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Time heals all wounds.

A platitude.

They make us feel better and we cling to them in difficult times. The truth, though, is that that’s all they are. They aren’t pronouncements that foretell the future or promises that pain will cease to exist. They give us enough comfort to get us through, so that when the realization comes that pain is a steed we ride through time, we’re strong enough to keep our seat.

Today is the three year anniversary of my mother’s death. Time has actually done enough to make her loss easier for me. I still think of her every day. Many times. Her favorite foods remind me. TV shows she loved. Songs. I look at pictures a lot. I remember her hugs, as if I can still feel her arms around me. I look at images of her hands and think of how comforting their warmth against my hair and forehead always was when I was sick. So much of daily life carries her with it. 

But no matter how much time passes, it won’t heal the hole she’s left in my life. It gapes there, behind every moment, a rending wound. The rending pain fades, but the hole does not close. I think that when we love someone so much for our entire lives they leave an indelible mark. And that’s good. In her final years, her own mother was with her every day still, decades after she was lost to her. Alzheimer’s actually enhanced that. It brought her hallucinations that gave her mother back to her when she needed her most. So that she went from talking to me about her to talking to her. I’m glad all the time that passed wasn’t able to take that connection to her precious mother away from her. Some people are meant to transcend loss and time. The best mothers are our mothers forever.

So time serves the purpose of softening the hard, jagged edges of grief. It gives us a measure of peace. And once the grief is no longer so sharp, it opens the door to remembrance and grace. A measure of healing lies in that place, it’s just that the healing is a lifelong process, borne in the arms of love.

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My mother was a beautiful young woman. These photos are evidence of that. She looked like a super model, before there were super models. I think these were taken when she was in her late teens and/or early twenties.

I recently came across this one. I kept looking at it, not entirely sure it was really her, in spite of the fact that she’d written her name and 40s on the back. Most of the hundreds of pictures she left for me to enjoy showed her beauty staying with her throughout her nearly century of life. I think this may be the worst of them all.

I just couldn’t understand how she could look so bad. Almost like a walking cadaver. Skin stretched across prominent facial bones, hollow eyes, accompanied by a haunted gaze. She looked as if she’d walked through hell.

Eventually I realized she had. The 1940s. That was the answer. She was living through World War II. This must be several years after the lovely, carefree images. She’s standing in Aunt Pearl’s yard, which means it was likely when she lived with Aunt Pearl and Uncle Dick, while the sisters worked at a nearby arsenal, making bombs. Risking their lives every day. A bus came to get them for the ride to what might have been the last day of their lives. One accident is all it would take. Living with that alone, though with such strength and courage, was enough to take a toll.

Even if it was before she worked at the arsenal, the general wartime was nightmarish. She told me that after Pearl Harbor was attacked, they were terrified that the Japanese would bomb even so far inland. So she was already accustomed to living in a state of high fear. 

Add the deprivation of food scarcity. Meat, butter, and sugar were rationed. They had to adjust to the butter substitute margarine, adding the yellow coloring that came with it to make it resemble real butter better than it did without it. They learned to make butterless, sugarless, eggless cakes and “apple” pies out of crackers, sacrificing every way they could think of to help the war effort. That would explain her newfound gaunt look. She didn’t eat a lot anyway, so paring down her natural diet would have been drastic.

Even her vibrant smile was different. The phrase “Carrying the weight of the world.” comes to mind. It’s said that the people who lived through World War II are a remarkable generation. They were. A few remain and still are. They always will be, preserved forever, I hope, in the amber of historical memory and generational family stories.

I’m happy to say that with her innate resillience she was regaining her natural beauty, by the time my parents were married several years after the war. This picture captured them in a solemn moment, perhaps trying to portray the importance of the occasion. They look strong and healthy, with a new layer of maturity brought to them by surviving such hardship, as they embark on their new life together 

I stumbled across this video on YouTube and found it stunning. I’m not familiar with the musician, but like the song. It’s the combination of the song and the visual that is so riveting, though. The also unfamiliar actress is phenomenal. So still. Spare. Stoic for so long and then the breaking of determination into despair. It makes you hurt to watch her face, body language, and progression of emotion. Such a stunning production. In a few brief minutes, it becomes unforgettable.

Keaton Henson–You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are

There’s not a lot to say about this singer songwriter, because not much is known. He’s chosen to keep himself in the dark. Literally, at times, in shadowy profile. That’s the way he’s presented, in the acoustic video of Someday Soon one of the two songs he’s released so far. Apparently, he’s in a famous band and will do a reveal eventually.

In the meantime, what I can say is that he has an incredible voice. I bought the song and like it, but not as much as I love the acoustic video. In the acoustic version, he’s a total belter, with a grit and growl to the held notes that gives him a unique and intriguing sound that’s unforgettable. It makes you want to hear it again. Then again. And more.

I’m looking forward to finding out who it is. I want to guess it’s Dave Grohl, because it would be such a departure. I love Dave and Foo Fighters, but that silhouette just isn’t right…..

Wilder Woods Someday Soon Acoustic

Almost in bloom tulips.

Purpley pink hyacinths in abstract.

Pretty pink buds.

Front and center, bloom and buds.

I saw Playing for Time on TV so long ago that I don’t remember exactly when it was. Decades, I’m sure. I wanted to see it again for all that time, but the nearly $70 price of the eventual DVD was way beyond affordable for even such an excellent movie. It recently became available on Blu Ray and I finally have it in my movie library.

When I first saw it, I hadn’t even really started having favorite actors yet, but I did notice extraordinary talent. The entire cast was outstanding. Yet, Vanessa Redgrave stood out as someone special. Her acting and singing we’re heart-rending and inspiring at the same time. The beautiful Aria from Madama Butterfly stands out as a glorious jewel, juxtaposed against the horrors of Auschwitz.

I had forgotten all but impressions, images, and sounds from the first time I saw it, but the full impact came back to me as I watched it so much later on Blu Ray. Vanessa Redgrave’s portrayal of Fania Fenelon has an impact on viewers that screams with quiet dignity of courage, strength, and perseverance that will not be forgotten. 

Should never be forgotten. 

Playing for Time TV Promo

A paraphrasing of the old saying that eloquently sums up the elusive nature of dreams one knows are impossible, my above title aptly conveys the feelings with which some writers and most fans of the Bronte sisters are all to familiar. I suffered from Emily Bronte envy long before I was privileged to walk on some of her beloved ground in Haworth. Once I stood gazing at the Parsonage and walked along a well worn public path, with its bright green grass, stone wall, and tantalizing vistas across a wide, wild stretch of moor, I longed to travel back into her all too brief lifetime to experience it for myself. Briefly, of course, since the Brontes lived lives that were tinged, then deluged with pain, heartbreak, and tragedy.

This Atlas Obscura article dangles the past right before Bronte lovers’ eyes, in the form of a farmhouse the Bronte family visited. They partook of the bookly feast contained in the home’s impressive library. Perhaps, perchance…possibly…Emily based a part of her novel Wuthering Heights on this centuries old property. Even without the Bronte connection, it would still be an amazing piece of English history. 

There’s the problem of the wishes part, though. Ponden Hall is for sale, but for more money than most of us can afford to do more than dream about. This article provides pictures and descriptions that make the dreaming enjoyable, even in its sheer impossibility. One can only hope that the eventual buyers are thrilled by their new connection to literary greatness and get unending pleasure from their new home.

https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/wuthering-heights-farmhouse-inspiration?utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=atlas-page