Tag Archives: memories of Belgium

Rocks and Stones

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IMG_3817 Rocks and stones have been part of our existence for more than 2 million years.  They are responsible for the development of the human race and we are still fascinated by their beauty, their endurance and the mystery of their formation. We travel far and wide to gaze at the magnificence of canyons; we meet the earth and its rocky crust when our heels beat the ground as we hike trails strewn with stones. We take rocks as mementos of our wanderings, knowing that they will faithfully remind us of cherished journeys. We wear them as magnificent jewelry and a whole generation turned them into “pet rocks” secretly wishing that they were imbued with magic powers. Perhaps it is so, as in certain parts of the world it is believed that mountains and rocky slopes are where the gods dwell.

Stones are the keepers of time and history. They have been used by ancient generations to record stories and practice religious rites. We know that as long ago as 7,000 years, enormous stone slabs called “dolmen” were erected for such purposes.  More recent ones can be found in England (Stonehenge), France (Carnac) and many other parts of the world including Spain, IMG_3788Portugal, Ireland, the Netherlands and as far away as Korea and India.

I encountered these mysterious stone tables while visiting the little town of Rahier while on vacation in Belgium. It is a quaint village where every house is bedecked with flowers as if expecting some fabulous celebration. The region is known for its stone quarries supplying the material for the construction of these sturdy homes. Another type of stone called schist is also available. It is a remarkable stone that sparkles when the light strikes its mica chips releasing what feels like a magic aura. These stones are easily fabricated into specific shapes and sizes. And what an amazing sight it was to see slabs of these hoisted along the road, like glistening posters upon which were engraved poems dedicated to the trees, the insects, the rain, the old school, furrows where once stood old houses, the cemetery, a 600 year old tree, the church, a gate and a bench where lovers meet. It is like walking through a written ode glorifying the village and the soul that lives there.

IMG_3835These poems are the creation of an elderly couple of former teachers who live in a house that dates back to the 17th century. They live simply and imbue their surroundings with the immense love they have for nature and the world we live in. These poems engraved on stones imbues the onlooker with wonder and awe. It is as if some ancient scriptures from a long ago past have returned to remind us to pause and inhale our moments of beauty.

A few miles down the road are fields where ancient dolmens remind us that long ago the druids practiced their rites under mistletoe hanging from branches of oak trees. Their spirit seems to linger, whispering ancient thoughts into the countryside captured in poems floating on slabs of schist.

 

 

 

Là au creux du vallon

Le village semble aux aguets

Comme une frêle embarcation

Sous l’énorme vague des fôrets

Un ciel de plomb impose

Ses gris, ses noirs moroses

Il pleut

Que surgisse le soleil

Dans le bleu si bleu du ciel

Et les verts éclatent en mille tons

Et le vent entame sa chanson

Il est midi

Mais déjà l’astre est au couchant

Il met le feu à l’horizon, jetant

Ses rouges, ses jaunes, ses oranges

Le ciel deviant symphonie étrange

Voici la nuit

Suzanne et Marcel Mosuy

IMG_3822…To be continued with more poems from Rahier with translations

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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.

On Friendship

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Mariette and Mariette At this time of the year when most families are gathering to celebrate the holidays, I think about those of us who because of various misfortunes have lost the comfort of family and tradition. These times then become moments of reflection on what we have created to bring joy to our lives. My thoughts turn to the friends I have made over the years. They have sustained me and  have become family. They have given me joy and warmth and the courage that is needed to feel that one belongs in this sometimes cruel world.

Some are no longer friends, some have died, some may not always be available but they all have a place in my heart. But the most painful is the memory of friends who have died too young. It reminds me of the way my mentor and creative source, Michel de  Montaigne, dedicated his work to his best friend, La Boetie. When La Boetie died all too young, Montaigne wrote: ce jour qui pour moi sera toujours amer, toujours sacre. (That day which for me will always remain bitter, always sacred) And so I think of my friend Mariette, who died in her early twenties.

Mariette was the first friend I ever had. Sharing the same name gave us a special bond from the beginning. It was during the war in Belgium. We were both six years old at the time. Even then she was la grande and I was la petite. I had no other friends in those days because as a Jewish child hiding in a Catholic community, it was dangerous for everyone concerned that I not say anything that might connect me to being Jewish.

Mariette and I never discussed such things. We were children, and then young  adolescents sharing the joys and moments of celebration in the village where I returned every year to be with my benefactors. Then I left for America when I was twelve and never saw Mariette again.

I looked forward to our reunion when I went back “home” for the first time after ten years of separation. I was ecstatic to return to Belgium, and looking forward to seeing Mariette again. No one had told me that she had died a tragic death three weeks before I arrived.

Mariette,Flore,Ghislaine1She carried with her the memory of her own mother, blown to bits before her eyes. Mariette’s mother had taken too long to vacate the cellar where they were hiding and was struck by the fragments of a grenade. Now my friend Mariette had taken her own life.

I cannot forget her. I recently found a picture of her and her two cousins. She is sitting at the head of a wheelbarrow holding the handle which looks like a cross. For me it represents the cross she bore of having witnessed her mother’s death.

I dedicate this holiday to all the children suffering from the aftermath of war.

And I dedicate this memory to all those who are blessed, like myself, with friends dear enough to be family.

And lastly, I dedicate these words to my beloved friend, Mariette.