Secrets, Tunes & Sunday Blooms

I am so fascinated by secrets. Up until a few years ago, when I had plenty more time to spare, I used play a little game to entertain myself while leisurely drinking my coffee in some corner café. I loved observing people, trying to imagine what dark secrets they might be hiding. Nowadays, due to lack of time, I check out PostSecrets every Sunday to feed my passsion for secrets. I have to admit some of them are quite creepy.

PostSecret

I am certainly not the best person to share a secret with. As soon as someone tells me some story and adds that line at the end "but it's a secret" I feel like screaming. That is precisely the wrong thing to say to someone like me, because it triggers a not-so-nice side of me that now just wants to share the damn secret with the whole world. If you want it to be secret then don't mention the "s" word. That's the only way to guarantee that your secret will be kept safe with me.

I wish I had a secret side just to add a "je ne sai quois" to my life, spicing it up with a touch of mystery. But no! I'm just plain boring because my life is an open book. You'll find everything there is to know about me in the first 5 minutes we meet, you'll probably get my life story, my infertility history and I will most certainly bore you with my tales of motherhood. However, today I do have a secret. And because I'll burst if I don't share it with someone, here it goes. My internet connection wasn't working this morning and I completely freaked out. (I immediately realised it was because I'd forgotten to pay my phone bill) So, I talked my guys into a trip to the mall. There I sent them to the arcade and went rushing to the FNAC, where I purchased a mobile ADSL USB stick (is that what they're called?), hid it in my purse and went rushing back to the guys, quite nonchalantly, hoping they hadn't picked up on anything. So there you go, that's probabaly the only secret in my life right now.

Leonard Cohen springs to mind when I think about secrets. "In My Secret Life" is without a doubt one of my all time favourite tunes. I get this funny feeling inside everytime I hear it and goosebumps all over. I just can't explain the reaction it provokes in me. I really wanted to post the original video, but embedding wasn't enabled. But follow this link to see it.

Repeatedly in Cohen's writings we find metaphors of a soldier fighting against the rival force. I think that's one of the features that draws me to him...the battle, the struggle, the fight!

Hold on, hold on, my brother
My sister, hold on tight.
I finally got my orders.
I'll be marching through the morning,
Marching through the night,
Moving cross the borders
Of My Secret Life.

And to finish off these Sunday musings, we were blessed with glorious spring weather this weekend. I spent the afternoon slaving away in my garden, while listening to Mr LC, and mowing the lawn. Every inch of my body is aching and I'll certainly need a long soak in a bubbly bath tonight. I leave you with some blooms from my garden and wish you a wonderful week.

Show & Tell

Today I've decided to show off my magnolias. This tree has an extra-special meaning for me. It was planted around the time I was doing IVF #3 that would lead to the birth of my little guy. We had just moved into the new house and I had my heart set on getting a magnolia tree. But everyone kept telling me how delicate they were and that it wasn't the best time of year for planting them. But turning a deaf ear to all the green-thumb counselling, I went ahead with the plan and came home one day with a wee plant, that I nourished and cared for. Around that same time, I also came home one day with a wee life form that had been planted inside my womb. Both have grown and blossomed into masterpieces that fill my life with beauty and love.

I'd like to offer each one of my blogger friends a (virtual) flower from my tree as a symbol of my appreciation for their patience during my disappearing acts. I feel like the prodigal daughter returning home. It was a difficult month and much has happened that caused me some grief, but I'll post about that at a later date. Thank you for still being out there.

To see what the rest of the class is showing and telling, check out Mel's Show & Tell.

PS: That creeping plant by the stairs is my beautiful jasmine, which has just started budding. In no time the beautiful scent will invade our house, followed by the wisteria, which is on the other side.

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Aos meus leitores portugueses,

Eis a minha magnólia que anuncia com as suas lindas flores a chegada da primavera. Esta árvore foi plantada durante a minha última FIV. Na mesma altura em que cheguei a casa com a árvore ainda bebé, uma outra vida era plantada no meu ventre. Ambas floresceram enchendo a minha vida de beleza, fazendo o meu coração transbordar de amor. A minha magnólia, que foi plantada fora de época, e o meu Zezé, que nasceu quando já não acreditava em milagres, são a prova viva de que a vida é sempre capaz de nos surpreender. Vai uma flor para cada uma de vós.

Wednesday Words

The Garden

I fell in love with this youtube video while searching for infertility material. Just like this man, my garden was my fertile world during my infertile days. I was so proud of every little bit of life in my garden, even each weed, making up for the life I coudn't produce inside my womb.

Friday Flower

The Snowdrop

Hans Christian Andersen

It was wintertime; the air was cold, the wind sharp, but indoors all was snug and well. Indoors lay the flower; it lay in its bulb, under earth and snow.
One day the rain fell; the drops trickled down through the snow blanket, down into the earth, and stirred against the bulb, telling it of the world of light up above. Soon a sunbeam, so slender and penetrating, bored through the snow, down to the bulb, and tapped on it.
"Come in," said the Flower.
"That I can't do," said the Sunbeam. "I'm not strong enough to open you up. I shall be very strong by summer."
"When will it be summer?" asked the Flower, and repeated this every time a new sunbeam came down to it. But summer was far off; snow remained on the earth, and ice formed on the water in the streams every blessed night.
"How long this lasts! How long this lasts!" said the Flower. "I feel a tingling and tickling. I must stretch myself; I must extend myself. I must open up; I must come out and wave good morning to the summer; that will be a wonderful time!"
And the Flower stretched itself and extended itself against the thin shell that had been softened by the rain water, warmed by the blanket of earth and snow, and tapped upon by the Sunbeam. It burst forth beneath the snow, with a white and green bud on its green stalk, with narrow, thick leaves, curled around it as if for protection. The snow was cold, but light radiated down into it, making it quite easy to break through; and here now the Sunbeam streamed down with greater strength than before.
"Welcome! Welcome!" sang and rang out every sunbeam as the Flower rose above the snow, out into the world of light. The Sunbeams caressed and kissed it, so that it opened itself fully, white as snow and adorned with green stripes. It bowed its head in happiness and humility.
"Beautiful flower!" sang the Sunbeams. "How fresh and pure you are! You are the first; you are the only one! You are our love! You ring out the call of summer, lovely summer, over town and country! All the snow shall melt, the cold winds be driven away! We shall reign! Everything shall grow green! And then you shall have company, the lilacs and laburnums and finally the roses. But you are the first, so tender and pure!"
This was a great delight to the Flower. It was as if the air itself were ringing and singing, as if the Sunbeams were all penetrating the leaves and stem of the Flower. There it stood, so fine and fragile, and yet so strong, in all its youthful beauty, in its white kirtle with the green bands, praising the summer. But summertime was far off; clouds shrouded the sun; sharp winds blew on the Flower.
"You have come a little too early!" said Wind and Weather. "We still have power, and this you shall feel and have to comply with! You should have remained indoors, instead of rushing out here to display your finery! It is not the time for that yet!"
It was bitingly cold, and the days that followed didn't bring a sunbeam. It was weather to freeze such a delicate little flower to bits. But there was more strength in it than even it realized. That strength was in its happy faith that summer must come, and this had been imparted by its own deep desire and confirmed by the warm sunlight. And so with patient hope it stood there in its white dress, in the white snow, bowing its head when the snowflakes fell thick and heavy or while the icy winds swept over it.
"You'll break!" they said. "Wither, freeze! What did you want out here? Why did you let yourself be enticed? The Sunbeam has hoaxed you! Now make the best of it, you snowdrop, summer fool!"
"Snowdrop, summer fool!" repeated the Flower there in the cold morning.
"Snowdrop!" rejoiced some children who came into the garden. "There stands one, so sweet, so beautiful-the first, the only one!
And these words made the Flower feel so well; they were like the warm Sunbeams. In its gladness it never noticed that it was being plucked. Then it lay in a child's hand, was kissed by a child's lips, brought into a warm room, gazed upon by kindly eyes, and set in water-so strengthening, so exhilarating. The Flower thought that it had all of a sudden come into midsummer.
The daughter of the house was a lovely little girl who had just been confirmed. And she had a dear boy friend; he also had been confirmed, and was studying to equip himself for earning a living. "He shall be my snowdrop!" she told herself. Then she took the lovely Flower and laid it on a scented piece of paper that had a verse written on it, a verse about the Flower, beginning with "snowdrop" and ending with "snowdrop." "Little sweetheart, be my snowdrop, my winter fool!"-thus she had playfully mocked him with the summer. Yes, that was written in the verses. And it was then folded up like a letter, with the Flower placed inside; it was dark in there where it lay, as dark as when it had been in the bulb. The Flower was sent on a journey; it lay in a mail sack, was pressed and squeezed, and that was not at all pleasant, but finally this came to an end.
When the journey was over, the letter was opened and read by her dear friend. He was so delighted that he kissed the Flower. And then it was locked up, with the poem around it, in a drawer where there lay many charming letters, though none had a flower in it. Here, too, it was the first, the only one, as the Sunbeams had called it, and that was pleasant to think about.
It had a long period of leisure in which to think about it; it thought while the summer passed, and the long winter passed, and then when it was summer again, it was brought forth from the drawer. But this time the young man was not at all happy. He seized up the letters very harshly, and flung away the poem, so that the Flower fell onto the floor. It had become flattened and withered, but that was no reason to throw it onto the floor, though it was better off lying there than in the fire, where poems and letters were blazing. What had happened? What so often happens. The Flower had mocked him, and that was a joke; the girl had mocked him, but that was no joke; she had chosen another boy friend this midsummer.
In the morning the sun shone in on the little flattened Snowdrop, which looked as if it were painted on the floor. The maid who swept the room picked it up and placed it in one of the books on the table, for she thought it had fallen out when she was clearing up and putting things in order. And so once again the Flower lay between verses, printed verses this time, which are grander than the written ones-at least they cost more.
Years passed, throughout which the book stood on its shelf. But now at last it was taken down, opened, and read. It was a good book-the songs and poems of the Danish poet, Ambrosius Stub, who is well worth your knowing. The man who was reading the book turned a page.
"Ah, here is a flower!" he said. "A snowdrop! It is with significance indeed that it lies here. Poor Ambrosius Stub! He was a snowdrop, too, a poet-snowdrop. He was before his time, and therefore he had to face sharp winds and sleet as he passed among the gentlemen of Funen; he was like a flower in a water glass, a flower in a valentine; a summer fool, winter fool, full of fun and drollery. And yet he was the first, the only youthfully fresh Danish poet. Yes, lie there as a marker in this book, little Snowdrop. You are laid here with meaning!"
And then the Snowdrop again was placed in the book, and felt both honored and delighted to know that it was a marker in the beautiful book of poetry, and that he who had first written and sung about the flower had also been a snowdrop and been mocked in the winter. Now the Flower understood this in its own way, just as we understand things in our way.
That is the fairy story of the Snowdrop.

Friday Flower

The daisy's name comes from the Anglo-Saxon "daes eage," or "day's eye," which refers to the way the flower opens and closes with the sun. The daisy is known as a symbol of childhood innocence and is said to originate from a Dryad who presided over forests, meadows, and pastures. Roman mythological legend tells us that the nymph Belides, as she danced with the other nymphs at the edge of the forest, caught the eye of Vertumnus, the god of the orchards. To escape his unwanted attention, she transformed herself into the flower bellis, which is the daisy's botanical name.

The message that daisies bring are of innocence, purity, and gentleness on behalf of both the giver and the receiver.

I'm completely distraught by some news I received today. A little boy from my son's school has been diagnosed with leukemia. The doctors here can no longer do anything for him, so the parents took him to the US, where an American clinic offered the only hope for survival. Money, of course, is the big issue, so we're all rolling up our sleeves and putting together a collection, with events and activities to raise enough money to keep the flame burning. Life can be a bitch. My heart goes out to these parents. I don't even want to imagine their pain.

My little boy is also coming down with something. He's got a runny nose and a slight fever. Nothing serious (knock on wood), but after hearing about this little boy that's enough to make a nervous wreck out of me.

Friday Flower

Blue Hydrangeas

Like the last green in the palette's colors

These leaves are without luster, rough and dry

Under umbeled flowers that were duller

But for a blue reflected from the sky

They mirror it, exhausted as with tears,

Vaguely, as if not wishing it to stay;

As old blue letter-paper which the years

Have touched with yellow, violet, and gray;

Washed-out like a child's apron, no more used-

Nothing else can happen to it now:

One feels how short the little life has been.

But suddenly the blue seems to renew

Itself in one last cluster-and see how

The pathetic blue rejoices in the green.

Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by C.F. MacIntyre

"Hydrangeas, we are expected to know, blossom in different colors, according to the chemical makeup of their soil. An acid soil, somewhat rare, produces blue or violet blooms, while a base soil gives rise to the more common pink varieties. Like many such flowers, they bloom in the late summer and fall, and although they go dormant and appear dead in the winter, they are perennials and develop fresh leaves in the spring. In addition, the blooms can either be sterile or fertile: the ones in Rilke's poem, described as forming an umbel, are most likely sterile; fertile blossoms are much smaller, less petal-like, and form a cluster rather than an umbel. Most importantly for Rilke is the process of colorization and aging in the hydrangea: the color, whether pink or blue, does not set in immediately: new blossoms are green, and the color gradually progresses from the outside edge. After a week or two, the color then fades to a washed-out gray, exactly as Rilke describes, and the green leaves of a new bloom are evident underneath the old. What we see in the poem, then, is this precise moment: the blue colorization has faded, and the flower appears to be dying; only on closer inspection can we peer between the dead leaves to see the new growth underneath."

Rilke's "Blaue Hortensie" -- Cycling into the Eternal

Friday Flower

Cheers, Carnations and Problems

One week after the army coup that ousted a dictatorship of almost half a century, Portugal was still in a festive, holiday mood, still celebrating the sudden, surprising gift of freedom. At Portela Airport outside Lisbon, nearly every plane brought in a new group of exiles, many of whom had not been home for years. Red carnations, the popular insignia of the April 25th revolution, sprouted from buttonholes and blouses everywhere.
Though the new ruling military junta had feared trouble on May Day, the day of traditional celebration of workers' solidarity passed without mishap. Car horns in the capital honked the happy rhythm of "Spín-Spín-Spínola" to honor the head of the junta, General António de Spínola, 64, and 200,000 people jammed a soccer stadium to hear speeches by leftist leaders newly returned from exile. THANK YOU, ARMED FORCES, read one banner paraded in the stadium. The only somber note was the continued hunt for members of the old regime's secret police, whose sadistic efficiency has now made them outlaws throughout the country.
Full Freedom. The first important exile to return was Socialist Mario Scares, 49, who had been jailed twelve times before being deported five years ago. Soares was met at Lisbon's Santa Apolonia Railroad Station by a throng of 7,000, a scene that some compared to Lenin's famous arrival at the Finland Station in 1917 after the fall of the Czar. The second prominent exile to come back was Communist Alvaro Cunhal, 59, who had been living in Eastern Europe for the past 14 years, after serving 13 years in Portuguese jails. Cunhal's presence was the most tangible sign so far that the junta is sincere when it promises full freedom of expression.
Soares and Cunhal met with Spinola —and both indicated that they expect their parties to be included in the provisional government Spinola will soon form to guide the country until national elections are held within the next year. "The Communist Party is ready to assume its responsibility in the present political structure," said Cunhal. "We must all remain united and work with the junta to consolidate the gains of April 25th," said Soares, who was enthusiastic after meeting Spínola. "What intellectual stature this man has," he said. "He accepted what was thrust upon him by the revolution, and he has done a great thing for his people."
In the months to come, Spínola may have to do even greater things if Portugal is to keep its new-found democracy. Even as the cheers echoed through Lisbon and the ubiquitous red carnations were still fresh, the dark outline of Portugal's multitudinous problems loomed behind the celebrations like a grim, surrealistic bas-relief.
Despite their protestations of solidarity, the Socialists and the Communists were jockeying for control of more leftists than anyone knew existed in Portugal. The middle-class center had yet to be heard from; it was apparently totally confused and alarmed by the most momentous week in the country's modern history. The right, represented by the storied families that own most of the land and run the economy, prudently sought a low profile.
"Our company is more than 100 years old, and we have worked under regimes different from the previous one," said Jorge de Mello, co-owner of the Companhia União Fabril conglomerate and Portugal's leading industrialist. "I am confident that we can meet the challenge of adapting to new conditions. After all, private businesses flourish under socialism in Scandinavia, Britain, and Holland, don't they?"
Under the dictatorship, the right had enjoyed such unique privileges as a law prohibiting strikes; as a result, Portuguese workers were the most poorly paid in Western Europe. How long businessmen would remain silent was still a question mark. "The families will fight like fury, like eunuchs in a seraglio, to retain their status," predicted Scares. "They will use all manner of economic and political sabotage."
The most immediate test for the Spinola regime will be whether it can unite the country behind a common policy toward its three African territories —Angola, Mozambique and Portuguese Guinea. All the factions of the left want an immediate settlement with native guerrillas, while the right, supported by many whites in Angola and Mozambique, wants the fight against the guer rillas to go on unabated. In the book that sparked the coup, Portugal and the Future, Spinola himself talked vaguely about a federation of the territories. For their part, rebel groups in all three places have vowed to continue the battle (see box).
When he took power in France in 1958, Charles de Gaulle faced problems with French Africa that were similar to what Spinola faces now. But De Gaulle at least had a democratic tradition and a certain amount of stability at home. Spinola has neither. What he does have is respect and affection from his countrymen—the depths of which he will soon measure.

Time, Monday May 13, 1974

Friday Flower

The Thistle’s Experiences
by Hans Christian Andersen

Belonging to the lordly manor-house was beautiful, well-kept garden, with rare trees and flowers; the guests of the proprietor declared their admiration of it; the people of the neighborhood, from town and country, came on Sundays and holidays, and asked permission to see the garden; indeed, whole schools used to pay visits to it.

Outside the garden, by the palings at the road-side, stood a great mighty Thistle, which spread out in many directions from the root, so that it might have been called a thistle bush. Nobody looked at it, except the old Ass which drew the milk-maid’s cart. This Ass used to stretch out his neck towards the Thistle, and say, “You are beautiful; I should like to eat you!” But his halter was not long enough to let him reach it and eat it.

There was great company at the manor-house—some very noble people from the capital; young pretty girls, and among them a young lady who came from a long distance. She had come from Scotland, and was of high birth, and was rich in land and in gold—a bride worth winning, said more than one of the young gentlemen; and their lady mothers said the same thing.

The young people amused themselves on the lawn, and played at ball; they wandered among the flowers, and each of the young girls broke off a flower, and fastened it in a young gentleman’s buttonhole. But the young Scotch lady looked round, for a long time, in an undecided way. None of the flowers seemed to suit her taste. Then her eye glanced across the paling—outside stood the great thistle bush, with the reddish-blue, sturdy flowers; she saw them, she smiled, and asked the son of the house to pluck one for her.

“It is the flower of Scotland,” she said. “It blooms in the scutcheon of my country. Give me yonder flower.”

And he brought the fairest blossom, and pricked his fingers as completely as if it had grown on the sharpest rose bush.

She placed the thistle-flower in the buttonhole of the young man, and he felt himself highly honored. Each of the other young gentlemen would willingly have given his own beautiful flower to have worn this one, presented by the fair hand of the Scottish maiden. And if the son of the house felt himself honored, what were the feelings of the Thistle bush? It seemed to him as if dew and sunshine were streaming through him.

“I am something more than I knew of,” said the Thistle to itself. “I suppose my right place is really inside the palings, and not outside. One is often strangely placed in this world; but now I have at least managed to get one of my people within the pale, and indeed into a buttonhole!”
The Thistle told this event to every blossom that unfolded itself, and not many days had gone by before the Thistle heard, not from men, not from the twittering of the birds, but from the air itself, which stores up the sounds, and carries them far around—out of the most retired walks of the garden, and out of the rooms of the house, in which doors and windows stood open, that the young gentleman who had received the thistle-flower from the hand of the fair Scottish maiden had also now received the heart and hand of the lady in question. They were a handsome pair—it was a good match.

“That match I made up!” said the Thistle; and he thought of the flower he had given for the buttonhole. Every flower that opened heard of this occurrence.

“I shall certainly be transplanted into the garden,” thought the Thistle, and perhaps put into a pot, which crowds one in. “That is said to be the greatest of all honors.”

And the Thistle pictured this to himself in such a lively manner, that at last he said, with full conviction, “I am to be transplanted into a pot.”

Then he promised every little thistle flower which unfolded itself that it also should be put into a pot, and perhaps into a buttonhole, the highest honor that could be attained. But not one of them was put into a pot, much less into a buttonhole. They drank in the sunlight and the air; lived on the sunlight by day, and on the dew by night; bloomed—were visited by bees and hornets, who looked after the honey, the dowry of the flower, and they took the honey, and left the flower where it was.

“The thievish rabble!” said the Thistle. “If I could only stab every one of them! But I cannot.”
The flowers hung their heads and faded; but after a time new ones came.

“You come in good time,” said the Thistle. “I am expecting every moment to get across the fence.”
A few innocent daisies, and a long thin dandelion, stood and listened in deep admiration, and believed everything they heard.

The old Ass of the milk-cart stood at the edge of the field-road, and glanced across at the blooming thistle bush; but his halter was too short, and he could not reach it.

And the Thistle thought so long of the thistle of Scotland, to whose family he said he belonged, that he fancied at last that he had come from Scotland, and that his parents had been put into the national escutcheon. That was a great thought; but, you see, a great thistle has a right to a great thought.

“One is often of so grand a family, that one may not know it,” said the Nettle, who grew close by. He had a kind of idea that he might be made into cambric if he were rightly treated.

And the summer went by, and the autumn went by. The leaves fell from the trees, and the few flowers left had deeper colors and less scent. The gardener’s boy sang in the garden, across the palings:

“Up the hill, down the dale we wend,That is life, from beginning to end.”
The young fir trees in the forest began to long for Christmas, but it was a long time to Christmas yet.

“Here I am standing yet!” said the Thistle. “It is as if nobody thought of me, and yet I managed the match. They were betrothed, and they have had their wedding; it is now a week ago. I won’t take a single step-because I can’t.”

A few more weeks went by. The Thistle stood there with his last single flower large and full. This flower had shot up from near the roots; the wind blew cold over it, and the colors vanished, and the flower grew in size, and looked like a silvered sunflower.

One day the young pair, now man and wife, came into the garden. They went along by the paling, and the young wife looked across it.

“There’s the great thistle still growing,” she said. “It has no flowers now.”

“Oh, yes, the ghost of the last one is there still,” said he. And he pointed to the silvery remains of the flower, which looked like a flower themselves.

“It is pretty, certainly,” she said. “Such an one must be carved on the frame of our picture.”

And the young man had to climb across the palings again, and to break off the calyx of the thistle. It pricked his fingers, but then he had called it a ghost. And this thistle-calyx came into the garden, and into the house, and into the drawing-room. There stood a picture—“Young Couple.” A thistle-flower was painted in the buttonhole of the bridegroom. They spoke about this, and also about the thistle-flower they brought, the last thistle-flower, now gleaming like silver, whose picture was carved on the frame.

And the breeze carried what was spoken away, far away.

“What one can experience!” said the Thistle Bush. “My first born was put into a buttonhole, and my youngest has been put in a frame. Where shall I go?”

And the Ass stood by the road-side, and looked across at the Thistle.

“Come to me, my nibble darling!” said he. “I can’t get across to you.”

But the Thistle did not answer. He became more and more thoughtful—kept on thinking and thinking till near Christmas, and then a flower of thought came forth.

“If the children are only good, the parents do not mind standing outside the garden pale.”
“That’s an honorable thought,” said the Sunbeam. “You shall also have a good place.”
“In a pot or in a frame?” asked the Thistle.
“In a story,” replied the Sunbeam.