The Tile of Dark Mourning

Prelude: Sometimes life falls from above like shards of a shattered sky light. Despite the edges that cut so deeply, light continues to travel through.  Before we can see the light anew, however, we first we must feel our pain.  Only then can we heal.

*******

She had lost three friends in one week.  Floating in grief, she was tethered only by the gravitational pull of her home.  Her house seemed to be moving, as if on an axis.  She did not know in which room to live.

The porch beckoned and on most mornings the sun lured her with warmth and peace but today the breeze blew her papers.  She scrambled to bundle them, almost crying.  Neighbors watched as she stooped and scooped the loose ends.   The piles grew but the order did not.

The kitchen tempted her with diversion.   What new flavors would settle on to her tongue?   The spice rack teamed with suggestions but quickly overwhelmed her with discordant chatter.   Too much noise.   Too many choices.  She spun away and climbed the stairs.

Climbing was good.   Her muscles worked.  Her head held still.  She felt progress as she approached the landing.  The bedroom waited.  However, its boredom did not refresh her.   It offered only supine luxury for which she was not in the mood.   She felt the house shift ever so slightly.  A fine line appeared.

The children’s rooms were quiet with empty beds and still toys.  They filled her with longing, more imagined than real.   The children would come again when they were ready.   Until then, the night light would set off the same constellation against the walls at dusk.

She had lost three friends in one week. Nothing was the same.  She slipped into the bathroom, a shower to renew and cleanse.  Predictably, she had to wait for the water to warm.  As she did, she tried not to look into the mirror.  The steam fogged her thoughts and saved her from seeing clearly.

Once dry, she felt better.  Her skin held her tightly together.  She descended to the living room and turned off the television.  The sudden silence threw her off balance, propelling her back into space.  She stood in the middle of the room for the living yet no one greeted her. There were no stars .  Then she heard a single quivering sound -another fine line etching its way along the wall? Or was that the sound of her soul teetering at the edge of the universe?    Then and only then, she cried .  The house stood still once more.

The Tile of the Happy Buddha

In Taiwan, they call a person with boundless positive energy and a constant smile, a “happy buddha.”   I have known only four or five “happy buddhas” in my lifetime.  When you meet one, you know immediately.

Recently, we traveled to Fushan Botanical Garden in Taiwan.  The trip from Taipei took us through Xueshan Tunnel (Snow Mountain tunnel).   It is an engineering wonder because it is 8.042 miles long, making it the second longest road tunnel in East Asia and the fifth longest road tunnel in the world.    The night before the trip, we had dinner with the former Taiwanese Minister of Transportation who told us the tale of building the tunnel.

Snow Mountain, Taiwan’s second highest mountain, soars 12,749 ft above sea level, cutting off the eastern section of the island from  Taipei County where most of Taiwan’s residents live.  The trip to circumvent the base would take 2 hours.   The tunnel reduces the drive to 30 minutes, so at the time the incentive to build it was high.  However, since Snow Mountain provides the city with a major supply of water, it has many underground springs and rivers.  While digging the tunnel, the workers hit several of these underground water sources.  The machine used to drill through the eight miles of rock was so heavy that if it stopped it would start to sink into the ground and was extremely difficult to move.   Therefore, it had to continue drilling around the clock.  The French started the project but soon became befuddled by it and it was eventually finished by an English firm.  At that time, Snow Mountain did not engender the proliferation of happy buddhas.

Our experience with the mountains would be different.  Upon emerging from the other side of the tunnel, we drove through a couple of small towns with neon pulsating arrows inviting passersby to stop into shops that lined the road.  These towns were emblazoned with banners for the upcoming elections- blue, green and red each for an opposing party.  The towns looked like Chinese dragons with banners flowing from every appendage.  Small trucks appeared and disappeared screaming political promises from loud speakers set at the highest possible volume.

Once past the towns, we began our ascent to Fushan Botanical Garden.  With time, the sharp edges and sounds of humanity were gradually replaced by long rivulets of lush green foliage that seemed to flow silently from the tops of ancient volcanic mountains.  These were the mountains of Chinese paintings, their deep ridges softened by mist and gently swaying bamboo and trees.  Our climb wound endlessly making sharp turns that seemed to double upon themselves.   It felt like we were attached to the ribbon of a kite- drifting upward and upward.

Just as we passed the sign that warned of monkey crossings and my stomach was about to lurch from the turns and altitude, we arrived.  It was quiet place, seemingly empty of visitors.  Only 300 people were permitted in the park per day.  These were easily accommodated by the 20 hectares open to the public.  We were greeted by a scientist who ushered us into the unheated visitor’s building that also housed his office.  There, he offered us tea, showed us an introductory movie, and then directed us to proceed to the botanical garden.  He spoke some English but there was mostly a great deal of bowing.

At the garden, we were met by our tour guide.   She was a short woman wrapped in layers of shirts and sweaters, topped with a grey traditional Chinese jacket.  She carried an umbrella. Since it was winter, the garden was not flowering but the 7,000 species of plants were green and lush and thriving in the pervasive mist of the rain forest.   She bowed several times and greeted us warmly in Chinese.  She did not speak any English.  Two in our small group were designated to be interpreters.

As we started down the path towards the aquatic garden, my eyes searched for the Formosan macaques (wild monkeys) and Formosan Reeve’s muntjac, (barking deer).  I was looking for the dynamic, the noisy, and the novel.   The botanist, however, would show us the little things, the quiet and the exotic.

The guide would stop frequently to uncover some hidden secret.  I learned that ferns have spores in every conceivable combination of locations- some spores run in a straight line down the spine of a frond, others were splayed out along the edges, others were absent from some fronds of the plant and coated the back of others like a fungus.  This garden had more varieties of ferns than can be found almost anywhere else on earth.  Our guide’s eyes grew wider and more jovial with every step.  She was full of delight as she gently turned over one leave after the other to discover a secret anew.

At one point, she paused and used the crook of her umbrella to lower a branch of a tree.   She pulled off a leaf and tore it in half.   She stuffed half into her mouth and the other half she gave to me.   She gestured for me to eat it.   It was a leaf that tasted exactly like cinnamon.   She loved sharing her world with us.   She would look deeply into my face and speak directly to me as if I understood.   Although, I could not make out a single word, I did come to understand.  I understood that we were in a pristine place and that these plants were sacred.  It was our privilege to walk among them and discover their wonders.

Finally, when the guide came to the Taiwanese water lilies she announced that she would sing for us.  We stood in the cold mist by the edge of a beautiful pond whose water was so clear that you could see the ducks as they dove and the stems of the plants as they swayed in the current.   Her voice was sweet and full.  The undulating tones of the music floated into the crisp clean air absorbed by the hush.  The notes did not pierce the quiet but mysteriously became a part of it.  Serenity was her accompaniment and her voice was fully embraced by the stillness.  It was a magical moment.   Her face was even more radiant than before, her outstretched arms and hands moved slowly and gracefully as she sang.  She was transformed.  I was standing before a “happy buddha”  taken in by her love of nature.  Simply by virtue of being and standing by this pond, I was a part of this garden.  I was a part of her song.

As we returned in the darkness, we passed once again through Xueshan Tunnel to emerge to the lights and traffic of Taipei.  During the 12 minutes I spent traveling inside the mountain, I thought about what I had experienced on the beautiful mountainside.  I thought about my rare encounter with a “happy buddha.”   This lovely woman enabled us to become one with beauty through her passion and appreciation of nature.

Sometimes we are privileged to become something better than ourselves through no deliberate intention on our part.  When this happens, it can be subtle and easily missed.  We must be opened to letting go of our single mindedness of purpose and our business.  I think there may be more “happy buddhas” in this world than we realize.  There may be more opportunities to rise above ourselves than we know.  If we are lucky enough to notice and embrace these opportunities, we are fortunate indeed and have received a true blessing.

The Tile of Belonging

Unexpectantly life can lift us up like a leaf on a sudden gust.   As we spin and float slowly back, we glimpse the mosaics of our lives anew from this angle and that.  With each turn, we recalibrate where we have been and where we are going.  To our amazement, we can notice tiles that we have never realized were there.   Where had that one come from?   How did this one get included in the mosaic?   When exactly had this one been put into place?

So it was for me this fall when a friend of my mother’s died.  Often when our parent’s friends die, we are sad from a distance.  The death does not reach in and twist our hearts.  Our sadness is almost cerebral.  It is someone else’s shortfall and our hearts fill with empathy and sympathy but not genuine loss.   This time, it was different.

Without my realizing it, Poppy had managed to lay a tile in the mosaic of my life.   I can’t tell you when exactly he put it there but from my vantage point, swirling in the updraft of his death, I could see it plainly- an unmistakable tile I had never seen before.

As with many of my tiles, the edges of this one are complex and uneven, not like those with neatly squared-off points.   I think this tile may have begun to take shape when I was very young.    At the end of WWII,  my Hungarian parents were uprooted and forced to find a new home.    They  walked across Hungary and Austria to avoid Russians  troops, and finally settled in Munich, Germany, where they attended medical school.   Once graduated, I was born and they wanted to find a new life.  At 29, they applied to become sponsored refugees to the United States.  I think their education and medical training are primary reasons they were selected.  My aunt and uncle were not so lucky.  With all the returning GI’s, America needed doctors.

I was just one and half then.  All our possessions fit into two wooden crates and these had been shipped ahead of us.  Other than that, my parents arrived in NYC with two suitcases and pockets bulging with dreams.  None of us spoke English, so we were set up in an apartment.    My father was sent to take English classes and my mother was granted her only request, a stroller so she could walk with me every where she needed to go.

With time, we were relocated to New Brunswick, NJ, where my mom stayed home with me and my father worked in a local hospital.   It was a German community, so mother and I had no need to learn English just yet.

Mother wrote to my grandmother every day about the skyscrapers of NYC and life in America.   She wondered why my grandmother never referred to these letters.   It turned out the letters, which were seen as American propaganda,  were being confiscated by Communist officials who had taken over Hungary.  Grandmother had never received even one.  For over a year, there had been only intermittent communications between my mother and my grandmother across the sea.

Consequently, the feeling of distance and isolation grew.   We had little money and no family here.  We knew no one else.  It was up to the three of us make a new life for ourselves.

Skipping ahead four years and through a move to Delaware, my parents divorced.  My mother found herself in medical residency at Wilmington Memorial Hospital while trying to raise me as a single mom.  In the 1950’s, there were few single mom’s, even fewer female physicians, and fewer still female physicians who were not native speakers of English.   Not everyone understood our circumstance, our accents, or my mother’s pierced ears.

Poppy was a colleague in the hospital.   He and his wife were transplants from New Foundland.  They knew what it was like to come to a new country, to start over, and build a life.   They took us into their hearts with the simple assumption that we belonged.   As naturally as the gradual rhythm of the seasons, we were drawn into each family event from births, to anniversaries, to graduations, to weddings.  There was always room for us at their table.  At last, I had an extended family where none could exist before.

With the years, our families grew and changed.   Poppy’s five children gradually became adults as did I.  When I married my high school sweet heart, Poppy was the photographer at our wedding.   His youngest daughter walked with me as my flower girl.

Thirty years later, for our son’s marriage, my mother’s only wish was to be able to dance at his wedding.   After having both her knees replaced, her dream came true as she waltzed with Poppy while all of us looked on-  a sight I will treasure for a lifetime.

As I settle from being stirred by Poppy’s death, I have come to value this “new” tile  more than ever.   Poppy, his wife, and family set the glaze, carefully placed, and permanently adhered a precious tile in the mosaic of my life.   They did so without fanfare or the need for recognition or thanks.  They filled the void so naturally I did not notice when it became an integral part of who I am.

As many do, I  longed to belong.  I felt different growing up in the ‘50’s without a dad.   This family let me know that I fit in.   They accepted my mom and me for who we were, in the condition in which we appeared.  They remained steadfast and never failing through a lifetime of changes.

The tile of belonging has been nestled among the other tiles of my life without attracting attention.  It took Poppy’s death to help me find and recognize it.  Even still it blends in, just as Poppy would have wanted it to, providing support that silently sets me free to float upon the currents of life knowing that I can always land among those I love.

The Tile of the Unexpected Impression

On a sunny warm morning in September, five of us stood with our backs to the water on the wooden deck overlooking the lake.    A soft reflection blinked intermittently through the slats.

We were full of anticipation as a young woman wearing slim blue jeans and a pale tank top walked toward us carrying a bouquet of white mums and roses – the only hint of a wedding.   A festive barrette held her dark hair off her delicate face.   She smiled.  Her gaze fixed on the reassuring and admiring eyes of the young man who was waiting for her.   We were all watching, but she saw only him.

Most weddings require months to prepare, this one had 48 hours.  The bride was visiting for a few short days.   She was deeply in love, the time seemed right, and suddenly we were planning a wedding.

There was no family nearby; just three of us to witness and a judge to preside.  With so little notice, there was no time to find a venue. We thought of my mother’s house sitting empty by the lake.  It was beautiful and available.   The cake was carefully selected from the racks at Super Fresh.  The lawn service was called and in haste had cleaned the wrong yard.   So we arrived early to sweep acorns from the landings.   I brought zinnias and sunflowers from my living room and we placed the cake, the flowers, and two gifts on a wrought iron table at the end of the deck.

The message was simple: remember to love always.   If you and your spouse need to compromise, do so happily and without reminder or grudge.   Always remember to love and be kind.   The judge’s voice wavered and tears filled his eyes.  He was thinking of another wedding in this same place.  His loving glance found my face and immediately, my tears followed his.

I was 22 and he was 25.  The organ played the Trumpet Voluntaire as I stepped into the sunlight on the lawn at this very house in my long white toile gown.   My mother was on one side and my uncle on the other.  Both are gone now.   I did not know my father then.  That would come many years later.

Three-hundred and fifty guests were seated on the grass.  They all turned to watch.   I saw only the boy of my dreams.   I did not think of us then as man and woman.   We were still a boy and a girl.   We had waited eight years to grow up, to finish school, and to get married.  We were overjoyed to be in this long-awaited moment.  We had written our vows and spoken them with trembling joyous voices through our tears.

Now 37 years later, we stood looking at each other again in this same place, under these same trees.  He stood before me in his black judicial robe with two other young people between us.   But in our minds we were once again bride and groom.   We looked into each others eyes and knew the love that would hold us together for the rest of our lives.  It was fresh, familiar, but suddenly overwhelming.

We composed ourselves with an apologetic laugh and the ceremony continued.  The judge did a wonderful job.   The bridge and groom hugged, smiled, and kissed.  The four of us applauded.   The soft movement of leaves, lapping water, and the song of a nearby blue jay provided the postlude.   We felt the presence of all who could not be with us.

After the ceremony, the bride told me the story that had spurred the suddenness of this event.  I listened intently. Years ago, she had observed the judge in the heaviest of moments with the gravity of crime and consequence surrounding him.  After the difficult deliberations were over, his wife unexpectedly arrived.  When she walked into the room, his face transformed and glowed with love and delight in seeing her.   The change in his spirit and look of love that swept over him greatly impressed the young law student.  At that moment, she thought how she wanted that same depth of love in her own marriage when the time came.   Now, the time had come and she could not think of a better person to officiate than the judge who was so in love with his wife those few years before.

In the time it took for the shafts of sun to sift through the leaves, a tile had been crafted and added to the mosaic of my life.  Although not entirely new, this additional tile had been modified to fit more securely within the design that had been emerging.

I had always known that each of us can make a significant difference in this world.   My mother had gifted me with that knowledge in my childhood through both her words and her example.  However, I had associated important influences with overt action.  On this day, I came to more fully understand that one can make a significant difference by being oneself.   Opening one’s heart can change a life.   My husband’s gentle loving look left an indelible impression.  I realized again, but in a new way, the importance of kindness, love, and sincerity.  The greatest of these is love.

The Tile of Youth

The end of the summer seemed cleaved in two.  One day the parking spots in our little seaside town were jammed and the next the streets yawned with space.    My life too had changed quickly.  It was time to return to campus.

Over forty students had entered the program and I was due back to advise several of them and meet the rest.   I always looked forward to this job, but this year the introductions seemed too early.  It was still August.    I wanted more time to keep my head in my writing and to play in the surf and feel the sun on my shoulders.

The new schedule was…new.   Some of the old stays, like me, were not yet used to it.  School always started after Labor Day.   But the students did not feel the difference.  This was Harvard and they were excited to get started.  The energy on campus was palpable.

I have never known exactly what to expect when I arrive in September.   I do take for granted that the students will be eager and smart; they always are.  Beyond that, the cohort dynamic is a surprise.   Every year, each group exhibits a distinctive strength and I happily anticipate its discovery.   This year, the group has energy, wit, and a playfulness that is genuine and creative (spoof on “shopping” of  courses ).   Like classes before them, they have a unique blend of intellectual curiosity and joy.

I returned to my seaside home, at the end of the week, because I am taking the semester off to write and to build a house.  However, in the few short days that I was with them, these students rustled my world.   I thank them for this and write in their honor….

Ode to Youth

The rustling of leaves                                                                                                    The energies increasing                                                                                              I begin to rustle too;                                                                                                    I can not help myself.

Branches, arms, and fingers                                                                                Play their tunes aloud,                                                                                           Each true unto itself                                                                                               The melody of species.

I feel  my own song stir.                                                                                              A smile creeping through,                                                                                          I look between the green                                                                                            To see the greenish blue.

I hear myself join in                                                                                                      To stir and feel and sing                                                                                               I sense my center growing                                                                                         The rest to quiver                                                                                                           Quake and move.

Then stillness falls;                                                                                                        The leaves are quiet.                                                                                                     Some continue to wave,                                                                                              But these are parting gestures                                                                                  For I am on my own.

No worries fill the noiseless space                                                                          I have heard my center’s call.                                                                                  The rustling has worked its charm                                                                          And youth is found once more.

The Tile of the Alternative Perspective

At a recent dinner party, I posed a question that I had heard one day on NPR.   “If you could do only one, would you rather be invisible or be able to fly?”   Almost everyone at the table wanted to fly.  Some had vivid dreams of flying and wanted to enjoy views from above.  Others were afraid of airplanes and longed to control their travel experiences.  Still others wanted to be instantly transported from one distant location to another.  Two of the group chose to be invisible.  I was one.  I selected invisibility so that I might be able to see life’s interactions in earnest without the influence of my presence.  When another person enters a scene, the prime experience is usually shifted and the chemistry altered.   I wanted to see life as others saw it and experienced it without me in it.

After everyone explained their choices, a flyer retorted, “I wouldn’t want to be invisible, because I might hear something unpleasant about myself.   That would make me very uncomfortable, perhaps for a lifetime.”  This resonated with all of us.  When it comes to hearing about ourselves, we  see through a glass darkly.  The filters are strong and the refractions often are at odd angles.  We can hear meaning where none was intended or attach so much significance to a comment to completely dash our spontaneity or dreams.   Our sense of self is always vulnerable.

I was once again  reminded of how true this can be during our recent visit to Qatar.   While attending the international Law Forum in Doha, we had the good fortune of hearing a former Minister of Oil from Saudi Arabia.  He was one of the last speakers on the last day of the conference. Although, the energy of the conference was subsiding,  a feeling of accomplished success prevailed.

On stage, the Minister sat deeply in an overstuffed armchair with his pristine white thobe and ghutra reflecting the glow of the lighting.  Behind him, projected as his backdrop, were the The Code of Hammurabi and the US Constitution, an amazing contrast of both visual form and deep heritage.  The Minister spoke with a beautiful metered cadence in perfect English.  As we listened, it became clear that his message was that there was little hope for reconciliation of differences over oil.   He explained that every time the US administration stresses the “Greening of America” it speaks against the region.   Every time the administration encourages the development of alternative energy sources, they are saying to the oil producing world “we want you to fail.”  There was sad resignation in his voice.  He continued to ask how can there be true friendship when one party has ill wishes for the other?

I had never heard those meanings in the phrase “wind power.”  I had never perceived any ill will in the pursuit of alternative energy.   The thoughts of being more “ecologically responsible,” carried only positive images of a world that supported life more generously and sustainably.   As he finished, I remained in place letting his perspective envelop me.   I was sitting right there in his region of the world.    I had seen the enormous gas flare that seemed to scorch the bottom our airplane  as it illuminated an oil field as big as an American city.   His interpretations were as real as the desert itself.

As I sat there transfixed, I realized that we hear through more channels than there are languages and dialects in this world.  Although each language uses a limited number of sounds to output thoughts to others, our sense of self and our experiences provide the filters to imprint unlimited reactions on our hearts and in our minds, sometimes indelibly.  This can be true within a family or across the globe.

Presently, we can not be invisible to truly know what another has seen and felt.  We can not fly above to see what has exactly has transpired.  We can only be mindful that a totally different perspective may and usually does exist and that it can be as relevant, significant, and real as our own.

The Tile of Life and Death

There was no time.  They lay on the concrete floor of the sun room waiting. Their heads down. The ceiling above them glass.   The bombs whistled.  The earth shook…

My father, so matter of fact,  recounted the tale about that day during WWII.    He and my mother caught in a strange town, in a strange house.   There was no time for safety.

He shared his experiences, his feelings, his history.  I listened between reading his poems on war.   He, a physician and a poet, told me the context after I read this one:

Silence
The sun porch was my shelter.
Bare walls and a glass ceiling
Shielded me and I believed.
The concrete was cold on my chest
As I lay there, looking up, waiting
For the glass to shatter under
the bombs. The concrete is
cold when your heart is racing
and your skin is trying to hide.
I took comfort and hoped in a split
Second warning before I died.

There was no warning, no death
Just thundering rumble of
Undulating air under waves
Of motors on wings. Devastation.
Then silence like before creation.
Silence.

(Joseph J. Kozma, Mathematics in Color, 2009).

As I type the lines, I hope you and I will never know that silence.   I hope you and I will never need to fear the atrium.   We can listen and imagine but the story is not ours.   Only father can tell it.  At last, he is home again.

The Tile of a Dream Come True

One of the most dreaded questions I had to answer, especially when I was a kid, was “Where is your father?”  The truth was, I did not know.     Upon hearing my response, my classmates would look at me incredulously.   In the 50’s, most kids had never heard of a family without a dad and they probed in fascination, “Why not?  Where did he go?  Why did he leave?” “Didn’t he love you?”  At six and seven-years-old, I didn’t have answers for those questions either.

I remember, the day he left.  It was a clear day, in the fall, I think.   He drove me to Kindergarten.  Before I went in, he looked at me and spoke into my eyes, “I may not see you again for a long time.”  “That’s OK, Daddy,” I replied.   He kissed me.    I stood and watched as slowly the car disappeared with him in it.  Although I was five, I knew that day was different.  I knew something important had just happened.  That was it, that simple, that complicated.

Perhaps, it was because of my age.  Perhaps, it was because of the literal experience of watching my father drive away as I stood at the door of my school.  Whatever it was, I never relinquished the dream that one day he would drive back into my life just as he had once left it.   I never let go of the hope that he might be thinking of me and missing me.   These thoughts lived in my heart for over 50 years …

Life without Father

I know he’s there, like the dolphin beneath the smooth black surface of the sea.

I wait for him to breathe, looking for the tell-tale mist that would give him away.

I am wondering what he is doing, why hasn’t he surfaced yet?

How far has he come?  Has he eaten well?   Does he travel alone?

I sit on the shore watching and waiting; pretending to see a shimmer, a break in the smoothness.

Each undulation suggests his pending presence only to shrink away empty.

The sunset turns the sea into cotton-candy pinks and blues.  The wind shifts, lifting the ends of my hair.  It is time to go.

Yet I stay.   My hopes play tricks and transform my senses.

Was that a shiny fin or just a reflection?

I question my soul and his direction.

Am I in the right place?

Should I come another day?

Am I wasting my time or will I be rewarded before the sun goes down?

The light is precious and is running low yet I wait and watch

My trust and childlike dreams keep me fastened here

I pretend he sees me silhouetted against the pale sand through the darkening sea.  I pretend he cares.

As the pinks turns to purple, I remain.  He’s out there, I known, just beneath the surface.

‘08

Last year, I found my father and eventually sent the poem to him.   Tomorrow, my dad will come.   We will sit on that same beach looking out over that same shimmering sea.  We will watch for dolphins together.   Although my questions linger and may never get answered, my dream no longer floats on the wind.    It is real.  It has come true.

The Tile of the Unopened Door

On an old street in Pes, Hungary, a mustard yellow wall stretched from one corner of the block to the other.  It was the wall of an old convent school, impermeable and austere, as strictly defined as the nuns themselves.    In its center, however, was a large weathered wooden door topped with an elaborate gothic style portico.  High above the portico was a statue of the Virgin Mary.   The other alcoves where once statues watched the young girls come and go were now vacant and hollow.

The wood of the old door was almost splintered from the years of sun and rain, the bottom more weathered from exposure than the top.    I had been in this exact spot before, 39 years ago,  with my mother and then fiancé.  I now returned with that same finance, turned beloved husband, my son and daughter-in-law and our little granddaughter.   Little had changed but all was different.

This door, comfortingly, was the same.  The strong wood had held over the years.  It was beautifully carved into eight panels, two of which displayed the ancient monogram, a symbol for Christ, IHS.  Above and attached to each H was a cross with rays emanating from it. Was this the very door my mother had used to enter the convent church and school each day as a young girl over 75 years ago?   The school was still in operation and I could almost hear the voices of the girls giggling as they ran and gathered at the start of each school day.   It was summer now so the voices had stilled and all lay quiet.  But, I felt my mother’s spirit here.   I could imagine her in her uniform and short cropped brown hair.  I could imagine her speaking in Hungarian with lively animated hands about some insect she had found, a book she had read or just the beauty of the day.

All my life, I had lived close to my mother.   For the last 37 years, we lived just one mile apart.   Every spring, my mother insisted that we drag two large potted Oleanders outdoors and every fall we hauled them back into the heated garage for the winter.   I never fully understood the obsession with these plants.  Each year they grew bigger and heavier and were more difficult to move.   Yet every year we continued the ritual.   Now before me, I could see two large potted Oleanders guarding either side of the door.   They looked just like mother’s.  As a matter of fact, I saw Oleanders everywhere throughout southern Hungary.   As I stood there, understanding tugged persistently at the edges of my memories.

We didn’t have much time on that visit to Pecs.  So I stayed for just a few moments in the doorway and ran my fingers over the door.   The wood was dry and old.   I didn’t know for sure if my mother had ever touched that door but I liked to think that she had.  I imagined her, a school girl, stretching for the high handle and pulling down on the lever to gain entry.   As my fingers traced the indentations of the carvings and felt the smooth patina of the brass handle, I was able to reach through time, going back to a period before I was born.   I was able to connect with the mother I never knew but had heard about so often from her very own lips.    I was able to connect with the 85 year-old mother I knew so well and feel the mirage of her touch.  Although the door remained solidly and firmly closed, for one brief moment it opened to a world long gone and renewed the visions that will live in my mind forever.

The Tile of the Camel

The thought of riding a camel in the dessert was exhilarating.    We set out early in a four-by-four and left the city of Doha.   The roads around the city were new and broad and the morning traffic was congested with small cars and trucks.  Doha is built around a series of ring roads and the rotaries are a festival of vehicles weaving colors around a May Pole.  For better or for worse, our group was typically provided with a police escort with swirling red lights which wreaked havoc and backed up traffic in all directions around each of the rotaries.  On this day, however, only six of us had ventured out to see the dessert so we blended in and our car slipped in and out of the traffic like a local.

As we traveled, the road narrowed, the rotaries disappeared, and buildings became fewer, opening to expanses of dusty beige land that I knew was what Doha looked like beneath its construction.  Several miles out of the city, we passed a major building project where an entire new community was being created in what currently looked like the wilderness.  A long continuous caravan of trucks loaded with building materials entered the compound while an equal caravan was exiting heaped with dirt.   Both lines of trucks kicked up dust to the point that the air was gritty and beige.  One wondered how anyone could work in the heat and the dust.

A mile or two past this bustling effort, I saw the first of many free-roaming camels eating dry short stubble sticking out of lifeless earth.    One had to look hard because despite his size, the camel blended into the surroundings like a white hare in the snow, but in this case a beige hump in the sand.  As the landscape continued to empty, we saw several camels on either side of the road roaming and eating invisible vegetation.   I could barely imagine my bucolic life with green grass and black and white cows grazing on the side of country roads.   What a contrast!

With time, the earth became less compact and sand began to swirl.   The wind picked up and blew the sand over half of each lane, bestowing the white stripe with more significance than is customary.  Intermittently, we had to use our windshield wipers to be able to see.  Then suddenly the road ended.   There was nothing but sand and dunes before us.  The driver did not slow but continued as if driving through parted seas.  Very soon on the right, we saw a large water truck, a huge canvas stretched between wooden poles constructing a makeshift tent, and three camels with men looking like Bedouins. Yes, this was a tourist attraction of sorts, but one knew for sure that no tour buses came here.

The camels were resting with their long legs folded mysteriously beneath them.   Two had crocheted multi-colored muzzles.    It looked like colorful prayer caps had slipped down to cover their mouths.   They appeared to be peaceful, if not bored.  We were quickly told who was to ride which camel.   The camel assigned to me had no muzzle.   I took that to be a good sign; I preferred to assume that I had the camel with a good disposition.

Getting up on a camel requires a tight hold.  My camel was docile and sat quietly while I scrambled up behind his hump.   The saddle had rather large wooden handles that made mounting much easier.  It also gave you something to hold on to when the camel stood.   Camels stand by unfolding their hind legs first.   That throws the rider forward with a jerk and then almost in the same motion they unfold their front legs whipping the rider back again.   One had better hold on.   Once erect, the ride is very smooth.  The camel takes most of the brunt of the journey.

What amazed me most while riding was the camel’s feet.   My previous experience with large riding-animals was limited to horses.   In looking down the leg of a horse, one sees a hoof.   It is hard, clearly defined, and unyielding.   It strikes the ground with both noise and imprint.   In looking down the leg of a camel, one sees a totally different phenomenon.

The camel’s foot is unique.  It is soft and very wide, a malleable divided pad.   While elastic, it is simultaneously tough and impermeable, formed from keratin on the bottom and covered with golden fur on top.   It amazed me to watch as the camel’s foot gave and conformed to the sand beneath it.  I wanted to reach down and touch it.  I appreciated the assurance that it could traverse even the deepest sand and would not sink.  It would conform, yield, and work with its environment, all while attaining its goal of transport.  This experience of being dependent on an unmuzzled even-toed ungulate in the dessert made me think of my own footing.   Do I strike the ground as I carry my load making noise and leaving imprints behind me or do I work with my environment gently, quietly, and with accommodation?

We did not walk far or long.   The ride was just that – a ride.  When we returned, the camel stopped and dropped rather suddenly to fold his front legs beneath him, throwing me forward.  Then he folded his back legs, righting me again, and settled into his resting position.  I climbed down with new respect.

As I left, I continued to think about the camel.   The uneducated eye can not tell where a camel has walked.  The footprints look like natural undulations in the sand.   How do I traverse this earth?   What marks are left behind as a residual of my having passed by as I attain my goals?  The camel made me think about this.  It offered yet one more tile to my mosaic of life.