View allAll Photos Tagged Unshakeable
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
(My 166th Flickr Explore!)
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN®
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2025 IMRAN®
Pulsatilla grandis goes like:
Frost? I don't care..
Wind? Hah, whatever..
A photographer? Stay sharp & steady!
Shot on Helios 44-2 manual lens (wide open)
No filter, no effect.
Bound by Chains,
Boundless Resilience,
Weathering the Ocean of Pain...
" In the darkest night, we find the strength to bear the unbearable. Love stays strong, even when I've hurt you the most, because I love you more than anything. You always make our bond stronger than before.. 💕"
Scarlett & Zeboran 💞
ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ
. . . Femdom Tale . . .
Chapter: His Thoughts on Weakness, His Endurance Amidst Oppression
Being sensitive doesn't mean you're weak, it just means you're human. Your lack of sensitivity doesn't necessarily make you stronger.
We all have layers to us, different facets to our personalities. If my heart wasn't resilient and really strong, I wouldn't have endured this ocean of pain alongside you for so long. I even considered leaving from the start.
One life, one love, a promise I hold dear, to spend it by your side, with nothing left to fear. I lay bare my soul before you, knowing full well my flaws and shortcomings. I may not be perfect, and I acknowledge that openly. There have been times when my actions faltered, moments of weakness that clouded my judgment.
Yet, if you were to turn and truly see, you would understand the depths of my devotion.
You are the cornerstone of my existence, not merely a solace in times of struggle, but the very essence of challenge and growth in my life.
I don't offer you just my heart to nurture and protect, but my entire being, my whole self surrendered to your mercy.
Please, don't see my sensitivity and vulnerability as a bother. It's just part of what makes us us, a connection deeper than words.
I want nothing more than to spend my life with you, facing everything together, our love unshakeable.
Always yours.
ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ.-:**★**:-.ღ
Dress: [Enchantress] June Dress Lace
Interestingly, this is *not* a long exposure.
1/2000, f/5.6, Portra 400, Vivitar 70-150mm f/3.8 CF @ 85mm on F-1
"Lord Jesus Christ, your death brought life and hope where there was once only despair and defeat. Give me the unshakeable hope of everlasting life, the inexpressible joy of knowing your unfailing love, and the unquestioning faith and zeal in doing the will of the Father in heaven."
Copyright© 2010 Kamoteus/RonMiguel RN
This image is protected under the United States and International Copyright laws and may not be downloaded, reproduced, copied, transmitted or manipulated without written permission.
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury,
is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,
Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places
on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester
to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his
bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
I present you my ship for this year
THE UNSHAKEABLE
It is a heavy anti-blockade cruiser, with two gauss cannons and one plasma cannon, equipped with 27 defense turrets, with a fleet of 8 fighters and 2 interceptors on board.
Very good ship in fleet for protect planet or ship escape if the battle turn bad.
length : 112 studs
Parts : 3660 approximatly
Your comments are welcome.
Thanks if you like my work.
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury, is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school, Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
If I could give you one key, and one key only to more abundant life, I would give you a sense of your own worth, an unshakeable sense of your own dignity as one grounded in the source of the cosmic dance, as one who plays a unique part in the unfolding of the story of the world...
Greta Crosby
tones: Pioneer Woman actions and Bärbel's PS/PSE actions
texture: SkeletalMess
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
A baby chacma baboon holding onto its mother and looking at me with what I think may be regarded as suspicion or apprehension. Photographed in the Kruger National Park.
Member of the Flickr Bird Brigade
Activists for birds and wildlife
©Gerda van Schalkwyk. All rights reserved. This photograph and all others on my photostream are protected by copyright and may not be used on any site, blog or forum, nor linked to without my written permission.
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SPAM: I have reported the ads posted as comments (see below) to Flickr and will keep this "comment" on my page as evidence. Please report spam so we can root out this abuse.
I like to think that if you can find yourself so completely naked and exposed to another being yet feel completely safe, accepted, and loved as you are then you've found something priceless. When it comes to that bond, its as close to perfect as can be. There is an absolute trust; unshakeable and powerful yet so pure and beautiful. This is your safe place; a place you can truly be yourself where your souls speak and no words are needed.
~Cormack Owle-Mysterious~
A special thank you to Vin for joining me in this photo and being the most amazing person and influence in my life for nearly 19 years.
You are the one person I absolutely trust with my true, authentic self. ♥
Please be sure to check out Vin's phenomenal photography in People in Photo!
To have someone openly admit it, that they took pleasure in causing you such pain - that stays in your heart for too long. Like its unshakeable, I try, I do try....
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
It is the annual open air Christmas service in Turtle Crossing Park. Pastor Charles Calvin has delivered the opening message* and now there is a time of fellowship.
Marie and Agatha, both newly arrived in Paprihaven, have been speaking with Kabai Singh, a long-time resident as Pastor Calvin greets them.
Pastor Calvin: It is a blessing to meet you ladies. I've known Kabai for many years now from his Tomper days. What do you seek in Paprihaven?
Marie: I came on a mission** but now that I'm here, I see many opportunities for happiness. Where I came from was a big war and there is war here. But I see many people with new opportunities. So, I seek to be happy, ñ'est-ce pas?
Pastor Calvin: Happiness can be good, Mademoiselle, and it has a significant place, but I'd rather you have joy.
Marie: Joy... happiness... La différence?
Pastor Calvin: Happiness is rooted in a sense of our circumstances. It comes and goes depending on whether the sun is shining, or our team wins... if things go as we desire, we are happy. Otherwise, not so much.
God distinguishes joy as independent of the events of this life because, rather than your hope being placed in the temporary, always changing, usually deteriorating aspects of this world, your hope is placed in Him.
Paul, an Apostle of Christ, wrote, "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice!" *** It is in the Lord that we rejoice, not in our circumstances and this is remarkably evident here because Paul wrote these words from the worst of Caesar's dungeons under threat of execution.
The Christmas gift is that when a man or woman repents and turns to the Lord Jesus Christ in belief, God gives that person Himself. Not some temporary pleasure or happiness, but Himself. And then, when we have been given that new understanding by God, of God, to God, our source of joy is unshakeable. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. " **** And that sameness is His goodness, His purity, His faithful love to His saved, every good thing. Christ Jesus "is Light, and in Him there is no darkness at all." *****
Marie: Mm, I can see. A joy that cannot be taken away, ñ'est-ce pas?
Pastor Calvin: Just so, because our hope is fixed on Him. "Whom having not seen, you love; in Whom, though now you see Him not, yet believing, you rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory: Receiving the end of your faith, even the salvation of your souls." ****** A joy unspeakable. That is, a joy that our language is too limited to encompass. We can experience it, but not adequately explain it. So, rather than trying, I always exhort all to actually experience it themselves. Repent, believe upon Christ for forgiveness, for change, and you will receive this joy.
________________________
** As seen in issue 1069:
[https://www.flickr.com/photos/paprihaven/26360977982/]
*** Philippians 4:4
**** Hebrews 13:8
***** 1 John 1:5
****** 1 Peter 1:8-9
peggys cove [nova scotia]: lighthouse(s) galore
heading south out of halifax we passed peggys cove which seems to be one of the most visited tourist attractions in nova scotia. i guess that makes the lighthouse there one of the most photographed worldwide. the first of about twenty lighthouses we saw on our route.
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Irises & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes, magical stargazer lilies, and exotic irises were in full, glorious bloom at my blessed home on Long Island, New York. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
"Lord Jesus Christ, your death brought life and hope where there was once only despair and defeat. Give me the unshakeable hope of everlasting life, the inexpressible joy of knowing your unfailing love, and the unquestioning faith and obedience in doing the will of our Father in heaven."
"Make a joyful noise to God, all the earth;
sing the glory of his name; give to him glorious praise! " -Psalm 66:1-2
Copyright© 2010 Kamoteus/RonMiguel RN
This image is protected under the United States and International Copyright laws and may not be downloaded, reproduced, copied, transmitted or manipulated without written permission.
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
The rock stands firm regardless of what gets thrown at it! Reliable and unshakeable!
Every wave was full of seaweed.
There is some sky there but colourless!
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury,
is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,
Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places
on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester
to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his
bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
Every time I take a breath it hits me again
I begin to feel pleasure and it brings pain
The world wants to move me but I stand strong
I know what I believe, I know it's not wrong
I follow an unshakeable lord, he is not the norm
My belief cannot be broken so bring on the storm!
ODC: WATER
Shot taken for Saturday Self Challenge 17/06/2023 ----------
Music !!
Well I started off with grand ideas of poking the camera at/into a piano shop ( some costing 50 - 60 thousand pounds ) and then the same with a branch of Guitar Guitar - but to get any sort of shot ( especially the guitar shop that has literally hundreds of guitars on the walls ) I would have needed to go inside and that would make me somewhat obvious !!
Rock music goes down a treat but I cannot play a note , so no musical instruments here .
Therefore , it has to be how I listen to the music - and in the car these days it is the " infotainment " module . It displays car functions , telephone doings ( don't do that - no one ever calls ) , car settings , maps and sat-nav ( don't do that either , I end up disobeying the thing 'cos I do not want to go the way it tells me ) and of course the radio - only have it tuned to Planet Rock or the BBC Local Radio . And then there is the USB player where all the music and of my choice can be found !! Strange though , the volume seems to go up double when rock music is selected .
In this instance we are listening to " When The Wild Wind Blows " by Iron Maiden .
When the Wind Blows is a 1982 graphic novel, created by British artist Raymond Briggs ( author of The Snowman ) commonly known for its critiques against government issued preparations for nuclear war. Utilizing a cartoonish design, this graphic novel follows retired couple, Jim and Hilda Bloggs, and their journey through surviving a nuclear attack on Britain launched by the Soviet Union. The novel was later adapted for different entertainment types including an animated film, talk-show radio segment, and stage play.
The book follows the story of the Bloggs, a couple previously seen in the book Gentleman Jim. One afternoon, the couple hears a message on the radio about an "outbreak of hostilities" in three days time. Jim immediately starts construction of a fallout shelter (in accordance with a government-issued Protect and Survive brochure, which he has collected from a public library), while the two reminisce about the Second World War. Their reminiscences are used both for comic effect and to show how the geopolitical situation has changed, but also how nostalgia has blotted out the horrors of war. A constant theme is Jim's optimistic outlook and his unshakeable belief that the government knows what is best and has the situation under full control, coupled with Hilda's attempts to carry on life as normal.
The Iron Maiden song "When the Wild Wind Blows" from their 2010 album The Final Frontier is loosely based on the graphic novel. In the song, however, the couple commit suicide thinking the tremors shaking up their hideout is the nuclear Doomsday they had been expecting. They are found like this by a rescue team going through the ruins after what was 'merely' a strong earthquake, on "just another day the wild wind blows".
Now have a listen --------------
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
Make choices that make people wonder if you've lost your mind. Fly off the handle. Learn to be alone, but learn to be with others too.
Smile when you're sad, just to confuse those who are trying to bring you down. Live a good life. Be kind when you can and understanding when you can't. Be irreplaceable, undefeatable, incorrigible. Do all of the small things with grace, laughter, and an unshakeable belief in what's to come. You're electric, never-ceasing. You'll be fine."
by Who knows…
Chiavari ( Genova) Liguria
Buona giornata
mi chiedi quali forze mi sostenessero durante i miei lunghi digiuni? Ebbene furono la mia incrollabile fede in Dio , il mio stile di vita semplice, e l ' Aloe , di cui scoprii i. benefici alla fine del XIX secolo al mio arrivo in Sud Africa ( M. Gandhi )
Alloeh = sostanza amara splendente
viene definita la pianta dell' 'immortalità.
Questo non lo sapevo , però ho il balcone pieno di piante di aloe! Volevo usarla come medicamento , ma finora non l ' ho mai fatto
do you ask me which forces supported me during my long fasts? Well, they were my unshakeable faith, my simple lifestyle, and the Aloe, whose benefits I discovered at the end of the XIX century, when I arrived in South Africa
Alloeh= bitter bright essence / they call it the plant of immortality
I didn't know this , but my balcony is plenty of aloe vera plants !
I had a premonition. Whenever I thought about our upcoming riverboat cruise on the Blue Danube two images came to mind: Bratislava and my father-in-law John suffering a heart attack while we were there.
12 April, Friday 2013
We set sail from Vienna at midnight and arrive in Bratislava at six in the morning.
7:00 a.m.
I am the first to leave our cabin on the ship and when I see that John's door is open and his clothes are on the floor by the bathroom I am alarmed and alert Chris who is not far behind me. But, I carry on to the lounge to finish writing post cards - there are only two days left on the cruise - we are due to return from Budapest, Hungary after breakfast on Sunday morning. The end of an eight day trip.
When I am done I climb downstairs to the dining lounge to look for Chris and John. After I walk around the entire room I joke to the last couple seated by the door that it is not like my husband and father-in-law to skip a meal.
The first thing I see is John's empty bed and when I realize that he has lost control of his bodily functions I know this is serious. John, who is wearing white boxer shorts and a white tee-shirt, is sitting in a chair by the bed and Chris is standing by. Chris tells me that his father has had a really bad night and that he needs to go to the hospital. The staff has been alerted and the paramedics are on their way.
John is sweating profusely and struggling to breathe,. He remembers me opening the window. I move to his side and ask him if this is all right. “Yes,” he says, “I’m dying.” Doctor’s have a name for this conviction: Angor animi, Latin for ‘anguish of the soul’. According to Dr. Gavin Francis, “as a sensation it carries great predictive power”. In the emergency room a patient’s belief that they are about to die is taken seriously.
I place my right hand on the nape of his neck and my left hand on his forehead while I assess the situation. John is drenched in sweat. I race to the bathroom sink and wet two wash cloths and place one behind his neck and he takes the other to wipe his face and head. Then he returns to bed, which is one step away, but he does not slide down far enough and his head is in an awkward position.
Most people know not to lay someone with breathing problems flat and John is struggling. I show Chris, who is about to pull his father forward, how to reposition John by reaching under his armpit and grasping his back. This works and together we are able to move his upper body forward. I place a pillow so that John is able to sit up.
Again I place my right hand on the nape of his neck and my left hand on his forehead. “I'm dying," he repeats "No you're not," I say this as though it is a ridiculous thing to do. I'm thinking, we’re on a cruise! John says that he can’t breathe and that he has water on the lungs. We can hear what doctors call the death rattle, when saliva accumulates in the throat.
I am loathe to tell my father-in-law what to do and when he mentions that he quit taking his diuretic as prescribed I do not say a word. But, now I remind him, “Once you receive your medication you will feel all right again”. I say this reassuringly.
I encourage Chris to make John’s bag of prescription drugs available - the doctors will want to know the names and the dosages. I grab fresh towels from the cart in the hall and cover John and the bed.
The Prestige is due to set sail at noon and I know it is going to leave without us so I suggest we start packing. First I send Chris across the hall to our room. I watch through the open door as our things are hastily thrown together. I call him back and suggest he pack for John - that way he can stay by his father’s side.
We are all set to go when the paramedics arrive with Peter, the twenty-five year old Slovakian waiter from the dining room who serves as our translator. As the paramedics work their magic I move partially onto the bed, close to John’s right ear, and explain what is happening. “There are three paramedics here and a doctor,” I tell him. This turned out not to be completely true - there was no doctor. John opens his eyes for a moment and smiles. "Good" he says. "I like a lot of attention." This is true.
Chris later told me that when he first saw his father John was seated on the toilet. He told Chris that he needed a minute - he had a bad night - and he said that he needed to go to Stanford Hospital right away.
Chris told a cleaning staff member who was in the hallway that his father needed a medical doctor. Wesley, the activities coordinator, came and told Chris that there was not a doctor available who could come to the ship, he had two choices. John could have an appointment with the doctor at 11 a.m. or he could go to the emergency room. Chris asked Wesley to call for an ambulance - John needed to go to the emergency room.
By this time John had made his way to the chair where Chris had placed a towel. He told Chris that he thought he had died last night. He woke up sweating, he could not urinate, he was in pain and he had difficulty walking and breathing. He said he was very uncomfortable and he just wanted to die.
John leaves the ship in a sling chair, as he is being wheeled through the lobby Artur, (this is not a typo) the Portuguese manager, tells me not to worry about the cost - Viking will take care of it. “Keep on thinking positive,” he says, “and everything it will be okay.”
7:54 a.m.
Two ambulances - sirens wailing - John and Peter in one, and Chris and I in another arrive at the University Hospital Old Town (Univerzitná Nemonica Staré Mesto). We are in the medieval center of Bratislava.
8:18 a.m.
After a brief stay in the emergency room John is wheeled to the coronary care unit (Interná Klinika Koronárna Jednotka). As he is about to enter the elevator he turns to Chris and says, "Remember what I said earlier about wanting to die, well I changed my mind."
10:17 a.m.
Dr. Papinčák, who is studiously calm and attentive, does not take his eyes off me as he speaks, his gaze is piercing. He informs me that John may be able to fly home on Monday with a medical assistant. He is concerned about the high altitude. John suffers from congestive heart failure (CHF).
“One of the most important problems for travelers with congestive heart failure is altitude... All patients should be able to walk 100 yards and climb 12 steps if they are to attempt a long plane flight. Heart failure patients may also be particularly susceptible to the symptoms of altitude sickness, which may include shortness of breath and profound fatigue. In general, patients with congestive heart failure should avoid traveling to locations at high altitudes.” - Internet Scientific Publications. The Internet Journal of Health ISSN: 1528-8315 Travel Concerns For Congestive Heart Failure (CHF) Patients.
10:30 a.m.
Chris uses the hospital’s computer to email his sisters. Typists beware, the z and the y are reversed and the apostrophe and the @ symbol are no where to be found.
“Dad maz have had a heart attack last night. He is okaz now, in the hospital... if it will help with medical evacuation.... I would like to get him to Stanford... I think he had a heart attack in his sleep earlz this morning. It is fridaz at ten thirtz here and I§m using the computer at the hospital. I will also trz to make phone calls and e=mail, but communications are difficult right now.” - Chris’ email
11:00 a.m.
While Chris is typing Dr. Papinčák comes out to the hall to tell me that John is asleep. As we leave the hospital with our bags a grounds worker Feró, points us in the direction of the Hotel Saffron. This four star hotel is located just around the corner from the hospital and the Staré Město (Old Town) is a fifteen minute walk in the other direction. There are shops, markets, ATM’s, restaurants and cafe’s in between. Everything is within walking distance.
At this point we feel tremendous gratitude. First of all, we are grateful that we are docked when the heart attack happens, secondly that the paramedics respond quickly, and thirdly that Chris has family to help with the logistics. And, we feel grateful to be in a position where we are able to stay in Bratislava for as long as it takes for John to recover and deemed fit to fly. We see nothing but the positives and we are excited. Exploring medieval Bratislava will serve as a good distraction and our eight day trip has turned into an indefinite adventure - my favorite kind.
2:45 p.m.
I skip lunch but as Chris orders the Pakistani behind the counter seriously wonders, “What are you doing in Bratislava?”
3:30 p.m.
Back at the hospital I monitor the activity in the hallway while I give Chris and John time alone. If there are any last words that need to be spoken now is the time.
4:15 p.m.
Despite the double expressos and the warm overcast spring afternoon (good for photography) once we settle into our room we are unable to leave the hotel. For the first time ever we decide to settle in early.
While Chris figures out how to call his sister using FaceTime I watch racy and fast paced MTV videos on the television. When the rain starts to fall softly I soak in a hot bath. Our large window opens wide - we do not realize that we are facing southwest until the moon sets. It does not get dark until 9:30 p.m.
13 April, Saturday
The big questions are; how much damage was caused to John’s already congested heart, what are John’s chances of recovering from pneumonia, which we just learn he has, and when is he going to be well enough to travel home? There are no immediate answers forthcoming as the doctors need information on John’s previous condition.
While Chris sits with his father I visit an ancient who is laying in the bed closest to the door. I am pleased to learn that she speaks German, all the older people do she tells me - that was until the communists came to rule in 1945 and stayed until 1989 - now that generation speaks Russian as a second language. This woman, who has two sons, tells me that she has an uncle and relatives who live in “cosmopolitan” Canada, Toronto.
14 April, Sunday
We learn that ejection fraction measures how much volume the heart pumps with each beat, 55% to 6o% is considered normal and 20% is too low. John’s ejection fraction in his left ventricle, is 20-25% , it was 35%. C-reactive protein (CRP) is a blood protein that indicates inflammation of the arteries. Levels rise in response to inflammation. You are at high risk for heart disease if your CRP level is higher than 3.0 mg/L. John’s levels reach 140mg/L. And, his leucocyte levels, which measures the number of white blood cells and indicates infection, are high.
I have a private talk with Dr. Kašperová. I would like to know what are John’s chances of survival. She tells me that culture is growing in lab - soon they will know specific antibiotic to give him. The doctor thinks a two week stay is optimistic. What is most essential at this point besides hydration is for John to be optimistic. She believes his survival depends on this.
Today John is NOT feeling optimistic, he wants out by weeks end. He does not know that he is looking at a two week minimum stay and we are not going to tell him. And, he is concerned that he has no appetite. This does not bode well for John. “Your body is trying to heal,” I tell him. This is what I told my friend Carol when she expressed the same concern a week before she died of congestive heart failure on 23 May 2012. But, we just brought him hot soup and he is eating after two days of no food. It is not until later that we learn restaurant soup is verboten - too much salt.
Today is my mother’s 79th birthday. It does not occur to me until now that I can send her emails using Chris’ iPhone. I write: Father-in-law John had a heart attack on Friday and he is in the hospital in Bratislava. We will stay in Slovakia until John is well enough to travel. In hindsight, emailing my mother would have been a good opportunity to write and keep track of our adventures. Viking had kept us busy starting early every morning. It was a great trip while it lasted, in fact, everything was much better than we expected and we only missed the last two days.
Except for the ubiquitous and jumbo sized chocolate chip cookies (yes, there is such a thing) I like the small portions of food Viking serves, although John informs me that not everyone is of the same opinion. And, not being a big meat eater, I look forward to the hot rueben sandwich which is on the menu for tomorrow’s lunch. “You know I’m not supposed to eat that,” John tells me, “Too much salt, but I’m going to, I eat whatever I want.” This is not the first time John brags about his see-food diet. The last time it happened he ended up in the hospital with a heart attack. I predicted that would happen. The body keeps count.
The first few days we stay with John only briefly as he is tired and sleeps most of the time. We start the routine of dropping off a decaf latte in the morning which progresses to one in the afternoon, and everyday we bring him food and the International Herald Tribune.
Near the end, as a treat, we buy him a New Yorker 12.50 € ($17.00) which John has subscribed to for almost sixty years, and a Time magazine which features the 100 most influential people in the world. When we are not hunting for food and gathering reading material for John we explore the medieval city center of Bratislava and I start to learn the Slovakian language.
The Slovakian word for thank you is Ďakujem. I have one of the nurses on my voice recorder repeating this word over and over again. I admit that it took me one long week to learn how to say ďakujem without thinking - that is how difficult this word is to pronounce and why the locals are so appreciative when we make the effort. The Slovakians and the Slovenians use ‘Prosím' for please and there are some other similarities, but the Slovakian language uses diacritics that I have never seen before. My curiosity is piqued.
15 April, Monday
It is a huge relief to see that John is feeling much better this morning after he briefly lost his optimism. For the first time yesterday we saw the possibility of darkness settling in. But, I notice that the right side of his body is bloated.
“We visited Dad this morning and he is doing noticeably better than yesterday. He is more alert and energetic, and his appetite is better. He has bronchial pneumonia in the right lung which is being treated with two antibiotics. He appreciates everyone's concerns and good wishes. Once the pneumonia clears up and he is stronger we can go home. Although he wants to go home he realizes that he is too weak to travel.” - Chris’ email
“Dr. Papinčák says it’s too soon for Dad to walk, that he needs to start by spending more time sitting up, physical therapy will start tomorrow. When we visit in the morning we will have him sit up with his legs over the side of the bed and his feet on the floor. He said that Dad is improving, responding to the antibiotics as measured by a lower CRP number. He also said that his heart was not damaged that much more by this heart attack as measured by the EF number. Finally he said that Dad may be ready to travel by Friday or Saturday. We brought him OJ, salad, decaf latte, a blueberry muffin and the Herald Tribune, everything he wanted. Things are going as well and as fast as they can go for now. We are optimistic. - Chris’ email
16 April, Tuesday
We wake up to the news that terrorists attacked the Boston Marathon. We feel safe in Bratislava.
John is definitely making progress. He is one tough Greek and I tell him so, but he is not convinced. “Wait until we’re in the air,” he says not realizing the potential danger that lies ahead. I notice that he is not coughing. The double dose of two different antibiotics must be working and the right side of his body is not as swollen.
“We are going to get an update from the doctor in the morning and hopefully an approximate timeline for when Dad might be able to travel. He is very much hoping to leave Friday, but I don't know about that. While he is clearly improving each day he still has pneumonia and is very weak.” - Chris’ email
Today I discover that Dr. Kašperová understands every word of the German language but, like her English, she struggles to speak. The first thing she tells me, without any prompting on my part, is that John is not going anywhere in a hurry.
17 April, Wednesday
This morning Dr. Kašperová introduces us to her daughter Julia a blonde medical student who speaks English well. This is a teaching hospital and Julia is studying to become a cardiologist just like her parents. Her grandfather Julius was one of the founders and the main cardiologist in the Slovak Cardiovascular Centre in the former Czecho-Slovakia. In two years she will complete her studies. Julia is twenty-three years old.
10:00
Chris buys a disposable telephone at T-Mobile on Ivánska cesta 12, John’s daughters are eager to speak with him. This turns out to be a good call as John’s spirits lift and for the first time he sits up in bed with his feet flat on the floor.
It is a little after 4 p.m. when the first call is made. Church bells are chiming, sirens are wailing and John is coughing, a dry hacking cough that does not let up. “ It’s bad.” he tells them. He would like to go straight to Stanford hospital when he arrives in San Francisco.
Chris wonders how I know that to call abroad from Slovakia one must dial 00 - the exit code.
Today we learn that we must pay the hospital bill in full and in cash on the day we leave. The University Hospital does not accept credit cards. Dr. Kašperová will give us an estimate after she speaks with the billing department.
The first option we look into is a money transfer. Western Union is surprisingly expensive, so we go next door to the bank, the only one in the area that deals with money transfers. For a surprisingly small amount we are able to open an account. But, we think this is too complicated, and the bank does do not open until 9 a.m. Instead, John gives us his password and twice daily we withdraw the cash limit from both of our accounts.
A few days later Dr. Kašperová tells us that the daily cost of staying in the University Hospital is 113€ ($150.00) plus medicines and procedures such as x-rays and electrocardiograms. We will not know the final cost until the day we leave.
John urges Chris to build-up a cash reserve of $3,000€ and then changes it to $4,000€. Chris is hesitant, he thinks this is too much. I want that Chris should take his father’s advice as I am not convinced that John is going to make it home alive. This will not be the first in flight death we will have experienced. Once we had to make an emergency landing in Goose Bay, Newfoundland, Canada. I wonder how complicated it will be to have John cremated, how much it will cost and in which country it will happen. We are told, by someone who knows, not to tell the airlines that we are traveling with a high risk passenger.
18 April, Thursday
John continues to make great strides. Today he walked across the room and back and he was wheeled outside into the sunshine to the radiology department to be x-rayed (antiquated is the word he used) and his catheter was removed. We are all happy about this.
This morning Dr. Kašperová tells me that John, who is eager to leave, can go home whenever he wants. I think this is good reverse psychology and I was going to use it on him. When I tell him that he can go home whenever he wants, John says, "Let's wait and see what the doctors say.”
More drama today when we find out that John’s eighty-nine year old brother, Spiro, has passed away. We suspect that, if not for John’s pacemaker, he and his brother would have died one day apart.
Poor Chris, there have been some difficult moments for him. We are on the street in Bratislava when his sister calls to tell him the news. This is not easy for Chris as he loves his uncle Spiro.
I am a little surprised this afternoon when John asks what else was said during this conversation - I was not expecting Chris to tell him unless he asked the specific question. John had made it clear that he did not want to hear anything about Spiro while he was on the trip. Chris finds this moment too difficult so, just like a scene in a movie, I lean in close, gently place my hand on John’s right shoulder and whisper in his ear, “Spiro died.” John, staring off into space, does not say a word. “That’s why we looked so glum when we arrived,” I tell him “I hadn’t noticed.” John replies taking a quick glance over his right shoulder. This is where I stand.
Two years ago John threw an eighty-fifth birthday party for himself and invited his close family and friends. At the end of the bash one of the questions I was asked was, who is this woman, a mother of two, with the same last name. John, a psychologist who spent twenty-five years in analysis, never thinks to introduce his children.
“You might have introduced your children, “ I say to John as we all pile into the car early the next morning. “People were wondering why …” I get cut-off as everyone agrees. A good idea too late, but it makes no difference, no one feels slighted.
John, who lives in Palo Alto, California feels grateful that he flew to New York City the week before our Danube cruise to reminisce with Spiro after he refused further treatment for lung cancer.
Near the end of his life Spiro was engulfed by blindness. In part, his obituary read, “Even while struggling with his blindness, Spiro could not be deterred. Throughout the rigorous training at the Guide Dog Foundation, Spiro rallied his classmates, transforming a tense and strenuous course into one filled with laughter and friendship. In appreciation, his classmates named him the honorary “Chief” of the fictitious [Where the?] Fugawe Tribe. It was one of his proudest achievements.” - The Suffolk Times
Uncle Spiro worked on the Manhattan project. It says so in the Suffolk Times. Chris says he’s known all along, but he does not know more.
We were told that Spiro died in peace and he was joking up to the end. The service was last Wednesday, the church was full and it was a gloriously beautiful day. Aunt Joan, who also has lung cancer, won’t last another three months.
I tell Dr. Kašperová in private and in my limited German, that John's brother Spiro died. And, I tell her that he had requested that he not be told, but since he had asked about him the other day and if he were to ask again we were going to tell him. I want her to know just in case John finds the news too depressing - she can knock him out. The doctor agrees, John should know, and she wants to know how he died. Then she tells me that every day when she comes to work she wonders if John is still alive. Dr. Kašperová explains the obvious: John ist alt und er ist krank mit schlechten Herz. John is old and he is sick with a bad heart.
4:00 p.m.
Chris is exhausted and he would like to return to the hotel, but I discourage this with wide-open eyes. This is not a good time to leave, John has just learned that his brother has died. Chris agrees and sits back down.
We spend the next three hours by John's side as he reminisces. I mention that he is the last of three brothers to survive. John tells me this is something he is going to think about. The eldest Mary, died of pneumonia at the age of two. John’s father showed him a photo of her of one day in his flower shop in the Bronx. John did not learn that he had a sister until he was ten years old.
As we get up to leave I tell John that if he gets too sad to ask the doctor to put him to sleep. “Juliana,” he says leaning forward from a sitting position. He takes an unflinching look into my eyes, “I don’t mind being sad,” he tells me emphatically. Then he repeats this for emphasis. Of course I know this already, but who wants to use the words “too depressed”. Now I learn to speak even more plainly with John.
Seven days after John is admitted to the hospital he says, “It’s ME time, tell the extended family about ME.” They do not know that John is in a hospital in Slovakia.
19 April, Friday
Today the doctors start preparing the paperwork, this is a good sign. If, after the weekend, Dr. Papinčák tells us, John continues to improve we can go home on Tuesday.
This morning we leave the hotel and walk right past the public park, also known as the medical garden (Medická záhrada) on our way to the Ondřejská Cemetery. This is a pleasant surprise, a green oasis in medieval Bratislava. I would like to stay longer and photograph all the angelic tombstones, but Chris, who practices moderation to the excess, is hungry, and like his father, he takes his food seriously.
We are in the eastern part of the Staré Město and on the way back Chris takes us to see the Catholic Church of St. Elizabeth, also known as the Blue Church. It sits on the corner of Bezručova street and Groslingova. This is another surprise, art nouveau in medieval Bratislava. Built between 1907-1908 everything about the Blue Church is astonishingly blue - inside and out.
Chris has been a vegetarian for 34 years now so the lunch menu is somewhat limited. But, this fact is rarely a problem especially in cosmopolitan Bratislava. The restaurant he chooses is owned by Jordanians and our server is an Afghan. While Chris eats his falafel I eat a delicious bowl of vegetable soup made by an Indian chef. When we are done a Slovakian waitress prepares a gyros for John. While we wait I watch CNN with three Jordanians males and learn that the terrorists who blew up the Boston marathon are two young brothers from the Russian Caucasus area.
Back at the hospital I wait outside and explore the grounds while I give Chris and John time alone. I know that my behavior is suspicious and that I am being watched when I take notes and speak into my voice recorder. But, it is when I start to take photos that the security guard comes over and asks me not to photograph. “Nerorazumiem,” (I don’t understand) I tell him understanding fully. I want to practice my Slovakian on him. “Razumien.” (I understand).
Okay, so there is no soap in the bathroom and the hospital could use a paint job and some Spackling paste and I will not get into the elevator - still it is a solid structure with a set of surprisingly elegant and dilapidated stairways that face each other in the biochemistry and molecular genetics building. John is laying under cathedral ceilings next to two large arched wooden windows that he is free to open. He feels the breeze and he has a view of a Linden tree, Slovakia’s national tree that is measured in centuries, and he can see the church steeple. Like us, he is on the fourth floor. John continues to be amazed that the doctors are working to identical standards and he has a favorite nurse, Anna, who bathes him in the early morning light.
This evening I notice that John’s dry hacking cough has returned, I think that this cannot be good. We wait and wonder: What will the doctors have to say about John leaving the hospital on Tuesday morning?
20 April, Saturday
I am sure that Chris feels like we abandoned his father this morning but I insist on changing the routine. I think that since John is not sleeping as much he would prefer to receive his newspaper in the morning instead of the afternoon. And, what if they sell out! Plus, I am drawn to the the medieval city centre. I want to walk there and I want to walk fast. On our way I talk just as fast, in part to distract Chris from his uneasy feeling. I think that I have Chris convinced that the doctors are stringing him and John along. Everyday the doctors tell them only a few days more when in private they tell me how dire the situation really is, which is obvious to me.
After we buy the newspaper at Interpress Chris relaxes enough to take a detour to the Bratislava Information Service (BIS). He would like to climb atop Michael's Tower before we leave Bratislava. Chris is sure our trip is about to end.
It is here, at the information center, that we see the beginnings of what promises to be an even more exciting day. This year Bratislava is celebrating 20 years of independence from Czecho-Slovakia. The Gentle Revolution, also called The Velvet Divorce, took effect on 1 January 1993. The Slovak Republic, also called Slovakia or Slovensko, is Europe’s newest country.
As we race back to the hospital with John’s coffee and newspaper we agree to make a dash for the exit, but first Chris would like to make sure that his father is going to be all right. Of course, John gives us the okay and like little children we run out the door and down the street to the Square (Primacialne Namestie). It is 11:00 a.m. and the parade has just begun.
We follow thirty professional actors dressed in period costumes, horsemen, drummers, and soldiers, men and women, carrying long rifles, swords, flags and banners. Together we march up to Michael's Gate (Michalska Brana) built around 1300 and the only surviving of four gates that were used to enter the mediaeval city. A large banner depicting St.George slaying the dragon and the message Bratislava Pre Všetkych (Bratislava For All) bars the entrance.
Here we watch performances so arresting that I put down my camera. After a four rifle salute declarations are made by someone who looks like the mayor of Bratislava, Milan Ftáčnik, and the banner is raised signaling the unsealing of the city gates.
We follow the parade back to the square where we watch a soldier stand on his horse, drape the horse’s leg over his shoulder, lie underneath the horse and place the horse’s foot lightly on his chest while he is laying flat on his back. In the square we are joined by a king and queen. This year Bratislava is celebrating the 450th anniversary of the first royal coronation.
Formerly known as Pozsony by the Hungarians and Pressburg (in reference to the castle) by the Germans, Bratislava, became the new capital of Royal Hungary in 1536 after the Ottoman Turks, under the leadership of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, swept into Hungary and overtook Buda at the battle of Mohacs in 1526. Bratislava, the official name since 1919 when it was made the capital of Slovakia in the newly created Czecho-Slovakia, was honored to be the city of coronation and it lasted for almost three hundred years. Ten Habsburg kings and nine queens were crowned in the gothic St. Martin’s Cathedral using the crown of St. Stephen the first king of Hungary who was crowned on Christmas Day in the year 1000.
The medieval Crown of St. Stephen, also called the Holy Crown of Hungary, is the symbol of Hungarian nationhood. People from far and wide will come to watch the authentic coronation ceremony which follows the exact same ritual based on historical documents.
Nota bene: The coronation ceremony is held every year during the last weekend of June in honor of Maria Theresa who was crowned on 25 June 1741.
12:31 p.m.
We are on a mission to find the closest thing we can to a Greek Orthodox church to light three candles for Chris’ deceased kinfolk. At John’s request. On the way up to St. Nicholas, which sits under the walled castle and is in the old Jewish Quarter we stop on Židovská 1 (Jewish) to visit the Museum of Clocks. I see a clock with engravings of the different phases of human life. A poignant reminder of how time affects all of us.
It is a steep climb up the stone stairs to St. Nicholas which is hidden behind a row of buildings. Built in 1661 the entrance to this nondescript baroque church is flanked by trees. A statue of St. Nicholas stands in the niche above the door and above a coat of arms which is partly obscured by leafy branches. When we walk in through the open door we are stunned into silence. There are no pews only chairs lining the south and east walls. The adherents are standing in the center gathered around three heavily bearded Orthodox priests dressed in black cossack robes and wearing pectoral crosses. It feels as though we have just stepped into the Middle Ages.
“We found a beautiful, old Orthodox Church today, St. Nicholas, and lit three candles… and gave them a donation as Dad had requested. We took lots of pictures to show him, and he was pleased. They were in the middle of a ceremony with singing and prayers, the Church was full, and 40 minutes later everyone left and the Church was locked up so we just made it.” - Chris’ email
2:16 p.m.
I do not have a voracious appetite during our sojourn in Bratislava, I only eat two full breakfast’s and three main meals, one of which is a delicious bowl of goulash soup mit dunkel Brot at the Pivnica U Kozal on Panská 27.
We sit outside. When I am done I walk through an archway and climb down a broad set of stairs to the restaurant/bar deep underground. Who can believe this place with its low arched ceiling and dim lights. There is only one group of men sitting at a table immediately to my left as I enter and a lone man sits on my right a few tables over. I pay them no heed and carry on. I feel uncomfortable as I try to open the door to the WC (water closet) and realize that someone is in there and I have to wait. But, I think it is only a case of nerves and after I calm myself down by looking at the art on the wall I ask the lone figure if there is anyone in there as I try to open the door once again. This time it opens.
I find my fear curious and take some time to soak in the atmosphere in this most unusual restaurant underground. I am looking at a vintage tin beer sign across from the men when one of them orders me to, “COME, SIT!” I am paralyzed by fear. Then I am ordered to “DRINK BEER!”
What happens next to my field of vision is interesting. All I see as I turn around is someone pushing something aside and patting down a place for me to sit and I see a table topped with huge glasses and a pitcher filled with pivo (beer) which one of the men is holding aloft. I never see the men themselves, but I know by how they sound that they are big burly types who have been sitting here for a while.
I find the thought of joining them and drinking beer, in this cave, in the middle of the afternoon so ludicrous that I laugh out loud and in the same loud and commanding voice I reply, “THAT is NOT going to happen." There is dead silence. Released from my paralysis I take this opportunity to escape and run up the stairs without ever looking at the men.
Once outside I tell Chris about the unique restaurant/bar below and still curious about my fear I follow him downstairs and hang out while he uses the WC - still never looking at the men. But, as we are walking out I lift up my camera and take a photograph. In the photo one of the men is lurching drunkenly towards me. I count a total of six big celebrating Slovaks. It is not until we arrive home that I learn that Pivnica means cellar.
Today John walks across the room and when he arrives at the sink he shaves himself. Talk is still about returning Tuesday and for once I believe that if John continues to make progress we will indeed return sooner rather than later.
21 April, Sunday
10:07 a.m.
No matter how many times we mention the festivities taking place in Bratislava this weekend John does not let us go. Instead of music, dance shows, and horse races this morning we wheel John outside for some fresh air and we walk the length of the corridor, twice.
This whole thing feels surreal - we’re in medieval Bratislava, Chris is pushing his father in a wheel chair and I’m looking over my shoulder every time I want to take a photograph.
10:48 a.m.
Dr. Soña Kiñová tells us that John’s cough will last for a couple of weeks. And, she tells us that John is good to go home on Tuesday. But, this is not her decision to make - still we prepare ourselves mentally.
Dr. Soña speaks fluent English. We pepper her with questions about Bratislava and Slovakia. Then she tells us about the students who study at this University Hospital. They come from all over the world, she explains, because it is relatively inexpensive to study here. Twice she mentions that the Greeks are the laziest students and she explains why. In Greece, in order to own a pharmacy, one must be educated as a doctor. The Greek students do not want to learn, but they want to own pharmacies.
At first I think it is interesting that the Greeks are the laziest students, but after she mentions it a second time I start to feel uncomfortable and I look at Chris and John, but neither say a word. I think Dr. Soña knows that John is a Greek but Chris tells me this is not so. I think she knows by the name - Beletsis. Anyone with any experience with Greeks knows that a family name ending in "sis" hails from mainland Greece.
1:16 p.m.
Michael’s Tower, also called Michael’s Gate because it is a combination of the two, was built around 1500 and it is more than 50 meters high (seven floors, I counted). Climb the narrow circular staircase for a postcard view of Bratislava.
Only so many people are allowed entrance at a time and there is a guard on every level and a military museum with a collection of medieval arms and military uniforms. The enthusiastic guard on the top level insists that Chris take a photo of me from the inside looking out. Since he speaks no English he gestures wildly for me to step outside and come around to the window. He thinks this is an excellent idea. I photograph them from the outside looking in. The guard poses but he does not smile.
When we visited the Czech Republic in the spring of 2000 I read that the people complained that the playwright president Vaclav’s Havel’s new wife since 1997, the actress Dagmar Veškrnova, smiled too much.
5:02 p.m.
John, who is wearing a hospital gown, leans out the window. I too lean out the window. He comments on the good weather. I quote Chris. “We arrive in winter and stay until spring.“
22 April, Monday (Eleven days later)
12:36 a.m.
Our airline Lufthansa is on strike. Hopefully it will last for one day only. I lay awake and wonder, what will Dr. Kašperová say about John leaving the hospital on Tuesday morning?
There is good news and there is bad news. The good news is that we can leave tomorrow and the bad news is that a medical escort will not be available for one more day. Will his father play it safe? I make Chris a bet and I lose. John is adamant about leaving the hospital tomorrow.
John is sitting up in his hospital bed munching on a gyros - not looking at anyone. Chris is standing on John’s left leaning against the wall and I am standing to the right of John. We are near the foot of the bed where Dr. Kašperová stands deep in thought - she is looking down. There is silence.
Dr. Kašperová is in charge, she is the one who must determine when John is fit to fly and she has just received the news that John has decided to return home tomorrow without a medical assistant. Chris and I look at each other and together we look at John who refuses to look at anyone. We look at Dr. Kašperová who is still deep in thought and looking down at the floor. This goes on for some time - around and around Chris and I look while John continues to munch refusing to look at anyone and the doctor continues to thinks things through.
I tell Dr. Kašperová that John has an option - stay one more day and return with a medical assistant. Dr. Kašperová does not take her eyes off me as she digests this information. John, who is adamant about returning tomorrow, looks up at Dr. Kašperová and with great cheer says, "I'm fine! “ Then he tries to explain that he lives in an independent and assisted senior living retirement community. Dr. Kašperová demands more silence as she looks to the floor once again for answers. Around and around we go again. Chris and I look at each other, then we look at John who continues to munch and refuses to look at anyone. This makes us smile.
Dr. Kašperová looks up and tells me that she had made it clear on Friday to those responsible that John could go home on Tuesday and that she had ordered a medical assistant. Earlier in the day Dr. Papinčák had also made this clear to us - arrangements were made on Friday. I acknowledge this and express our frustration with with those who are responsible for our predicament. We all prefer that John return with a medical assistant by his side.
Finally, Dr. Kašperová says that it is fine for John to travel home tomorrow and she suggests that he have a drink - whiskey. This makes me laugh and I feel relief that John will be able to leave without a medical assistant and with the doctor’s blessing. Dr. Kašperová explains that she will give us medicine if Johns blood pressure should rise and if he has difficulty breathing. She gives Chris her email address and her mobile telephone number and asks that we contact her when we arrive in Frankfurt.
This is our last night in Bratislava. John is in high spirits as we prepare his clothes for a 7:15 a.m. departure. Piece by piece I hold them up for his approval. When I come to his boxer shorts I hold them high. John exclaims, "Aren't those cute Juliana!" After eleven days in the coronary care unit John is excited and ready to return home.
Bratislava, located in southwestern Slovakia, is the only European capital that borders two countries - it is within walking distance to the Austrian and Hungarian borders. The trip west to the Vienna airport by private car will take one hour. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the driver we hire is the hotel receptionist’s boyfriend, Matej.
Back at the hotel we pack, one small backpack each. We have reservations, but no tickets. It is not until late into the nights that we learn that all the arrangements have been made. Lufthansa will fly us from Vienna to Frankfurt and United Airlines will fly us direct to San francisco.
23 April, Tuesday morning
7:00 a.m. Sharp
Matej is waiting for us in the hotel lobby. He greets us with a smile. He drives what seems a long way out of the way as the hotel is just around the corner. But, he explains that the car must take a different route. While the hospital guard and Matej figure out where to park Chris jumps out of the car and I miss my opportunity to say goodbye to the doctors and nurses.
Chris said that when he went to pick up his father it didn’t look like anything was happening. The curtain around John’s bed was closed and the staff was busy. Chris drew the curtain aside and there was John, he was laying down, fully clothed and ready to go. Dr. Kašperová came over and John’s favorite nurse, Anna, helped him into a wheelchair, but not before he surprised her by giving her a big hug. It took only a few minutes to pull it all together.
When John is wheeled into the daylight he calls my name. I turn to look at him and in the excitement of the moment I clap my hands and give him two thumbs up. This is indeed an exciting time.
On our way out Matej, a compassionate humanitarian, tells me that our kindness made the old man with the cane cry. While we waited we helped him to his seat on the bench. “Dobrý!” (Good) I exclaim with a big smile once he is settled. I see that his eye is red and teary, but I do not make the connection. I think this is due to his condition.
Matej, who was once a tour guide, takes us on the scenic route to the Vienna airport. Along the way he tells us that, “Socialism has good sides and the bad sides. Bad thing is, the bad sides stayed and the good ones are gone.”
8:53 a.m.
As we check in to special assistance the attendant says to John, “Good children, you are flying business class.” John replies. “I feel very special.” She does not know that we came directly from the hospital.
Because he can, Chris sends Dr. Kašperová an email. She promptly replies, “Dear Chris and Juliana, it is nice to hear from you, thank you for the message. We wish you good luck and a lot of strength for Mr. John. Kind regards, Viera Kašperová”
We arrive early and the Frankfurt gate reads destination Brindisi. I happen to know that this is where one catches the ferry to Greece. I am ready to keep moving and ask John a spirited traveler. I can see us heading south and me racing him around in a wheelchair.
In flight, Chris and I check on John several times. I ask the flight attendant to keep her eye on him and I explain that John is a high risk passenger. John later says that the flight back was really difficult for him, but he shows no signs of distress. He just looks like a worn-out traveler.
In San Francisco we hand over John to his daughters and son-in-law who take him home and we catch our flight to San Diego. We sit by the emergency exit doors. The flight attendant would like to know if we are willing and able to help in case of an emergency. She would like that all the passengers see that we are reading the instruction manual.
On our way to our car I quiz Chris. “In what position do you place your arms when you slide down the emergency chute?” Chris holds his arms high in the air and says “Whee!” It feels good to laugh again.
It is not until we are on the I5 (Interstate 5) heading north that it hits me. I sure am glad that things worked out well as they did, after all, it was me who suggested we invite him on this trip. John said that he was glad that we made the best of being in Bratislava and that we did all the right things. He thinks that we saved his life.
It turns out that my father in-law did not suffer a heart attack after all. Although, what he did experience, a heart exacerbation, a sudden worsening of an already bad condition, is just as serious. John did all the right things. He ate a salty lunch which is verboten, he drank alcohol which is verboten and he stopped taking his diuretic as prescribed.
Complicated times (his words, not mine) for John indeed. The difference between the photo taken of him on 7 April about to embark on the ship in Passau, Germany where the trip started and 7 May, two weeks after he arrived home, is astonishing. John came back an old man leaning on a cane. His doctor tells him that it will take at least six weeks for John to feel well rested and to regain his strength.
The Danube Waltz
My father-in-law was lucky, his last trip abroad nearly cost him his life and travel insurance covered his flight home and trip interruption. The hospital bill, which we paid in full and in cash the day before we left, amounted to only 1,889.36 € ($2,500.00) and that was covered by his medical insurance and Travel Guard.
John, who would like me to make him look heroic, spends eleven nights and twelve days recovering in the oldest teaching hospital in medieval Bratislava. During his stay Boston is shutdown by a manhunt, the death toll rises when a Texas fertilizer plant implodes and his last remaining brother Spiro dies. John loses his sense of humor only once when he is hungry and it is brief. His unshakeable optimism and indomitable spirit saves us all.
I have an easy time with it all, in part, because I do not concern myself with the logistics. I provide moral support and look to my late friend Count Alfonso de Bourbon for words of wisdom, “Don’t make it any more difficult than it already is.” Chris agrees, “It is what it is.” Plus, the doctors are really nice and they think we are “awesome people”. They “threaten” to come and visit us when they come to California, but not this year.
We are somewhat of a novelty in Bratislava. Most tourists come for a single day, riverboat walking tours last two hours. We stay in Bratislava for twelve days and for the most part we frequent the same markets, cafe’s and news stands. The Bratislavs are curious.
Free wireless and John’s cafe latte’s are not the only reason to go to The Green Tree Cafe on Obchodná ulica (street). It is helpful that Chris has a sob story to share with the staff - father is in the hospital, we’re going home soon, I’m buying the coffee’s for him. These girls are young and they are sweet, but they never ask about John, it is me they wonder about. “Where is your wife?” they ask when I am missing. They are curious and they are always smiling.
What to expect if your father-in-law has a heart attack In Bratislava, Slovakia and the ship leaves without you? Expect the doctors and nurses in the University Hospital Old Town to be ”exceptional” - John’s word.
“Not only were they competent, but how much they cared about me, how concerned they were about my getting home safely and how Dr. Kašperová wanted to know, after I got home, by email or a phone call, that all is okay. Most people complain about doctors, that they're very impersonal, they don't pay any attention to them, they don't really care about you they just want to get doing what they have to do, and get rid of you, These doctors and nurses were so different. It was very special and unusual to have that kind of care shown by anybody and we after all we were strangers too - which makes it even more important." - John Beletsis
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded, North Downs hill, above Canterbury, is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,
Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places
on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester
to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his
bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
Chilham Castle was once owned by no other than Henry V111.
It comes in two parts, the Jacobean Manor House, in shot, built in 1616.
Behind it, to the south, is the original Norman Keep on a customary Motte or mound.
The site also includes extensive gardens and lawns.
Due to its superb architecture the Manor House
has been used in numerous films and T.V. productions.
In the past, the castle has hosted Medieval Fayres and jousting contests, as well as Falconry demonstrations.
It is now privately owned having been bought for £15 million in 2021.
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury,
is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,
Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places
on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester
to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his
bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now, this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
This time of year is the perfect time to reflect and show appreciation.
For the loved ones who support us - I am truly grateful for all of my family, friends and also my viewers/readers here that have and continue to support me in my journey. Honestly, I could never have done it without them and without you.
For the ones sacrificing for our needs - I am truly grateful for those who work when they should be with family and friends, those who are away from those they love.
For the loved ones who are no longer with us - memories of someone very dear who is sadly missed at this time of the year. I am truly grateful for having had these special people in my life, that they have been and will always be part of me in my heart. Below is a short poem by someone very special to me, and if you followed my SecondLife adventures on DeviantArt, you would know who that is.
I want to wish each of you a very, merry Christmas full of love and laughter and family and friends and wrapping paper and presents and happiness and joy. I wish each of you to have whatever Christmas miracle you have been praying for. I believe that magic happens at Christmas.
Merry Christmas to you all.
Sophia
----
Sophia - My Friend, My Lover, My Mistress
I am not a poet, I am a Lioness - but every word is from deep in my heart and carries with it ALL my Love and Trust - so 😊💋here goes:
My Friend, My Lover, My Raven Mistress Sophia,
You give me love and accept mine;
I handed you my whole trust with no fear,
In turn, I cherish yours like a precious shrine.
You possess beauty of body, heart, soul and mind;
You lead me wondrous places I never thought to find.
You are my Reason, my Love, my Life.
We share so much - moments glorious,
Soft words, sensual whispers, joyous pleasure;
"Oasis" times so golden precious;
Time to laugh, time to love, time for leisure.
I lift "dark clouds" and make you - YOU,
Sensual Romantic, gentle Lover to name but few.
You make me happy, you make me smile - you make me complete.
The road of love we share, can be tough,
If too easy - it would be a mere shallow vanity;
A mood here, misunderstanding there - can be rough -
But through it shines true love for eternity.
I demand nothing, you make me rich,
I tremble, I smile, I do not flinch.
My Friend, My Lover, I will not disappoint You.
I look at you - my eyes smoulder - I blaze,
You set me afire throughout every hour,
And, I feel desired,loved, wanted under your gaze.
You make me blossom, bloom - like precious flower,
You make me weak, you make me strong -
You lift me up till I shout your name with joyous song.
YOU are my ONLY Mistress, My True Friend, My Beautiful Lover.
If I stumble - have patience - guide me;
If I misunderstand, it is not intentional;
If I err, help me see;
I ask little - I give you ME, my ALL.
Sophia, I am unreservedly yours in love,
Your Lioness, like a rock - unshakeable - will not move.
Darling Sophia - you make me whole and bring me joy.
When you need I will soothe you - calm you with loving care;
Let me ease and caress worries away;
Come to me as you want - to share;
Let what WE want - how and when - be the day.
Your beauty, your warmth - sometimes - leave me speechless;
Your touches, your kisses, your words leave me breathless.
My Darling - I am patient - I am here - whatever, however, whenever.
Sophia - I just LOVE YOU in a myriad inexplicable ways
"Dance on broken glass, build castles with shattered dreams, and wear your tears like precious pearls.
Proud.
Strong.
Unshakeable."
-- Anita Krizzan
Hope Inspiring Resplendent Roses & Blossoms At Blessed Home Long Island, New York, Day Before My Birthday 2012 - IMRAN™
A dozen years ago before I penned these words in 2024, the rose bushes at my blessed home on Long Island, New York, were in full, glorious bloom. It was the early summer of 2012, the day before my 50th birthday.
The tornadoes and droughts of total economic meltdown, brought on by the policies of Republican President George W. Bush which enriched the super-wealthy with one trillion dollars of tax cuts, had wreaked havoc on my life as on millions of ordinary individuals, families, and entire towns. The next few years were spent on surviving, recovering, and rebuilding. Even then it was a rocky road.
By the time 2012 rolled in, after a labyrinthine journey of heart-sinking troughs, fleeting peaks, and unexpected drops into new valleys, life began to hint at a promising change ahead. I had to remind myself that life’s most exquisite blooms often come accompanied by the piercing thorns of reality.
The key is to persistently tend to one’s garden of dreams, rooting it in unshakeable faith, nurturing it with the water of hope, showering it with the rain of love, fortifying it with the grains of gratitude, and ceaselessly illuminating it with the lights of confidence, and perseverance.
No matter the adversities you face, remember, they are but temporary. You possess the strength to surmount them. Never let go of your dreams. Never relinquish your authentic self. Within you lies an indomitable spirit. You are capable of blooming despite the thorns. Are you ready to live the life you dream of?
© 2012-2024 IMRAN™
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury, is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school, Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
A Form of Speech and of Death
He had a way of pronouncing the word unshakeable.
The final "l" enundated in the Dutch way,
they who preached for us, catechism, mission, Sunday services.
"Unshakeable certainty", "unshakeable faith", "power unshakeable"
When he used this strong word, he did not utter it
with the mouth of one who eats perishable substances,
or names what he deems unworthy of his better speaking
because common things:
hammer, anvil, iron, the foreman, the Chief.
"Unshakeable",
the tongue lingering at the base of the upper teeth,
the demanding doctrine requiring the purest sound,
in accordance with what it expressed, things of God,
eternal things, terrifying m the impossibility of their maculation.
But when this all too shakeable life stiffened his chin,
his paralysed and blackened tongue acquiesced,
its tip turned back to the root of the teeth,
unshakeable.
adelia prado
Emma as Catherine Sloper:
Olivia de Havilland won a Best Actress Oscar for the 1949 film "The Heiress," an adaptation of Henry James's novel "Washington Square," which focuses on Catherine Sloper, a rich woman in 19th century New York who is being romanced by a relatively poor young man played by the then amazingly handsome Montgomery Clift. Catherine's father, Dr. Sloper, believes that Morris is only interested in her wealth. Morris proposes to her, leading to dramatic and mysterious consequences for both...
19th Century New York:
It was a dreary, rain-swept day for what Catherine had expected to be the brightest day of her life. This day was momentous because she had decided to elope with Morris Townsend, a man whom her father detested, believing he only wanted Catherine for her money. Yet, Catherine was certain that Morris was her one true love and that there was no sense in thinking there might be another after him. Having complied with her father's wishes and spent months in Europe to test whether her--and Morris'--love could endure such a separation, Catherine vowed on her return to New York that she was finished with listening to her father's warnings.
Catherine: "I will not be held hostage by Father's doubts. In Europe, I thought I would become sick from being away from Morris. But I endured, and we love each other more than ever. Yet, Father is still adamantly opposed to my marrying Morris. I will not let Father stand in my way. Tonight, I shall become Mrs. Townsend, Father be damned!"
Catherine's strong will could not be deterred, as Morris would find out when they met to confirm what time that night he would come to take her away. They would wait until Dr. Sloper was asleep. That way, he would know nothing of the marriage until after it was too late to try to stop it...
When Morris arrived, he was excited as Catherine. At last, he would have his "heiress," as he routinely thought of Catherine. "My heiress," Morris thought. "No longer shall I be a man too poor for high society..."
Catherine flew into his arms and he shielded her from the increasingly pouring rain.
"Midnight," Catherine told him. "Father shall be asleep then. And we shall become man and wife. I shall be yours, Morris, not his. I don't care, in fact, if I never see him again. I don't even think he actually loves me."
"You may be upset with him now, Catherine," Morris replied, "but after we are married, I am sure we will both be in his good graces. He cannot deny his daughter his love, and he may accept me as his son."
Turning away from Morris, Catherine had a steely gaze as she stated, "No, Morris, I am ready to renounce Father and to renounce his fortune. My future inheritance from him is what he relies on to control me. My relationship with him has strings attached--strings that I breathe through. At midnight, that shall end. I shall be yours and my only fortune shall be your fortune--however meager or bountiful that may be."
That declaration of love was stated in such an unshakeable tone that Morris was taken aback. His fortune was meager indeed.
"I thought I was stepping up in life by marrying her," he said to himself. "It seems now, however, that I would be stepping unalterably down."
With that realization, his eyes grew as wide as a Basaak doll's!
His emotions were too tumultuous for him to put into words. Thus, he confirmed that he would return at midnight to take her away to their new life...
But would he?
TO BE CONTINUED.
e cor!...and color!...
"A Educação é a única das coisas deste mundo em que acredito de maneira inabalável".
Cecília Meireles ( 1901 - 1964)
Poeta, Ensaísta e Cronista brasileira.
" The Education is one of the things in this world that I believe so unshakeable manner. "
Cecilia Meireles (1901 - 1964)
Poet, essayist and chronicler brazilian.
Aos professores todo meu carinho e respeito.
Teachers all my love and respect.
As cores de Toquinho!
The colors of Toquinho!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjRwuGsugdE&feature=fvwrel
E o próprio Toquinho!
And the himself Toquinho!
EXPLORE #355 abril 9-2012
¡¡¡Gracias amigos!!-Thanks friends!...
-Merci mon ami!-Esasko lagun- Grazie caro amico.-Dziękuję przyjacielu.-Gràcies amic-
Debo comenzar éste día agradeciendo a todos mis amigos que visitan y comentan ésta ventanita al mundo todos los días . Mi lugar . Su lugar.
Hoy es el día de mi cumpleaños y quiero una vez más festejarlo con ustedes .
Siento que tengo mucho para festejar , y una fé inquebrantable en el porvenir .
Creo en la gente y tengo la convicción de que cada uno desde su lugar puede hacer mucho por cambiar el mundo ...
En éste sitio conocí mucha gente, hoy algunos, muy cercanos a mi corazón .
Es una buena cosecha .
Más allá de las imágenes o junto a ellas, están las personas y valoro a cada una por lo que son , por su expresión , por su calidez y sensibilidad .
Quiero unirlos en un fuerte y cálido abrazo lleno de luz y esperanza .
Besos.
youtu.be/40baURnEB6c Foney James - City of Light -
Je dois commencer cette journée en remerciant tous mes amis qui visitent et de commenter sur cette fenêtre pour le monde chaque jour. Ma place. Au lieu de cela.
Aujourd'hui c'est mon anniversaire et je veux une fois de plus célébrer avec vous.
Je sens que j'ai beaucoup à célébrer, et une foi inébranlable dans l'avenir.
Je crois dans les gens et j'ai la conviction que chacun de sa place peut faire beaucoup pour changer le monde ...
Dans ce site, j'ai rencontré beaucoup de gens, aujourd'hui certains très proches de mon cœur.
Il s'agit d'une bonne récolte.
Au-delà des images ou avec eux, sont les gens et d'apprécier chacun pour ce qu'ils sont, par leur expression, sa chaleur et sa sensibilité.
Je tiens à les rejoindre dans une étreinte forte et chaleureuse pleine de lumière et d'espoir.
bisous
I must begin this day by thanking all my friends who visit and comment on this window to the world every day. My place. Instead.
Today is my birthday and I want to once again celebrate with you.
I feel I have much to celebrate, and an unshakeable faith in the future.
I believe in people and I have the conviction that every one from his place can do much to change the world ...
In this site I met many people, today some very close to my heart.
It is a good harvest.
Beyond the images or with them, are the people and appreciate each for what they are, by their expression, his warmth and sensitivity.
I want to join them in a strong and warm embrace full of light and hope.
kisses
Gracias a tod@s.
Obrigado.
Grazie.
.,. MERCI pour vos chaleureux commentaires .
THANK YOU so much for sharing,,,,
I appreciate.
Recomiendo ver en fondo negro. Gracias
© ALL RIGHT RESERVED©
All material in my gallery MAY NOT be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission
Pueden agregarse si lo desean , lo mejor a cada uno ...
St Andrew and St Patrick, Elveden, Suffolk
As you approach Elveden, there is Suffolk’s biggest war memorial, to those killed from the three parishes that meet at this point. It is over 30 metres high, and you used to be able to climb up the inside. Someone in the village told me that more people have been killed on the road in Elveden since the end of the War than there are names on the war memorial. I could well believe it. Until about five years ago, the busy traffic of the A11 Norwich to London road hurtled through the village past the church, slowed only to a ridiculously high 50 MPH. If something hits you at that speed, then no way on God's Earth are you going to survive. Now there's a bypass, thank goodness.
Many people will know St Andrew and St Patrick as another familiar landmark on the road, but as you are swept along in the stream of traffic you are unlikely to appreciate quite how extraordinary a building it is. For a start, it has two towers. And a cloister. And two naves, effectively. It has undergone three major building programmes in the space of thirty years, any one of which would have sufficed to transform it utterly.
If you had seen this church before the 1860s, you would have thought it nothing remarkable. A simple aisle-less, clerestory-less building, typical of, and indistinguishable from, hundreds of other East Anglian flint churches. A journey to nearby Barnham will show you what I mean.
The story of the transformation of Elveden church begins in the early 19th century, on the other side of the world. The leader of the Sikhs, Ranjit Singh, controlled a united Punjab that stretched from the Khyber Pass to the borders of Tibet. His capital was at Lahore, but more importantly it included the Sikh holy city of Amritsar. The wealth of this vast Kingdom made him a major power-player in early 19th century politics, and he was a particular thorn in the flesh of the British Imperial war machine. At this time, the Punjab had a great artistic and cultural flowering that was hardly matched anywhere in the world.
It was not to last. The British forced Ranjit Singh to the negotiating table over the disputed border with Afghanistan, and a year later, in 1839, he was dead. A power vacuum ensued, and his six year old son Duleep Singh became a pawn between rival factions. It was exactly the opportunity that the British had been waiting for, and in February 1846 they poured across the borders in their thousands. Within a month, almost half the child-Prince's Kingdom was in foreign hands. The British installed a governor, and started to harvest the fruits of their new territory's wealth.
Over the next three years, the British gradually extended their rule, putting down uprisings and turning local warlords. Given that the Sikh political structures were in disarray, this was achieved at considerable loss to the invaders - thousands of British soldiers were killed. They are hardly remembered today. British losses at the Crimea ten years later were much slighter, but perhaps the invention of photography in the meantime had given people at home a clearer picture of what was happening, and so the Crimea still remains in the British folk memory.
For much of the period of the war, Prince Duleep Singh had remained in the seclusion of his fabulous palace in Lahore. However, once the Punjab was secure, he was sent into remote internal exile.
The missionaries poured in. Bearing in mind the value that Sikh culture places upon education, perhaps it is no surprise that their influence came to bear on the young Prince, and he became a Christian. The extent to which this was forced upon him is lost to us today.
A year later, the Prince sailed for England with his mother. He was admitted to the royal court by Queen Victoria, spending time both at Windsor and, particularly, in Scotland, where he grew up. In the 1860s, the Prince and his mother were significant members of London society, but she died suddenly in 1863. He returned with her ashes to the Punjab, and there he married. His wife, Bamba Muller, was part German, part Ethiopian. As part of the British pacification of India programme, the young couple were granted the lease on a vast, derelict stately home in the depths of the Suffolk countryside. This was Elveden Hall. He would never see India again.
With some considerable energy, Duleep Singh set about transforming the fortunes of the moribund estate. Being particularly fond of hunting (as a six year old, he'd had two tutors - one for learning the court language, Persian, and the other for hunting to hawk) he developed the estate for game. The house was rebuilt in 1870.
The year before, the Prince had begun to glorify the church so that it was more in keeping with the splendour of his court. This church, dedicated to St Andrew, was what now forms the north aisle of the present church. There are many little details, but the restoration includes two major features; firstly, the remarkable roof, with its extraordinary sprung sprung wallposts set on arches suspended in the window embrasures, and, secondly, the font, which Mortlock tells us is in the Sicilian-Norman style. Supported by eight elegant columns, it is very beautiful, and the angel in particular is one of Suffolk's loveliest. You can see him in an image on the left.
Duleep Singh seems to have settled comfortably into the role of an English country gentleman. And then, something extraordinary happened. The Prince, steeped in the proud tradition of his homeland, decided to return to the Punjab to fulfill his destiny as the leader of the Sikh people. He got as far as Aden before the British arrested him, and sent him home. He then set about trying to recruit Russian support for a Sikh uprising, travelling secretly across Europe in the guise of an Irishman, Patrick Casey. In between these times of cloak and dagger espionage, he would return to Elveden to shoot grouse with the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII. It is a remarkable story.
Ultimately, his attempts to save his people from colonial oppression were doomed to failure. He died in Paris in 1893, the British seemingly unshakeable in their control of India. He was buried at Elveden churchyard in a simple grave.
The chancel of the 1869 church is now screened off as a chapel, accessible from the chancel of the new church, but set in it is the 1894 memorial window to Maharaja Prince Duleep Singh, the Adoration of the Magi by Kempe & Co.
And so, the Lion of the North had come to a humble end. His five children, several named after British royal princes, had left Elveden behind; they all died childless, one of them as recently as 1957. The estate reverted to the Crown, being bought by the brewing family, the Guinnesses.
Edward Cecil Guinness, first Earl Iveagh, commemorated bountifully in James Joyce's 1916 Ulysses, took the estate firmly in hand. The English agricultural depression had begun in the 1880s, and it would not be ended until the Second World War drew the greater part of English agriculture back under cultivation. It had hit the Estate hard. But Elveden was transformed, and so was the church.
Iveagh appointed William Caroe to build an entirely new church beside the old. It would be of such a scale that the old church of St Andrew would form the south aisle of the new church. The size may have reflected Iveagh's visions of grandeur, but it was also a practical arrangement, to accommodate the greatly enlarged staff of the estate. Attendance at church was compulsory; non-conformists were also expected to go, and the Guinnesses did not employ Catholics.
Between 1904 and 1906, the new structure went up. Mortlock recalls that Pevsner thought it 'Art Nouveau Gothic', which sums it up well. Lancet windows in the north side of the old church were moved across to the south side, and a wide open nave built beside it. Curiously, although this is much higher than the old and incorporates a Suffolk-style roof, Caroe resisted the temptation of a clerestory. The new church was rebenched throughout, and the woodwork is of a very high quality. The dates of the restoration can be found on bench ends up in the new chancel, and exploring all the symbolism will detain you for hours. Emblems of the nations of the British Isles also feature in the floor tiles.
The new church was dedicated to St Patrick, patron Saint of the Guinnesses' homeland. At this time, of course, Ireland was still a part of the United Kingdom, and despite the tensions and troubles of the previous century the Union was probably stronger at the opening of the 20th century than it had ever been. This was to change very rapidly. From the first shots fired at the General Post Office in April 1916, to complete independence in 1922, was just six years. Dublin, a firmly protestant city, in which the Iveaghs commemorated their dead at the Anglican cathedral of St Patrick, became the capital city of a staunchly Catholic nation. The Anglicans, the so-called Protestant Ascendancy, left in their thousands during the 1920s, depopulating the great houses, and leaving hundreds of Anglican parish churches completely bereft of congregations. Apart from a concentration in the wealthy suburbs of south Dublin, there are hardly any Anglicans left in the Republic today. But St Patrick's cathedral maintains its lonely witness to long years of British rule; the Iveagh transept includes the vast war memorial to WWI dead, and all the colours of the Irish regiments - it is said that 99% of the Union flags in the Republic are in the Guinness chapel of St Patrick's cathedral. Dublin, of course, is famous as the biggest city in Europe without a Catholic cathedral. It still has two Anglican ones.
Against this background then, we arrived at Elveden. The church is uncomfortably close to the busy road, but the sparkle of flint in the recent rain made it a thing of great beauty. The main entrance is now at the west end of the new church. The surviving 14th century tower now forms the west end of the south aisle, and we will come back to the other tower beyond it in a moment.
You step into a wide open space under a high, heavy roof laden with angels. There is a wide aisle off to the south; this is the former nave, and still has something of that quality. The whole space is suffused with gorgeously coloured light from excellent 19th and 20th century windows. These include one by Frank Brangwyn, at the west end of the new nave. Andrew and Patrick look down from a heavenly host on a mother and father entertaining their children and a host of woodland animals by reading them stories. It is quite the loveliest thing in the building.
Other windows, mostly in the south aisle, are also lovely. Hugh Easton's commemorative window for the former USAAF base at Elveden is magnificent. Either side are windows to Iveaghs - a gorgeous George killing a dragon, also by Hugh Easton, and a curious 1971 assemblage depicting images from the lives of Edward Guinness's heir and his wife, which also works rather well. The effect of all three windows together is particularly fine when seen from the new nave.
Turning ahead of you to the new chancel, there is the mighty alabaster reredos. It cost £1,200 in 1906, about a quarter of a million in today’s money. It reflects the woodwork, in depicting patron Saints and East Anglian monarchs, around a surprisingly simple Supper at Emmaus. This reredos, and the Brangwyn window, reminded me of the work at the Guinness’s other spiritual home, St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, which also includes a window by Frank Brangwyn commisioned by them. Everything is of the highest quality. Rarely has the cliché ‘no expense spared’ been as accurate as it is here.
Up at the front, a little brass plate reminds us that Edward VII slept through a sermon here in 1908. How different it must have seemed to him from the carefree days with his old friend the Maharajah! Still, it must have been a great occasion, full of Edwardian pomp, and the glitz that only the fabulously rich can provide. Today, the church is still splendid, but the Guinesses are no longer fabulously rich, and attendance at church is no longer compulsory for estate workers; there are far fewer of them anyway. The Church of England is in decline everywhere; and, let us be honest, particularly so in this part of Suffolk, where it seems to have retreated to a state of siege. Today, the congregation of this mighty citadel is as low as half a dozen. The revolutionary disappearance of Anglican congregations in the Iveagh's homeland is now being repeated in a slow, inexorable English way.
You wander outside, and there are more curiosities. Set in the wall are two linked hands, presumably a relic from a broken 18th century memorial. They must have been set here when the wall was moved back in the 1950s. In the south chancel wall, the bottom of an egg-cup protrudes from among the flints. This is the trademark of the architect WD Caroe. To the east of the new chancel, Duleep Singh’s gravestone is a very simple one. It is quite different in character to the church behind it. A plaque on the east end of the church remembers the centenary of his death.
Continuing around the church, you come to the surprise of a long cloister, connecting the remodelled chancel door of the old church to the new bell tower. It was built in 1922 as a memorial to the wife of the first Earl Iveagh. Caroe was the architect again, and he installed eight bells, dedicated to Mary, Gabriel, Edmund, Andrew, Patrick, Christ, God the Father, and the King. The excellent guidebook recalls that his intention was for the bells to be cast to maintain the hum and tap tones of the renowned ancient Suffolk bells of Lavenham... thus the true bell music of the old type is maintained.
This church is magnificent, obviously enough. It has everything going for it, and is a national treasure. And yet, it has hardly any congregation. So, what is to be done?
If we continue to think of rural historic churches as nothing more than outstations of the Church of England, it is hard to see how some of them will survive. This church in particular has no future in its present form as a village parish church. New roles must be found, new ways to involve local people and encourage their use. One would have thought that this would be easier here than elsewhere.
The other provoking thought was that this building summed up almost two centuries of British imperial adventure, and that we lived in a world that still suffered from the consequences. It is worth remembering where the wealth that rebuilt St Andrew and St Patrick came from.
As so often in British imperial history, interference in other peoples’ problems and the imposition of short-term solutions has left massive scars and long-cast shadows. For the Punjab, as in Ireland, there are no simple solutions. Sheer proximity has, after several centuries of cruel and exploitative involvement, finally encouraged the British government to pursue a solution in Ireland that is not entirely based on self-interest. I fear that the Punjab is too far away for the British to care very much now about what they did there then.
The unshakeable handshake.
This was completely un-posed, I'd been talking to and photographing some bikers in my local area when one turned to leave, this was how they parted.
Sharing Exposures - Spontaneous Photography - July
This is part of a personal project I am assembling of bikers and bikes, my connection with a 'chapter' is tenuous at the moment, but I hope that some free prints to guys I've got to know so far will help me gain more of their confidence.
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury,
is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,
Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places
on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester
to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his
bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now, this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury, is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school, Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.
An excerpt: "The most important thing in spirituality is to be a steadfast seeker. You should have unshakeable self-esteem. You should know what you are doing. When you know what you are doing, then do not back off until you reach your destination." - HH Younus AlGohar
Read the article here: medium.com/@YounusAlGohar/the-key-to-spirituality-92ab193...
Commentary.
Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury, is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school, Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.
This may well have been one of the last resting places on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years
by countless thousands of pilgrims.
It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.
Now this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.
Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.
Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.
Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.
Its charm is undeniable.