The Isle of Wight has many amazing attractions, from places in nature, to ruins and monuments. From red squirrels to dinosaurs. Countless tourists find beaten or undiscovered tracks and travel the Island enjoying the beautiful views. Yet the Island’s history will always be related to the lives of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, who have created in Osborne House a family retreat and a home filled with many happy family moments.
Queen Victoria bought Osborne House in 1845. She had spent two holidays on the Isle of Wight as a young girl, in Norris Castle, the estate next door to Osborne. Both Queen Victoria and Prince Albert liked the house and the views of the Solent. But when it became obvious that it was too small for their needs, they have decided to build a new residence in the style of the Italian Renaissance complete with two belvedere towers between 1845 and 1851. Prince Albert designed the house himself together with builder Thomas Cubitt, whose company also built the main façade of Buckingham Palace.
Because of the layout of the estate, gardens and woodlands, Prince Albert made use of his knowledge of forestry and landscaping. Below the gardens there was also a private beach where the Queen had her own private bathing machine.
The grounds include a ‘Swiss Cottage’, which was dismantled and brought piece by piece from Switzerland to Osborne where it was reassembled for the royal children, who were encouraged to garden. Each royal child was given a rectangular plot in which to grow fruit, vegetables and flowers, in order to then sell their produce to their father. Prince Albert used this as a way to teach his children the basics of economics. The children also learned to cook in the Swiss Cottage, which was equipped with a fully functioning kitchen. Both parents saw this kind of education as a way of keeping their children’s feet firmly on the ground in spite of their royal status.
The royal family stayed at Osborne for lengthy periods each year: in the spring for Victoria’s birthday, in summer for Albert’s birthday, and in winter for Christmas.
The domestic idyll at Osborne was not to continue. In December 1861, Prince Albert died at Windsor Castle. During her widowhood, Osborne House continued as one of Queen Victoria’s favourite homes, until her death there in 1901.
The house is now a very attractive English Heritage location, being at the same time museum and hosting various events throughout the year. It comprises also a lovely café and a souvenir shop with many attractive items.
For those of you who did not have yet the chance to visit the Isle of Wight, I warmly invite you to spend few sunny days and discover it for yourself. And if you come here take some time to discover this wonderful house as well. In order to raise your interest I take you on a quick tour. Please enjoy the art objects, the beautiful un-palace-like rooms and the great atmosphere.
500 words, Adela Galasiu, March 2016
Photos: Osborne House, by Adela Galasiu, February 2016, Isle of Wight, UK
What’s Your Version?
The “Three Little Pigs” is a fairy tale that has become very popular in our culture. It was originally written in England, the earliest credited story version being written by James Orchard Halliwell in 1849. The story appeared in a book titled “Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales.” It is not known if Halliwell, who later used the name Halliwell-Phillipps, created the story himself or has simply passed it down from his previous generations.
Halliwell was credited by Joseph Jacobs when he adapted the story for a book titled “English Fairy Tales.” Jacobs made changes to appeal to a younger audience. In the original story, the “Big Bad Wolf” was boiled in a pot and eaten by the three pigs. Rather than end the fairy tale in such a horrible manner, Jacobs adapted the tale, so that the “Big Bad Wolf” came down the chimney and burned his tail. In the Disney interpretation, the wolf lands in a pot of boiling turpentine, but runs away in pain through the chimney.
The basic story of “The Three Little Pigs” is a tale of three little pigs who each builds a home. The first one takes little time in building the home out of straw and spends the rest of his time playing and relaxing. The second little pig builds a home out of sticks, which takes a bit longer, but he too values relaxation time. The third little pig chooses to build a home out of bricks, which requires a great deal of time and effort. He values more taking the time to build a home properly over relaxation and recreation. When the big bad wolf comes to the homes, only the third pig’s house stands up to the pressure applied by the wolf.
The moral lesson learned from “The Three Little Pigs” is that hard work and dedication pay off. This idea that taking the time to perform a task the right way has been widely adopted by many teachers and parents of children for generations. It has became extremely popular in the United States with Walt Disney’s adaption of the tale.
Here you can find Disney’s adaptation:
In 1933, Walt Disney released an eight-minute animated film of the “Three Little Pigs.” According to the Encyclopedia of Disney Animated Shorts, this short film has inspired many Americans through the Great Depression. Just as the three little pigs were able to overcome adversity through hard work, many Americans believed that their hard work would eventually lead them out of the Great Depression.
But starting from the Disney version of the story, the cinematography has continued to adapt, and it is really interesting to see how the story has been changed in time, in different moments in time and according to different trends, into:
a musical version
a reality version
an unhappy ending version
or an Italian Mafia style version.
The story has , like all fairy tales, a seed of truth hidden deep inside. And it can also mean something completely different to different people. The moral of the story nevertheless inspired generations to work hard for success, with the hope that one day the hard work will lead to success and happiness.
Yet, no matter how you look at the story and whichever your favourite version may be, enjoy it. 🙂
Memyselfandela, July 2015
She had not written for many days, weeks, months, it felt rather like eons. Struck by a fierce silence, she didn’t find the words any more. Painful silence, coming from deeper than the words can say. From deep within where thoughts do not have time or do not dare to descend in normal days that gallop worst than wild horses. Life seems to have stopped and unfolded in front of her eyes with a sort of cruelty that she did not know how to swallow. Cruelty or acute sarcasm. As if life itself would have smiled at her with half a face and smashed her badly with a slap coming from the opposite side.
Yes, life is sarcastic and unfair. Who told you that there are happy ending stories? There may be many fairy tales, but not many real happy endings. She did her best to make things happen but at some point she understood that she has no power over life itself, that life is a far bigger force than she can even understand with her mind and that all she can do is to accept with humiliation that in some ways she has lost the battles long before they have even begun.
Shredded often between her beautiful imagination and the cruel reality, she had learned that the most powerful thing one can do in this life is to survive. And the most crazy to dream. She has never dared to lay on paper all her thoughts, out of fear that if she would have done so, maybe the whole reality would have cracked over her. Yet in moments when nobody noticed her, she has dared to close her eyes and without a word to imagine a parallel world where everything was different than in this one.
There was in the end no lesson she could have cascaded on others. No great wisdom and no big prise. She had only learned that she knew nothing and as such, she stopped talking about life. She stopped complaining and equally she stopped rejoicing. She had reached a state of acceptance that was similar to the shell of a tortoise, trying to keep the very core of her far away, deeply hidden from any pain.
In an untold resilience her spirit has lost many other souls, even the ones she has loved the most. Their voice has faded just as sudden as it has made itself heard. Their presence has stopped shining a warmth of goodness and joy in her existence. Yet she was adamant she did not lose them completely and she will once again have the blessing of meeting them all. In her fantasy at least.
On the corner of a little table hidden in a tea room where nobody stopped today because of the horrible weather, she broke her silence, but allowed the secrets to remain in the deep hidden corners of her soul, brewing there, unknown to others, yet ready to emerge one day, truly full of magic.
500 words, memyselfandela, November 2014
BBC. Soul. Music. Peace.
Yesterday lovely Nicola Humphries, BBC producer and wonderful woman with a big heart, has given me the opportunity to tell a story.
It has all started with my beloved Rhapsody in Blue and Gershwin, but for me this represents the tip of my soul iceberg. I have dived very deep in my past to the times when I was a happy child. I have spoken about life in the Communism, oppression, the tragic death of my father which has coincided with the beginning of the Romanian Revolution on the 22 of December 1989. I have tried to describe life as it was, but time was short and words don’t come always easy. I have had moments when my mind has frozen and when I could not find my words as in the back of my eyes I have kept my tears, because I cannot get back in some moments in time without feeling again all that intense pain.
I am in love with music because it has always been for me a gate to freedom and a window of hope in the darkest moments. I have remembered the most intense moments that I have lived and witnessed, the blood on the streets of Sibiu, the fear when people were shot, the agony of not knowing what was happening with my father when he did not come back home, the death striking my family when we have least expected, the love and the absolute loss.
I may be different than other people given the intensity of situations that I have lived, things that could have made other people get insane. I have been through things that normally do not happen to other people. Those have been moments that have not destroyed me, but made me stronger. This is one of the reasons why I write and I have started my blog. I believe that despite all pain, beyond all loss, life is both a path and a fight. We can all create a better path and win our battle. I truly believe that none of us should give up, that we should all have peace of mind and hope in our heart for the day to come. I believe it because I have been myself on the edge of despair and I have looked into the abyss of depression many times in my life.
As I came out of the BBC I have entered the Church of All Souls. I believe nothing is accidental. I have been not given the chance to speak about me alone, but the chance to recall and mention my mother, my father, my love, my loss, my hope. Maybe it was a way of setting myself free and closing a deep pain of the past, a bleeding succession of losses that I have lived with for a long time.
I believe in God. We have all a lesson to learn. And I believe that at the end of the road we shall all find love and peace.
500 words, memyselfandela, February 2014
Photos: Adela Galasiu, February 2014
Many thanks to wonderful Nicola Humphries and BBC 4, Soul Music.
Life on a platform
I live waiting on the platform for my destined train. Sometimes I overslept in the waiting room and missed it, but most of the times I was here on the platform when it arrived. I have travelled for a while, I have learned new things but when I got off the train I have realized it has brought me back to this station with a name that I am still trying to decipher.
It’s just a normal train station like all others. With a huge clock, with huge windows, with many people carrying around small and big luggages and baggages stuffed with their own existence. Many run after trains they almost miss, others wait a bit restless for their journey, but the most rare kind of passengers are the ones that radiate happiness when they see their train arriving. Not many smile as they step in their train.
Above my head, on a wall, is scribbled Paler’s Decalogue, for some a blasphemy, for some food for thought:
“1.Wait, no matter how long.
2. Wait, no matter for what.
3. Don’t remember quite anything instead. The only good memories are the ones that allow you to live in the present.
4. Do not count the days.
5. Do not forget that any waiting time is temporary, even if it lasts for a lifetime.
6. Repeat yourself that there is no such thing as a desert. There is only our incapacity to fill the void in which we are living.
7. Do not put in the same pot both the prayer and God. Prayer is sometimes a form of hope of the one that does not dare to hope on his own.
8. If this thought helps, do not seek to admit that you hope because you don’t have something better to do or even in order to prevent the outcomes of doing nothing.
9. Bless the opportunity of completely belonging to yourself. Solitude is a whore that doesn’t blame you for being selfish.
10. Remember that Paradise was , most certainly, in a grotto.”
No days or nights are the same. They are all different and this is a blessing in itself.
Sometimes moths circle around the glowing beauty of a single light in the night, in a dance that fascinates me so much that I forget how much I still have to wait to see my train coming. Their mesmerizing dance takes me out of my world for a while.
Sometimes the dirty light reveals the faces of all the unknown people still waiting by my side, some worried, some cheerful, same frowning, some left with only few more drops of life.
Life goes on on the platform. The days grow, the nights slowly fade, the time sometimes pauses. The most beautiful light of all is the sunrise invading like molten gold the quiet platform, flowing between trains and passengers, flooding the huge waiting room in which some just enter and some still wait for an eternity to finally get born.
500 words, memyselfandela January 2014
LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL or THE ART HOW TO DO WRITE
Today is such a glorious day after the storm of the wind outside and the storms we may all have had at some point in our lives. Sitting here this lazy morning I have taken time to indulge in a fantastic cup of tea and, as it often happens to me when I have a moment of relaxation like this or when I smoke, thoughts flow through my mind with a different intensity than normal.
It has crossed my mind at some point that life is indeed extremely beautiful, but it is only us humans that tend to complicate it and make it difficult for ourselves as we concentrate on the negative in it. Instead of seeing what we have good in our existence we tend to look for those things that don’t work perfectly. Instead of cherishing what we have received we torture our minds with what we wish we would have had. Instead of acting on the positive we dwell on the negative.
Many of us here try to share their own view on life and in this process many of us sometimes write. But you know what crosses my mind often? Just as we TRY to write , we also TRY to live. We hesitate in writing just as we hesitate in life because we are so damn afraid of failure, of what others may say or think, that we may get paralyzed by this fear. And that is only because of not trusting ourselves completely. My friends, if we don’t trust ourselves, who else will do it? Do we really need someone from the outside to give us confirmations about who we are or what we can do?
It all starts with a step. It all starts with a word. Then comes another step, another breath, another word. It all flows just like life flows. The main thing is to try. If someone would ask me what one must do to become a writer I would say: “Simply live. Just abandon your fears on the side of the road and carry on. Just let the life create your own unique path and let the words gush out of your mind, just as they gush out of your heart. Because if there’s a demon that can reduce our life to numbness and nothing, that demon is called fear. Dismiss it and you will be free, free to be yourself. Just as free as the little happy mayflies who live short lives but nevertheless enjoy every breeze, every contact and every breath while dancing in the sun.”
Today, regardless of the negative in my life, I live and write. I may take wrong steps or good steps, I may write silly words, wise words, ordinary thoughts, but I refuse to listen to the little devil that whispers poisonous failure. Instead I promise myself that I will live and write, the best I can, the most authentic I can. Shorts stories. Long stories. Sad moments. Poetry. Beautiful moments. Moments alive.
A Million Shades of Blue
Shades… A million shades… The afternoon was made out of so many shades between the black and the white.
The sky was not perfectly blue, the heart was not perfectly light, the hope was not really a hope.
If it would have been love or no love at all, all would have been so simple, but the heart was flooded by all those shades of colors and feelings and electricity boldly lingering in their touch. It was a delirium of things and images passing before her eyes while she was processing the remains of the previous days.
“Why is life not simple like in those romantic movies where all is fine?” was the thought lingering in her mind while watching him stop in front of another little shop, with the amazement of a child that has just seen something he was hoping to discover for a lifetime.
Entering the shop she realized that it would make a beautiful present to compensate his birthday. She missed it, it’s true, but not because she didn’t care, but because she didn’t know him yet back then. But still, she would have loved to have been there with him that day, and in her heart she was.
He loved them all. It’s true, they were all beautiful ties, hand made, real, just like he loved to feel authentic and sharp and real…
With a smile in the corner of her soul she sent him to have a look in the back of the store while she took the tie he had admired in the very first moment. 69 pounds, that was the price. It was perfect. The colors were perfect, shades of color, shades of life. The price spoke volumes. To him it would have probably meant an erotic thing, but to her it was a tangible translation of the moon dust trapped inside their bones, of their breath as they were kissing and talking about the muses watching over their love, of the raise and fall of their entwined souls, or the incarnation of all the things that were present in that very second when she wished him happy birthday, now, better later than never.
In the back of her mind there was only a song lingering talking about the raise and fall of the same moon dust that was still shining in his eyes just like that night when they have met the first time, not even knowing if tomorrow will ever come or if there will be a chance for another minute together.
The day was fading, in the corridors of the city, in the tunnels covered in graffiti, as the two lovers were getting back from a city adventure that meant all and nothing, while lights were shining on the side of the road, like fireflies dancing songs known only to themselves.
And the light was dying in millions of shades of obscurity, while the moon, all alone, saw the loneliness crawling back in the souls of the eternal loners.
500 words, memyselfandela, September 2013
They call me Red Fox. Why on Earth is that? Hmmm… For many reasons. Part because of my red hair, part because of the spark in the look in my eyes. When the transceiver goes on that’s what you hear: “Red Fox, Red Fox, do you hear me?” Oh yes, I hear them all. With my ears but mostly with my mind and soul.
I’ve been very tolerant all my life, that is a fact. I’ve been patient since I was a kid, and when I hardly found around any kids like me to play with I’ve learned instead how to play word games with the adults in my family or how to voraciously go through all the books I could lay my hands on. Some of the best were absolutely hated by others that had simply no sense of imagination. But what a beauty they have missed…So I didn’t give a damn. I was such a curious kid that there’s a long list of family fables I have unwillingly created. Yes, I’ve done many silly things too. But also if you had a shit situation I was the one to turn it into a luck.
But then I was so naive in my young years that I was fascinated by any living creature encountered. I have studied in a complete amazement all, just like a little fox…
Of course in this process I have learned a lot but I have also met all my natural predators. They looked pretty nice on the outside, but none had any problems with trying to take advantage of me in any possible way. None had any remorse after using my energy or resources, none had any regret after breaking my heart or while dumping me completely dizzy on the edge of whatever ditch was convenient.
Yet I must thank them all. For some reason beyond my understanding none of them was allowed to give me the last blow. And so from fragile I became strong, from strong even stronger and from silly, wiser. And life goes on.
Now when you meet me you have no idea that you meet the Red Fox. This young specimen has made at some point in her life a choice: rather then bite herself the enemies heads off, to simply allow another force to do it’s part. And this works just beautifully.
I will come as close to you as to allow you to show me your true character. I might become your friend forever if you don’t betray me. I will get as close as to hear your heartbeat and see your pupils dilate. Yet, you won’t even know when I’m gone if you dare to try to hurt me…You won’t see my traces, you won’t ever find me again. I will hide forever to heal my wounds if you cut through my heart, but remember, I don’t ever need to worry about you again, Kharma knows your location so much better than me.
Over and out.
500 words, memyselfandela, 2013
Art – Culpeo Fox
This Is Life
Life. You think I don’t know it? I look it in the eye every day. I dance with it in silence.
I look at people and feel them, I see them as they are, no masks, no makeup.
What do I see?
The inteligent lady that does her best to keep her integrity in a world of people that enter with muddy boots in her soul…
The sad brilliant man that will live for the rest of his life with a hole instead of heart just because he had the bad luck of loving a woman without one…
The unhappy boss looking down at others but having his huge frustrations in the back of his head…
The mature man tired of adventures yet seeking a reason to smile and live …
The happy mother to be that calculates her existence in days left and days to come…
The hard worker that only thinks of mountains of problems and of working every day just to make a small dream come true…
The old life coach that dresses fancy but lost himself the track of life and has nobody to comfort him…
The lonely woman sick and tired of liars and users and bastards that have marched through her soul just to convince her that good men are a myth…
The married man that thinks he can be smarter than all and have a wife and lovers on the side and keep his image of a saint in the society…
The mother that sacrificed everything for her children and yet has nothing but emptiness in return…
The sad poet secluded in poetry, covered in debts and installments and broken dreams, with no energy to live and with rivers of tears and drinks behind him…
The angry wife that comes home to a distant husband that invents any excuse only not to spend time with her, just because he is too immature to talk to her, to see his flaws or solve his problems…
The scared child that has the bad luck to grow up in a family of silent conflicts and sad moments that he cannot understand, only perceive…
The wise teacher that has given all his best to his students and finds himself alone and forgotten…
The frentic player that shows the world every day how he is the best in everything, making a show out of his every move, claiming the hearts of all the women passing by just to move to the next and dump them in the trash the moment he feels they are weak because they love him…
The young woman that will live for the rest of her life in a wheelchair even though her heart craves for a normal life, for happiness, for walking and loving and feeling alive and happy…
The monk that has given up all this chaos and breaths his peace in the silence of a humble corner of the world, known only by God…
And life goes on.
500 words, memyselfandela, 2013
Tribute to Beatrix
One of these days I remembered wonderful Beatrix with her fantastic books and amazing characters. In our modern world we tend to completely forget the delicacy, tenderness and beauty of nature and small creatures or the innocence of childhood. It takes an incredible talent to create all this beauty , but not only talent. It takes passion to develop such artistic skill. And only a pure heart can love and see these tiny creatures and their beauty and absolutely love them.
Beatrix Potter (28 July 1866 – 22 December 1943) was an English author, illustrator, natural scientist and conservationist best known for her imaginative children’s books featuring animals such as those in The Tale of Peter Rabbit which celebrated the British landscape and country life.
Born into a privileged Unitarian family she grew up with few friends outside her large, extended family. Her parents were artistic, interested in nature and enjoyed the countryside. As children, Beatrix and Bertram had numerous small animals as pets which they observed closely and drew endlessly. Summer holidays were spent in Scotland and in the English Lake District where Beatrix developed a love of the natural world which was the subject of her painting from an early age.
She was educated by private governesses until she was eighteen. Her study of languages, literature, science and history was broad and she was an eager student. Her artistic talents were recognized early. She had private art lessons, and developed her own style, favouring watercolour. Along with her drawings of her animals, real and imagined, she illustrated insects, fossils, archaeological artefacts, and fungi. In the 1890s her mycological illustrations and research on the reproduction of fungi spores generated interest from the scientific establishment. Following some success illustrating cards and booklets, Potter wrote and illustrated The Tale of Peter Rabbit publishing it first privately in 1901, and a year later as a small, three-colour illustrated book with Frederick Warne & Co. She became unofficially engaged to her editor Norman Warne in 1905 despite the disapproval of her parents, but he died suddenly a month later, of leukemia.
Potter bought Hill Top Farm in Near Sawrey, a tiny village in the English Lake District near Ambleside in 1905, then purchased additional farms to preserve the unique hill country landscape. In 1913, at the age of 47, she married William Heelis, a respected local solicitor from Hawkshead. Potter was also a prosperous farmer keenly interested in land preservation. She continued to write, illustrate and design spin-off merchandise based on her children’s books for Warne until the duties of land management and diminishing eyesight made it difficult to continue. Potter published over twenty-three books; the best known are those written between 1902 and 1922. She died on 22 December 1943 at her home in Near Sawrey at age 77, leaving almost all her property to the National Trust after preserving much of the land that now comprises the Lake District National Park.
Potter’s books continue to sell throughout the world, in multiple languages. Her stories have been retold in song, film and animation.
500 words, memyselfandela 2013
Life is a complicated game. One day God sends us here and the moment we inhale for the first time the clock starts ticking, the game begins and the button “PLAY” flashes, though God is pressing the button, not us…
I think the most valuable thing in this life is to be myself. I have showed my soul to many, but only few have proven worthy of my trust. I have taken a lot of risks, calculated or not, in accepting people, in getting close or being a friend. I have been used, lied to, judged, disappointed, betrayed, misunderstood and sometimes loved. After all this experience I am absolutely true to myself, I live simple, I work a lot, I can still dream and I am a loner by choice.
Yes, many have judged me by my accent, body, job, money, clothes, past, nationality… You name it, people will always find a reason to judge. But to be honest I really don’t care. I will never amaze anyone with the clothes I wear, for I will take nothing material with me on the other side. Why buy then clothes that cost so much that make others choke? Only to please others? Only to feel better because others are envious? Or just to tickle my ego? Well, none of the three options represents me.
Ego is a beast that I have tried to keep in a leash, but my heart is another story. I guess we should only show our hearts to those that deserve it. The ones that can handle us at our worst, when we are depressed , down , feel low and have no energy and no light within us. Because whoever cannot handle us in our worst moments does not deserve us in our best times either.
And there are many things about this life. Yes, it goes on , with or without us. Yes, we never know when it ends. Yes, we should live every moment as the last one. But most of all, remember, it’s never too late to stop, think, ask ourselves questions about our life. It’s never too late to change things in our life if we find ourselves on the wrong path. It’s never too late to end something that is causing us trauma, or to learn new things, or to raise our head with dignity and become stronger.
There’s nobody out there to make you stronger, dear friends. Don’t rely on anyone, people will mostly disappoint you. You have all a best friend , all of you. That best friend is yourself. You have all inside the energy and strength to change your life if you are unhappy. All it takes is just to realise how very strong you are deep inside. You don’t need to be strong for anyone, be strong for yourself. Look in the mirror and be kind to yourself and smile. You are the most important person in your life.
It’s never late to
change something, you cannot be
other than YOURSELF.
Once upon a time there was a silly girl. At least that is how most people considered her.
She was far from being stupid but she only shared her heart with those that proved to be worth it because after being taken advantage of a million times she knew that it’s better to play the stupid. She had no more fears, she knew life, she spoke the truth. She was a real woman, the kind that needs nobody to tell her what she’s worth, the kind that would go to hell and back for her love. She had no problem with being considered a silly girl, with no name, no face and a small life in a simple corner of this fucked up world. She knew that her name means nothing to noone else but her true love.
She was a genuine loner, speaking to her own solitude, sharing online her poetry, dark thoughts and soul. And so many men were attracted by her distant voice, even though she was talking to her long lost love she had never met.
Countless men wanted to meet her, many have swore they love her just to be able to get closer and see her face and weigh her as you weigh a merchandise at the market. And after seeing her face they always dreamed of more, whilst they were talking to many other silly girls and touching many other broken dreams. She learned how to read each one of them, for she saw in silence how they were after other girls like her, flattering them, liking their every post, talking to them in private… She got so used to see men making sure they were not visibly connected to her so that they can stay available for other girls, see them play at several tables, for this is the human nature and most people are selfish… She got used to see how people manipulate feelings, sentimentally blackmail, lie and invent reasons, how they come and go, how they want to give nothing and get everything … She got used to the whole cortege of people connecting with her, good and bad, most of them selfish… She met the crazy man, the true rocker, the photographer, the unfaithful husband, the teacher, the poet, the hindu, the muslim, the christian, the angry, the jalous, the insatiable lover, the dominant male… all great and unique, but all so untrue…
So she let the time do it’s part, she learned patience, she listened, helped, loved… And they came, saw, read, talked, wanted more, always more and showed no patience, no feelings, got distant, got cold, got brutal, got ugly or simply left in anger. Her heart broke many times, but she knew that only her true love will pass this test.
Maybe she was mortified, maybe she faded to black, but she remained true to herself and the man that would not play games behind her. She was what she was: solitary woman.
Thoughts of the day
Not often I have the privilege of having few days off. This was one of those days.
As I opened my eyes this morning I heard the rain tapping on my windows. After spending some time organizing my future days(phonecalls, writing lists, planning what I’m going to do) I drank my cup of tea and I started to listen to Luna Amara, and so my day became wonderful.
I took some time to translate the lyrics for a few of their songs and I reblogged an older post with translation. I feel that these guys are so very talented, poetic, profound, Romanian. Maybe that’s why I love them so much.
If you ask me what I like doing the most in my spare time, the answer is not complicated. I enjoy listening to music, reading a lot, translating, writing. I like exploring a lot because I’m as curious as a cat (and cat owners know what I mean 🙂 ) And if I would have even more time I would start painting again. I could not get into the mood to paint again since my teenage years. I guess I could not concentrate on it because life has consumed me in different ways.
I love exchanging thoughts with you, my friends, so here I am. Still there are many thoughts that I keep for myself, as you all do. I usually smoke alone, I am as quiet as the leaves of a tree. Some say it is not healthy. Yes, I know. But neither is this crazy life. So I will stick to smoking my thoughts.
We are all probably here to connect to others, to reach out for more information, more inspiration, more positive energy, to get a sort of recognition that we miss, or to disconnect from our every day life and the stress and the bitter experiences. It’s a good question, why are we all here? Is it just an accident? Is this life only a stage in evolutionism as some say, or are we here for a higher purpouse? Are we here by chance or by the hand of destiny?
The thought that passed my mind all day was: “We are all interconnected”. Time and space become a relative thing when we share thoughts and get to know each other. We are interconnected and I love and respect you all. I thank you all for visiting my blog, for sharing thoughts, for debating with me, for asking, for giving. After all, this is your blog, not mine.
I tried to imagine you all, distant yet near. Some that I know, some that I imagine. How was your day? What were your thoughts? What were your worries?
As a great friend of mine says “I hope life was kind to you today!”
This makes me smile because life is not only a summ of unpredictible things and disasters, but also an image of our own decisions, emotions and gestures. If we would realize it life would get sweeter.
500 words from the heart
On Saturday morning Joe got a call from a beekeeper : “The Park is on fire!”
Joe didn’t realize what would have been the magnitude at that time. He immediately contacted the Park authorities only to be informed that they had just received the information and started mobilizing communities. He thought “Well, this is just a one day matter, then I can go back to the normal life especially during this busy time of the year in the Park, the tourism high season.”
He was wrong. Saturday evening he got a call from the law enforcement :
“ Hehheheh, you know , I have never seen this before, if it continues to spread at this speed it would take 3 weeks to get rid of it!”
“What? Then the whole Park would be gone!!!!!!!!” Joe exclaimed.
On Sunday Joe was checking if he could see the fire from the road but he couldn’t see a thing. He even tried to call his colleagues but in vain.
He decided to go Monday morning into the field and see for himself what was happening and what he could do to help. He had been informed that some people spent the night there lead by the warden in charge of law enforcement. Thus he passed through town to buy something for the teams such as water, juice, biscuits and chocolates.
On his way, nothing unusual from the tourism area all the way to the park, which was encouraging; but getting closer from the road he could see smoke in different points in the forest. One could easily mix up smoke and cloud. In the village around he couldn’t see any young men; women were cooking for the people fighting fire in the forest.
Joe continued climbing hills, meeting various people on the way, military, police, communities; everyone had brought anything that they were able to find: panga, hoes, sticks , anything to fight the fire.
He finally reached the Park edge, exhausted to deathand thinking: “All people who went up to fight the fire are brave, climbing all these steep hills one needs to be patriotic and conservationist!!”
The terrain was very difficult in some areas where people had to try to extinguish fire in ravines, climbing big hot rocks! People were really selfless in this tedious exercise.
Three horrible days and nights they have fought the fire. And as they finished putting out the fire Joe found there, frightened and lost, among the trees, the smallest creature of God, devastated by this whole hell: a small koala.
Seeing him aproaching the gray creature did not run. Joe was so impressed by the sight of the little one that he thought: “Oh, you poor thing, you must be so scared and exhausted”.
He took his backpack , found the bottle of water and as he kneeled down in front of the little koala, he saw his tiny paw reaching towards him. It was the moment when they spoke the same language. The time stopped. And for a minute they were one.
Dedicated to all those brave wonderful people, firefighters and volunteers, who save lives, forests , people and wild animals all alike.