Thoughts about my Blog

Over the past few weeks I had been thinking a lot about what to do with my blog. I have been blogging for more than five years and I’ve always enjoyed it. Only recently has the spark of it dulled a bit. I found myself not wanting to write anything. That was a surprise for me since I’ve always liked writing. Playing with words, drawing pictures with sentences. Telling stories.

But sometimes my heart wasn’t fully into it anymore. Something was missing. I felt pressure to write something in order to keep my blog up to date – without really wanting to do that. Pressure made entirely by me – no one else is to blame. So I stopped writing altogether and instead gave more thought to this blog journey.

 Over and over again I realized that the posts I poured my heart into were the ones I enjoyed the most as well as being the ones that received the most responses. It’s almost as if my readers felt that this was the real me in those posts and I’ve hit a nerve with many of you.

I wonder where my heart was when writing those other posts and why I bothered in the first place. What was keeping me from being genuine and real? Where was the “real me” in those moments? It’s not that I want to hide - yes, I’m not always “main stream” – far from it -, I have rough edges and often queer thoughts. That’s who I am. But is there any valid reason not to show that?

This is my blog, I am the author of it. I decide what to show and tell, and I want it to be heartfelt, true and real. No apologies either if I don’t turn up on a regular schedule. Id rather be here less often but when I show up, it’s the real me.

You, my wonderful readers, each one of you simply deserve this. 

Being a Refugee

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom once again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this photo of the cathedral of Frombork in Poland.

Frombork has been called Frombork only since 1945. Before that its name was Frauenburg and it was known as the "pearl of the North". It belonged to East Prussia and thus to Germany for many centuries. The cathedral was built in the 14th century and its most famous canon was the astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus who is buried in the cathedral.

However, today I don't want to talk about Frauenburg Cathedral. Please look beyond the cathedral, where you can see the blue of the water. This is what we call Frisches Haff , or the Vistula Lagoon. It is a brackish water lagoon on the Baltic Sea roughly 56 miles long, 6 to 15 miles wide and up to 17 feet deep. The Poland-Russia border runs across the lagoon.

Every winter the lagoon used to completely freeze over. So it did in the winter of 1944/1945.  When the Red Army marched into East Prussia in January and February of 1945, it was impossible for the tens of thousands of refugees to flee the Soviets across land. They had to take the route over the frozen lagoon. Thousands froze to death or were killed in air raids when the Russians bombed the ice as well as shot at the refugees with their machine guns. 

It must have been horrific. No words can describe their panic and suffering.

My mother was a refugee. No, she didn't have to take this route. She was much closer to the West, living at that time in a small town on the river Oder which today is the border between Germany and Poland. However, fleeing in the cold of winter - and that winter was one of the coldest on record - with her mom and her not quite two year old daughter - my sister - wasn't exactly fun. They left their home on January 31st, my grandma's birthday. No one was thinking of birthdays, however. Everybody had just one wish - get out of this hell into safety, whatever it takes. They took their horses and some wagons and off they went in a long trek of mainly women, children and old people. They spent the nights in old barns, sometimes getting something to eat from farmers along the way, sometimes not. Everything was wildly confusing and no one knew what was really happening. My mother didn't tell very much about those weeks in the trek until she reached Lower Saxony which was safe. But the few things she did tell me unveiled the horror of being displaced in terrible times.

She never forgot those times. They haunted her in her dreams and sleepless nights. For many many years she kept a packed bag in her closet, ready to go again if she had to. I remember that as a child I wanted to laugh about it, but somehow the laugh got stuck in my throat.

Our parents never made us forget that they were refugees and we were children of refugees.

That's why my heart breaks for the refugees trying to get into Europe right now.

Where Market Was Hold in the Olden Days

Chipping Campden is a very picturesque little medieval town in the heart of the Cotswold Hills in England. I first visited it back in 1974 when it was still more like a sleepy village out of a fairy tale. When I spent time here in the late 80's and early 90's it wasn't quite as sleepy anymore, but still rather quiet. Last year, however, it was a crowded tourist destination - but fortunately it still held its Old World charm.

The heart of Chipping Campden, right in the middle of High Street, is this old market hall. "Chipping" comes from the Old English for "market" or "market place" - so of course they have a market hall! Built in 1627 (so not quite that medieval!) in the typical honey colored limestone of the area, it stood in the town center mainly unused. This time, however, it was turned into some kind of market place again.

This, however, was the only change that I could notice, and I thought that it actually fit the location. I also imagined market people who yell and shout, offering their merchandise to the folks who would come into town on market day. I think it was quite lively back then. Not so much nowadays.

To my utter relief, the old floor was still the same rocky ground as centuries ago.

And so was the roof - don't you agree that it is lovely? Simple, but impressive.

It's a Dog's Gate

This gate in my neighborhood always brings a smile to my face. It's wacky, creative and definitely different. The top with the girl pushing the wheelbarrow is fun, but I really like the dog.

It's a guard dog, I assume, one of the really sweet kind.

Quite a lot of parts of this gate are made of recycled material - what a creative way to upcycle items! It might not necessarily be pretty in a conventional sense, but it's certainly unique. I rather have that in my neighborhood than uniformity.

It's definitely a "good fence" and therefore deserves to be linked up to Theresa's blog.

Bedouin Women

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom once again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this very bad photo of Bedouin women in the desert of the Sinai. I had wanted to write about these women for quite some time.

May 1996. I'm on my way from Cairo to Mount Sinai, crossing the desert of the Sinai peninsula. It is hot. The area we're driving through is bare - rocks, sand, some dried up grasses, and shades of beige and sienna with hints of red. The mountains are steep and not inviting at all. It is a merciless landscape.

In the distance we see goats and sheep and a handful of women wrapped in black shawls. When we come closer they  wave to us, with a friendly smile on their faces. We stop at the next turn and get out. Slowly the women approach us, a bit shy at first. Then they show their crooked teeth in a broad smile. Suddenly children join them, hiding behind their moms and peeking over to us - the rich tourists.

They invite us for tea. We are hesitant - is the water safe? They boil the water for a long time and brew strong, dark tea with a few leaves of peppermint inside and lots of sugar. I'm sure I couldn't drink it without the sugar, and I'm also sure that it will keep me awake all through the night. We sit on the dirt ground and the primitive mug of tea is given from hand to hand. Everybody takes a sip. This is not the time and place to be picky.

The women don't speak English, but there is someone who understands a bit of Arabic. They tell us that they are Bedouins, proud nomads who live in the desert. They live in tents with their children, sheep and goats - no no, the animals are not in the tents. They make their own jewelry and want to sell it to us. Where are the men? We don't see any. They wouldn't tell us.

The children are less shy by now and come over to us. We have a few sweets that we give them. They shout in excitement when they are allowed to look through the binoculars one of us carries around. First they hold them the wrong way. They laugh and giggle just like every child does. They touch our light skin, our clothes. And finally they see us get into our vehicles again because we need to go on. They wave when we leave.

They don't have a steady home. They own only a few clothes and some goats and sheep. Compared to our life they are poor - they don't have a house, a car, a TV; their kids don't go to school; their daily life and work is hard. And still there wasn't any resentment. On the contrary - they proudly invited us to share a cup of tea with them. There was such dignity. And I wonder - would we have been that friendly if we had met them in "our" world?

Yard Sale Finds

A few days ago there was a yard sale down the street, and I was surprised about the amount of treasures I found.

The first thing I had already seen from the street was the wooden tray. I had been looking for something like that for quite a while, and this tray was the reason why I stopped and took a look.

The red lantern was the next item I discovered - oh how beautiful! The little tea box I grabbed for Kaefer; I knew that she would like it (and she does).

But the bird cage was the thing that made my heart sing. I don't know for how long I had been looking for one. Not just a bird cage - I didn't want a new one or plastic one or one of those cheap ones that seem to pop up everywhere and really look cheap. In my mind I had pictured something like this, and I visualized it filled with flowers that would spill out.

Just like this.

Sometimes you actually find exactly what you were looking for. It's rare - but what a lucky day!

Did you find something recently that you had been looking for for quite some time?

Lighthouse Fence

For this week's Good Fences I'm going back to Oregon - to Cape Blanco. When we visited the lighthouse on a brilliant summer day I noticed the fence made of thick strong rope.

Let's have a closer look.

I do like this special kind of fence - it fits into the landscape and is a good companion to this beautiful lighthouse. With all the lichen on the rope it must have been here for some time - and it still looks sturdy and strong. But as you can see, there is also a "regular" fence that was quite pretty as well.

Along the coast you find lots of cow parsnip - no wonder it made its way into this photo!