice trade in the Middle Ages. It has also acquired and preserved in its traditions a rich combination of influences brought about by foreign invasions. If you travel there today you will find out for yourself the delightful variations that exist between the Flemish and Walloon part of the country.

I grew up in the Walloon part of Belgium not far from a monastery in the town of Rochefort known for its extraordinary beer. It was a delightful destination for excursions, especially driving down beautiful country roads before reaching the welcoming abbey. The monks tended their herb garden where I learned to recognize tarragon, thyme, sage, parsley, chives and chervil. But it was the tender leafy chervil I loved the best. To me it was a jewel among all the herbs I watched growing in our garden. It looked and tasted somewhat like parsley but incomparable in its fragrance and taste. I wonder to this day why it is so difficult to find it in the greengrocer shops in New York. But I took back some seeds from Belgium last year and dispersed them among the rocks behind the building where I live in Brooklyn. And when I went out this morning, I was greeted by the most tender green spreading out over the stones. I picked a few leaves and rubbed them into my palms to carry the scent of my childhood for at least part of the day. But today for the delight of my guests, I will recreate a Belgian dish that originates in the city of Ghent in Flanders.

waterzooi_dishAlthough Flanders is in the Flemish speaking part of Belgium, it was quite popular with my aunt Therese who never made such distinctions and prepared it on every special occasion. It’s one of my favorites because the scent and taste of this wondrous stew, like Marcel Proust’s petites madeleines brings me back to a past that lingers in my taste buds. And of course I will garnish the top of the dish with tender snippets of chervil!

Its name derives from the Dutch term “zooien” to boil but it really is a dish prepared with fish or chicken simmered in a soup base of egg-yolk and cream thickened into vegetable broth, carrots, onions, leeks, potatoes, parsley, thyme, bay-leaves, sage and snippets of chervil at the very end of cooking.

A simplified chicken version follows:
Take a plump roasting chicken (cut in pieces)
4 leeks (white parts only)
4 carrots (sliced into rounds)
4 sticks celery( sliced into rounds)
A bouquet garni of bay leaves, fresh parsley, thyme
Minced chervil for garnish
2 large egg yolks
1 cup heavy cream
Some large baking potatoes cut into cubes
4 cups chicken broth
Salt, pepper
2 medium onions (chopped)
3 tbsps. butter

waterzooi_ingredientsMelt the butter in a Dutch oven. Add the onions and cook until translucent. Add the bouquet garni and cook a bit longer. Then place the chicken pieces on top and add enough of the chicken broth to partially cover the chicken. Cover the pot and simmer for 30 minutes.

Remove any fat or foam accumulating at the top. Add the leeks, carrots, and celery. Simmer for another 30 minutes.

Add the cubed potatoes to simmering liquid and cook until the potatoes and chicken are done (chicken will be very tender).

Remove the chicken from broth and place in a large dish. Remove the bouquet garni from the broth.

You will easily remove the skin and bones from the chicken so that you can have bite-size pieces of meat.

Beat the cream and egg yolks in a mixing bowl. Place Dutch oven over medium heat.

waterzooi_imageTake a ladle and remove some of the liquid from pot to slowly add to egg mixture. This is to prevent the eggs from curdling. Then slowly stir mixture into the broth with the vegetables. Cook over low heat, constantly stirring until the sauce thickens. Be careful not to reach boiling point. Return chicken pieces to Dutch oven. Add salt and pepper.

Place the waterzooi in a deep ( and warmed) serving dish and sprinkle tender little chervil leaves on top. A dish to remember!

Mariette Bermowitz is the author of “Mindele’s Journey: Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust”, available on Amazon. Her story is a testament to a guiding force instilled in her by the nuns who sheltered her during the war. “I know what it’s like to give up hope, but something always drove me on.” says Bermowitz.

Reading From Mindele’s Journey

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A video presentation I recently did at Steve Feldstein’s Roundtable.

My introduction starts at the 2:11 mark, have a look…

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Mindele’s Journey: Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust” is available for sale online at Amazon.com and other channels.

About the Author 
Mariette Bermowitz was born in Brussels in 1938. Her father, the only other survivor of the family, brought her to live in Brooklyn when she was twelve. By making a career of teaching the French language and culture, she inspired her students and stayed connected to the world she had lost. She is a co-founder of the Miette Culinary Studio, and was married to Alan Bermowitz, later known as Alan Vega Suicide.

Yom Hashoah: Holocaust Remembrance Day

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Yom Hashoah – Holocaust Remembrance Day

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All wars are brutal but World War II resulted in suffering and atrocities of such magnitude that the loss of 50 to 75 million casualties is still beyond belief. The worst of these atrocities was inflicted on innocent people, most notably the Holocaust where 6 million Jews and countless others who confronted Nazi brutality were slaughtered. The Germans surrendered unconditionally in May of 1945. Then the atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and on Nagasaki August 9, 1945 ending the war on all fronts. But did it?

We are left with images that will haunt mankind forever, the living cadavers in the concentration camps liberated by the American army, the naked child running alone on a road after the atomic blast that obliterated her history.

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There are many, still alive today to tell the stories, and those who have known, like myself, human beings who had the courage and the willingness to stand up against evil. I was saved by being hidden in a Catholic convent, then placed with a loving family in the Belgian countryside. My father survived but my mother, baby sister, two older sisters and a brother did not.

This Sunday April 7,2013 is Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day of remembrance for those who do not know. A day like any other day for those of us who carry the loss and memory forever sealed in our hearts.
I dedicate this poem and this day to the memory of all THAT, to my loving “aunts” who saved my life and to my father who suffered silently the loss of his beloved wife and children.

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A Poem for Abele – my father

Oh poppa, poppa

In the morning

Especially in the morning

When the hour tells me

Time is rushing

On its way

I see ancient thoughts

Silently appearing

Etching your face

In graven solitude

Oh poppa, poppa

Every morning

Especially at that appointed hour

When you and I sat

Facing each other’s soul

Over a cup of coffee

I mutter your name

Poppa, poppa

Only to hear an echo

Striking the empty chair

That hyphenated space

Molding your absence

 

Oh poppa, oh poppa

It is all too quickly gone

But for the spaces

Filled with lingering

Gestures that remain

And sometimes

The depth of a memory

Striking back at me

When in the mirror

I see

Not me

But the reflection of

That desperate flame

And  those endless questions

Filling your eyes

In the morning

When you and I sat

Before a cup of coffee

Reviewing

Our sanity

 

Poppa, poppa

I mutter your name in vain

Poppa, poppa, poppa

I want to know so much more…

Tell me about

Esther

Was she beautiful?

And Rebecca

Did she look like me?

And Frieda too?

But you couldn’t tell

She was only a baby

 

And Zelik, my brother

Where did he disappear?

Was it called

Auschwitz,Treblinka

Birkenau, Sobibor, Majdanek…

Poppa

Was Zyzla my mother

As sweet as her name?

Poppa, poppa

All those biblical sounds

Echoing in my mind

Are striking  against

your empty chair

 

Oh poppa, poppa

It is all too quickly gone

Yet, I remain…

To explain

To whom?

For what?

Spaces once filled

With gestures

Laughter that bore names

Faces with loving eyes

Caresses sealed in the depth

Of memory

Now looking back at me

When in the mirror I see

Not me, not you

But the family

Whose reflection

Filled your eyes

In the morning when

You and I sat in silence

Before a cup of coffee

© Mariette Bermowitz 2013

To accompany this poem is a pencil drawing by Edith Newman, a student of Mariette’s, who was 15 at the time.

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Edith Newman – A Poem for Abele

I would like to thank the artist Vebjørn Sand whose gallery I discovered while walking on West 4th Street in Greenwich Village. His paintings of scenes from the Second World War are deeply moving and question every man’s responsibility when confronted by the challenges of evil.

I am grateful that such paintings will remain as a reminder that “there are human beings that accepted the responsibility to think for themselves and had the courage to stand up against a violent dictatorship.”

Mariette Bermowitz is the author of “Mindele’s Journey: Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust”, available on Amazon. Her story is a testament to a guiding force instilled in her by the nuns who sheltered her during the war. “I know what it’s like to give up hope, but something always drove me on.” says Bermowitz.

Stream of Consciousness

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Where do thoughts come from?

When I allow my mind to wander it comes up with random images and words that seem to float in from another world. I find it most fascinating as if connecting to an alternate reality or some collective imagination inspiring me to see and feel beyond the ordinary.

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Vladimir Kush

I do have a plethora of adventures to feed my wandering mind for a lifetime. Perhaps it isn’t so extraordinary then, when sitting in the ordinary surroundings of my living room to be summoned by thoughts of exotic music and places I visited in the past. A sound might recall the musicians I met in a village nestled in the foothills of Annapurna in Nepal. A spider sneaking past the window sill suddenly becomes the leader of thousands of white spiders that appeared out of nowhere one morning as I stepped out of my tent while camping under Mount Ararat in Turkey. A figurine on a bookshelf recalls the sacred shrines of worship I visited in desolate places in the valleys of Afghanistan where the wind seemed to whisper secrets from the beyond.

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Gennady Privedentsev – Mountain Butterfly

From there I traveled on a bus to Pakistan through the Khyber Pass and thought I would never live to talk about it. And perhaps I did leave part of my soul somewhere in the Hindu Kush mountains or the desert I saw in the distance beyond the wall of the house where I lived in Shiraz, Iran in the seventies.

I had no radio or TV to interfere with my thoughts back then and read lots of books and wrote poetry, which I addressed to my favorite authors. It was even easier to let my mind wander  as I wrote sentences using several of the languages I knew just like Salvador Dali did. I admired his ramblings and the imagery that sent my imagination soaring into surreal combinations. That was such a long time ago but here it is again, a morphic resonance linking the past and imposing itself on my random thoughts.

And my world is filled once more with sounds that paint images and dreams. I find a poem written by the French poet Andre Breton and am drawn into a surrealist fantasy —

A flanc d’abîme

Construit en pierre philosophale

S’ouvre le château étoilé

And a bit further down on the book shelf I meet Mallarmé who inspired Debussy with his poem:

L’Après Midi d’un Faune.

Yes, I understand you, Mallarmé

I understand your hermetic imagery

tripping into my thoughts

I understand

When by chance

I wandered into your poetry

And touched by your symphony

Have added this, my melody

surrealism

A Poem for Mallarmé

And the Countess addressing the sea and the seagulls flying in pair

Summoned an artist to melt pastel into the air

And add licks of shadows around clouds bathed in pink

Inviting Orpheus to appear beyond the crests of the sea

© Mariette Bermowitz 2012

Shiraz, My Inner Awakening

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Shiraz street sceneI lived in Iran with my partner Ed for several years in the mid-seventies.  Pahlavi University where I taught, was within walking distance of our house. I looked forward each day to teaching French in the foreign language department, and Ed was thrilled with his position as lecturer in the Faculty of Medicine. Due to modernizations under Shah Reza Pahlavi, foreign teachers were welcome in Iran in the seventies. Many of my Iranian students were planning to complete their degrees in America, and already spoke English.

I loved my early morning walk down the dirt roads to Pahlavi University on Abivardi Boulevard. The clear air and bright sun, the outline of cypress trees against the sky, the chants calling the faithful to prayer, the smell of fresh baked bread were the impressions that lingered throughout my day. When I passed by our neighbor Farideh’s house, she always said befarmaid. I thought it meant hello, or have a good day, because right after she said it, she closed the door. Ed and I were officially invited in however, when Farideh’s famous cousin the Mullah came to visit. No one spoke English, yet somehow through sign language and much smiling we got to know each other.

I quickly picked up Farsi, learning a prayer from one of the janitors at school, and the baker who taught me a new word each time I bought a flat bread called nan. The vegetable seller added all the words I needed to know for buying vegetables. I was told to be very careful to wash the greens as they were often contaminated by the feces from the packs of dogs who roamed the fields at night.  Moslems considered dogs unclean and shunned them as pets.

When I finished my last class at two in the afternoon I went to Ed’s lab and waved to him from the door. If he didn’t waveNomad Girls back I knew he would not be getting out early and I faced a long evening alone. As soon as I reached the kuche, (street) where we lived, I took off my shoes. The earth felt so good under my feet, warm and tingling and alive. If Farideh happened to be standing by her window she’d warn me about the dirt and garbage. She didn’t approve of me walking barefoot in the street. She also let me know she didn’t think it was a good idea for a woman to stay home alone. “Too much time to think,” she’d say – khub nist – not good. But in the stillness of my surroundings I felt a fullness of being I had never known before. No radio or TV, no newspapers to divert me from my inner world.

Still, I was happier being alone after we adopted Buffy, one of the stray dogs picked up around the city, thus saving him from his fate in Ed’s research lab. Those beautiful brown eyes gleamed with love when I took him home with me. I told Ed I would feel safer having Buffy for company on those evenings he worked late. Buffy, named because of his dusty beige coat, could hardly walk on one of his hind paws. But I nursed him, and before long he was cavorting around the patio as if he owned it.

Nomad_from_GoogleOne evening when Buffy and I were alone there was a loud knock outside our gate and I saw the strangest group of people, the Quasghai nomads, surrounded by goats and sheep. One man was on horseback holding a chicken. The women were dressed in multicolored, multilayered skirts that glimmered in the waning light. They had been traveling up from the south for days on mules and horses with their flock of animals.  Shiraz was the first big city they had reached, and our house was the first one they came to. I let a group of two women and two men come into the patio to fill their jugs with water. As I watched them, I could barely suppress the urge to ask them if I could join their group. Oh, to travel with these proud strong nomads, so connected to the land and the animals, and leave everything behind! But instead of asking them to take me with them, I invited them to sit down and have some chai. When they were leaving I cut two roses for them from the garden. The women placed their hands over their heart in thanks, and with a swoosh of their beautiful skirts they were gone.

That month I put on a chador, the veil Iranian women wore in public places and went to see the Dervish or holy man who lived in the old caravanserai on the outskirts of town. I was certain that I knew enough Farsi to greet him and ask for his blessing. It was a long walk, and by the time I reached the twisted alley where the entrance was, I was covered with dust from the streets. An old woman with a face like weathered parchment led me through a large courtyard and up some stairs to a balcony. In the corner was a little man sitting with a large blanket draped over him so that I could barely see him.Dervish In my excitement walking toward the holy man I realized I had forgotten all the words I had practiced to say to him. I sat down on the first pillow I found and gathered the chador around me, waiting for him to speak to me. I waited and waited but the Dervish didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the words I had wanted to say but the only thing that came to me was the overwhelming fragrance of freesia flowers growing in a corner. I don’t know how long I waited for him to look at me before I realized he was blind. How long I waited for him to speak before I realized he was mute. It wouldn’t have done me any good even if I had managed to remember my Farsi as he was probably deaf as well. Yet he had other senses at work, else how did he know I was getting up to leave? His right hand appeared from under the blanket that covered him and motioned to me. Then he placed his hand over his heart. Tears sprang to my eyes at this simple gesture. His face emanated love and kindness. I felt a great warmth spread through my body. I practically floated home. Words from The Little Prince, echoed in my mind “What is important is invisible to the eyes. You can only see well with your heart. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur.

And so it was that I had come half way around the world to meet a Dervish who transcended words, radiating love from his heart, fueling the love in my own.

From Mindele’s Journey – Memoir of a Hidden Child of the Holocaust

 

The Little Tree

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My little treeI live on the ground floor of an apartment building facing a six lane parkway. There is constant traffic flashing by, with the swooshing sound of engines and howling cries of ambulances on emergency runs. In the winter time it looks barren except for the rows of trees along the bicycle path stretching all the way to the beach.

If not for those trees I would find myself engulfed in the sight of all that hurried movement. Instead I gaze at the feast that nature presents in new ways with every passing season. I am also blessed with a luxurious lawn under my kitchen window cared for by a loving Italian gardener. I once told him of my appreciation for the care and beauty he was bringing to the outside of our building and certainly into my world. As a reply, he planted a little tree that I could see from my window.

That little tree has grown, but not much. I sometimes wonder if it isn’t intimidated by the gigantic pine tree shielding the front of the house next door. Or perhaps it looks small in comparison. But with every season that little tree goes through a transformation that fills me with awe. In the springtime the tiny knobs covering its barren branches turn to emerald as delicate leaves appear to clothe the little tree in its new attire. Then in the summer its mane of green leaves shelters the multi-colored flowers circling its trunk. When the first chill of autumn makes itself felt, my little tree turns its lovely crown into a dazzling jewel of gold and russet tones as if glowing with pride at having captured the sunshine. Then one by one the leaves fall, gracing the lawn with a carpet of muted color until the little tree stands naked and bare. But I imagine its twisted little branches reaching upward to the sky as if in prayer. It will stay for months in meditation reminding me that nature also prays for life to be rekindled.

This winter however, a most disastrous event took place. The East coast of the United States was hit with a hurricane that destroyed most of the houses along the shore. The sand from the beach at the end of my parkway covered the streets. Windows were smashed, cars overturned, trees ripped from the safety of cement sidewalks.

Fallen treeI witnessed a perfect storm called Sandy. I watched her from my window as the wind slapped the buildings and the houses along the street. An eerie emptiness hovered along the parkway, as if the cars had floated away, suddenly replaced by ambulances and fire trucks, their sirens shrieking into the air.

I watched with trepidation as the delicate frame of my little tree bent under the wind, and feared it could not resist this force testing its courage. I imagined its beauty gone, its festive attire gracing the seasons, its celebration of life even in winter with its branches sending up prayers to the heavens.

Well, my little tree made it! While many of the bigger trees had surrendered and fallen, their enormous roots ripping the sidewalks into tatters, my little tree had trembled and shaken but remained whole. Was it sad that the big pine tree in front of the house next door had fallen? I walk by and see giant roots splayed on the grass. But a fragrance of pine remains, a reminder of its former beauty and grandeur. Meanwhile, my little tree stands proud, and seems a bit taller as it awaits the spring. And I can’t help but think that this little tree is so much like me.

 

On Writing

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I always wanted to write a book. I remember when the idea first occurred to me.

Mariette I was nine years old and walking home from school. I had always been a model student receiving prizes at the end of the school year for my high achievements. This was in Belgium after the war. Having lost most of my family, my teacher paid special attention to me, guiding me into reading above my grade level. I also spent every afternoon in the library where the librarian recognized me as an unusual but sometimes sad little girl. She was always an attentive listener to my childhood woes and made sure to select books I would love. I knew I could depend on her being there to help me with my homework, greeting me every time I came into the library with her bright and welcoming smile. She introduced  me to the  tales and legends of the ancient Greeks and set my imagination on fire with her explanations of what was waiting for me in the adult section of the library.

One afternoon after my faithful stop at the library, filled with the drama of Charles Dickens in my head, I didn’t realize how quickly I reached the street where I lived with my father, his female companion and her retarded son. It was a very narrow alleyway, impossible for cars to go through. I remember it being cold and misty that late afternoon, which made the alleyway look even more mysterious. I looked up and saw the street lamp-lighter.

lamplighterI watched mesmerized as he lit the gaslights one by one with his long pole. The houses were clothed in mellow colors and the cobblestones glistened like jewels. Suddenly in my mind, the street appeared as a stage and he was lighting the stage lights. I stood there for a while as if in a dream, imagining myself walking onto that stage. I felt as if I was a character in a book that I was going to write someday.

It took a lifetime to accomplish. I wrote about my adventures. I processed my feelings into poetry. I experienced the existential angst of questioning my purpose on this planet. The years passed then flew by, sweeping into my consciousness the gnawing awareness of “the travel of no return” revealing Le moment de verite, that moment of truth when your entire life flashes before you.

I struggled with a sense of meaninglessness until I decided to write my memoir. I owe my friend Nancy Wait gratitude for rekindling that spark I felt as a child who dreamed of becoming an author. As my writing coach and editor, she guided me with patience and certitude, always believing that I would succeed.

The process of writing took ten years of learning a craft I deem sacred. I persevered through the frustrations of understanding what a good writer must do. Which is to invite the reader into this sacred realm of words, knowing that after the last page, a sense of timelessness has been achieved. And the gift of life has been acknowledged.

Love and Light

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The Little PrinceAs we come to the end of 2012 and its dire end of the world predictions, I found it difficult to connect to the joyous occasion of Hanukkah and its celebration of a miracle. And I’m finding it difficult to connect to Christmas, that event commemorating the advent of a savior born into the world.

I reflect upon the devastation of Hurricane Sandy, nature’s revenge laying bare our belief that we have no responsibility for the environment. And then another Sandy…the Sandy Hook classroom where an  unimaginable massacre of children and adults tore the heart out from an entire community. It is beyond words to conceive of such a heinous act. Yet I remember  World War II, children being sacrificed to the gods of hatred, fear, and revenge.

I wonder about a society that has accepted the alienation of those on the fringe. A society that doesn’t question the onslaught of television shows dedicated to murder and extermination, or reality shows expounding our twisted perversions of life, or video games that give sensations of power by the touch of a button, or tattoos that send a message to the  world of a tribal need to belong to something other than the instant messaging of iphones, ipads…I this, I that, I nobody.

Why is it that we have not understood that kindness, compassion, gentleness and love are not expressions of weakness but of that which empowers all of mankind. Why is it that martyred children have become reminders that we as a society have failed to provide hope for a kinder and more beautiful world for our young.

But I also know that the beautiful little faces of so many murdered children have shifted something in the global consciousness.

I believe we have come to the crossroads between dark and light. I am reminded once again of those lines  spoken by The Little Prince, a charming and seemingly frail little boy with curly blond hair and a scarf around his neck, traveling through the galaxies, seeding his words of love: L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux. On ne voit bien qu’avec le Coeur.

This is the book that comforts me over and over again in troubled times. When I face my doubts, it reminds me that love and light will heal the world. I wish everyone on this planet (and in other galaxies!) the hope that this will come to pass.