Too many moons have passed since I’ve posted anything. But, that’s changing. My world has been turned upside down in the most amazing way this past year, and it’s time to emerge from the deep and long psychological and emotional sleep that engulfed me and rendered creativity nearly impossible.
For now I’ll let these photographs speak for me, the unfolding of life felt anew.
(I photographed these peonies in my garden. They’re pure, not photo-shopped.)
In tribute from my home in Italy this 75th anniversary, I say to the Czech nation, Bravo! Your fighting spirit won the battle (and the war for you), and you sacrificed so much for your freedom on May 8, 1945, which sadly lasted only three years, but you didn’t give up through 40 years of hell. You endured the Prague Spring crushing in 1968 and the worst years of communism after that. In 1989, you again emerged victorious, and I hope beyond hope that your democratic ideals not only survive, but flourish.
May 9th was the day touted as liberation day by the Soviets. The Red Army rolled into Prague on May 9th only to find that the Germans had unconditionally surrendered the day before and had signed a formal capitulation to the Czech National Council. Of course, once the Soviets took control of Czechoslovakia in 1948, that date stood for 40 years, until 1989 and the fall of communism.
General Toussaint on his way to sign the capitulation, May 8, 1945
The capitulation signed by the CNC and General Toussaint
My late husband’s father, Prof. Otakar Machotka, was a vice-president of the Czech National Council, a conglomeration of three political parties that guided and lead the Prague Uprising from 3 May to 8 May, 1945.
CNC meeting. Otakar Machotka, second from right.
It was a bloody uprising with over 4,000 dead by the time it ended. Otakar was gone from the apartment those five days, planning, hiding, moving from building to building to avoid being captured. My husband remembers huddling with his mother and sisters in the basement of their apartment building as the fighting intensified in the their area. At one point a German tank blew a hole through the upper apartments, and to this day one can still see the outline of the hole in the plaster.
Otakar Machotka with Czech soldiers and partisans
The Czechs fought bravely and constructed huge street barricades to block the German tanks. They used cobblestones, rusted out cars parts, timber, wooden crates, huge spools of hoses, any material they could find.
Normally, my husband, Pavel Machotka, and I would be in Prague for this anniversary, as we have been at every anniversary since 1990 up until 2018. Our last May 8th celebration in Prague was in 2017, two months before my husband had a massive stroke that left him an invalid. He passed away last year on March 18, 2019. Sadly, even had he lived, we would not be able to be in Prague this year due to COVID.
Every time we went to Prague, we would visit the tomb where Pavel’s parents are buried in the National Cemetery at Vyšehrad. It is the tomb of Milada Horáková containing the remains of brave partisans and exiles from 1939-1945, and 1948-1989. Horáková was one of the bravest people in Czechoslovakia and was tried on trumped up charges of conspiracy and treason and hung for her bravery by the communists in 1950.
I miss you, Prague, on this day but celebrate with you in spirit!
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B&W photos are from Otakar Machotka’s book, The Prague Uprising 1945, the Protagonists’ Testimonies (Pražskě Povstání 1945, Svédectví Protagonistů), edited by Pavel Machotka, 2015. Originally published in 1965 without photos, Pavel edited the book, wrote his own chapter of memories, and re-released the book in 2015. The photos were published with the generous approval and permission of the Czech National Archives, Czech TV, and the collection of Mr. Čvančara, photographer.
Posted in Reflections, Travel
Tagged Czech resistance, May 8 1945, Milada Horkova, Otakar Machotka, Pavel Machotka, Prague, Prague Uprising
Probably one of the finest book titles ever created. I always imagined I knew how this felt; when I read the book, when I saw the movie, when I thought about the meaning. But now I really know the surreal floating, this strange being, the lightness one feels when emerging from the heaviness of isolation.
And though the lightness of emerging from two months of lockdown is liberating, it’s also terrifying, because we don’t know what awaits us out there. To go from the heaviness of responsibility (something that Beethoven insisted was necessary for his music) to the lightness of responsibility is dizzying.
When I ventured out during the lockdown to shop (once a week at most), my footsteps were heavy on the empty sidewalks, a certain duty and obligation had overtaken me. I felt literally grounded to the pavement with a sadness of the reality. But it was real, finite if you will.
And now, to go out without getting stopped by the police between principalities, to walk into a bar (albeit with only 2 other customers at a time and you have to take your coffee outside), to venture into a park (with the proper social distancing and still wearing masks and gloves all the time) feels foreign, almost unbearable, because we’re in a liminal space, between one moment and the next. And we don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s that moment on the high dive just before you launch yourself; it’s exhilarating and scary as hell.
I find I still want to stay inside, stay safe, keep the doors and gate locked (as if that will keep the virus away), stay hidden, stay heavy with the weight of what has been our reality for over two months. And yet. I long to feel the joy of the lightness as it pulls and taunts, because it’s sensual and beautiful and liberating and amazing. And unbearable. It’s still too dark for the light, but I know we’ll get there.
Tagged awakening, Italy, liminal space, living in Italy, lockdown, moments, opening in italy, Umbria
We’re facing a whole new world with the coronavirus. Everything is changing, including how we use the words self- (add your word here).
Self-quarantine started it off. If you become sick with the virus or test positive, you need to self-quarantine. Then self-isolate came in. If you think you might have the virus, or are afraid of contracting it, you need to self-isolate. Or, as I saw here in Italy about a little over a week ago, the paradigm shift in thinking that if you don’t self-isolate, you could infect others. That sea-change in thinking has probably helped more than any other persuasion to get people to stay home. And finally, a more comforting term, self-shelter, has appeared.
We already have a lot of self-words. Self-control: That’s a good one that we all hear from our parents. Self-harm: That’s not good. Neither is self-destruct. Too many rock stars in that arena. Self-pity: Ew, too much of that around. Self-exile: That conjures up visions of Siberia and endless deserts. Self-indulge: We know what that can lead to. Self-pleasure: Ah yes, we know what word that replaced. Self-induce: Hmmm, take your pick on that one. Self-denial: Some government leaders come to mind.
As we’re entering into the 10th day of self-stay-at-home-or-else here in Italy, some interesting things are happening. The need for social interaction is huge, and the Italians are hugely social. So, they’ve swung into action to ensure that “you are not alone” by singing their hearts out (or playing instruments) from windows and balconies all across the country. It’s heart-warming and giving everyone hope that we will get through this. Not to mention some amazingly fantastic singers and musicians who would otherwise never have been discovered.
Closer to home…here comes some self-disclosure. I’ve been in a quasi self-isolation for three years. My husband had a massive stroke in 2017 that left him an invalid. My whole world turned upside down…and inward. All of a sudden, everything out there was much less important than what was happening in the spare bedroom-turned hospital room downstairs. My whole life became focused on administering to, and caring for, my husband. 24/7. I had to go out of the house nearly every day, but it was only for doctor visits, the pharmacy, state disability, medical supplies, sanitary supplies, hospital trips, physical therapy sessions, legal affairs, endless paperwork filing. My social life disappeared. Oh, once in a while I would run up to Montone, my little town, wave at people as I rushed through the piazza, gulp down an espresso in 6.5 seconds, and then rush off for more rounds of bureaucratic crap. After two years of this, suffice it to say I was dangerously thin and exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Luckily, I had wonderful help. I never could have done it without our care giver, and she has since become one of my best friends in life.
So, self-isolation is nothing new to me. But this time, I’m on my own. My husband died last year on March 18, 2019. I spent yesterday and last night with a lot of memories, alone in my house with my three life-saving kitties. I’ve never been afraid of living alone (for some strange reason, I rarely get lonely). I lived alone for a long time before I met my husband. And it’s strange to say this after living with my husband for 35 years, but I like living alone.
This last year of being a widow (still choke on that word) has opened up an entire world of “self.” Basically, you have to “do it yourself”. I’ve learned a lot, and I do have great help for things I cannot do myself. But the weird part in all of this is that I have not been able to write for the last year even though I now have all the time in the world. Huh? “Be careful what you wish for” comes to mind. On the other hand, what I went through for three years probably has something to do with it; I’ve needed to do nothing (or just the minimum) to recover my strength, my health, my sanity, my heart and soul. Yesterday marked that time.
I’m thinking and feeling and realizing that this time alone has morphed into self-immersion, self-discovery, self-emergence. Ironic how it has taken a global, external threat, locking us inside our homes, for us to look inside ourselves and let those selves emerge in whatever way they can. Whether it’s singing out of windows to comfort others, talking on the phone again—not just texting—rediscovering talents and remembering those dreams, finding closeness with family because there is no escape, and knowing that even though we are alone, we’re not really alone. Out of this madness, it feels like a gift to return to my photography and to write again. It has been three years. Self-bloom! I wish it on everyone.
Stay safe, stay optimistic. We will get through this.
Posted in Reflections, Umbria
Tagged awakening, gifts of life, living in Italy, moments, not alone, self-discovery, self-isolation, Umbria, under lockdown, we will get through this
I write about moments. Those fleeting windows of now…or never…or forever.
Those moments that change you, your loved ones, life.
A moment beyond our control. This one cruel, a rip in the fabric that can only be mended, never the same. Always visible. Always raw.
Followed by millions of moments that make no sense, have no cohesion, don’t add up to anything but chaos, fear, waiting.
Too torn to feel.
Seemingly too torn to heal.
Can’t reach out. No energy, no time, no space. So much darkness.
But out of the darkness, light must prevail. Is that not so?
My beloved ocean beckons me. Down to the sea I must go. Breathe in the salt air, hear the waves crash, become one with the timeless, relentless motion.
Go where you must. I’ll always be with you, no matter what form you take. It’s all right.
We’ll heal together.
Photo Challenge: Magic. A little naiad (water nymph) guarding a tributary of the Vltava River, Prague.
Posted in Travel, Weekly photo challenges
Tagged Czech Republic, moments, mythical, naiad, photography, photos, Prague, Vltava river, weekly photo challenge
My mother was of the Moon. Aren’t all women?
Each month, when the moon is full, my mother comes to visit. I know it’s her way of telling me that she’s still with me. And how lovely to know that we’ll see each other every month until I no longer inhabit the earth. Perhaps then I’ll be with her on our infinite journey.
I usually photograph the rising moon or when it’s high in the sky. But this time, the first full moon after my mother’s death, I awoke early at 5:00 am and looked out the window. The moon was sliding down into her setting, and I said my final goodbye as the she took my mother with her.
The August moon is the most precious as my mom’s birthday is August 19th.
Tagged daily post, gifts of life, memories, moments, moms, Montone, mother-daughter, photography, Umbria, Writing
This week’s Photo Challenge: Morning. What better way to celebrate morning than by walking? Storks walking in a river in Vir, Czech Republic, 7 am.
Posted in Travel, Umbria, Weekly photo challenges
Tagged Czech Republic, moments, photography, Umbria, weekly photo challenge
It has been a long time since I’ve posted anything. I’ve had serious writer’s block as the past nine months have been challenging, full of emotion, a time to recast and reset patterns that have become destructive, a time to pull up every plant and look at the roots to see if they’re healthy for replanting or need to be tossed away.
I’ve been reading Elena Ferrante’s incredible tome of four books about a friendship that has lasted 60 years. And it’s hitting close to home. My “best” friend and I nearly made it, except that she died last year at 59. And we had had a terrible falling out five years ago. I’ve had a lot to think about and look back upon. A lifetime, in fact.
At 60 now, I finally feel like I can let go of a lot of shit, to put it bluntly. And that includes people who have been toxic for me. I’ve always been a giver, but after giving my entire life, I now know that I’ve chosen takers all too often, and as a giver, it’s time to set some boundaries because the takers won’t. One of the roles I’ve played, and am giving up now, is that of a cornerstone for people.
The problem with being a cornerstone in peoples’ lives is that they come to expect that you’ll always be there, strong and whole without chips or broken pieces, securely in place with cement all around, never worn down smooth from constant use over the years.
I admit I wanted to be a cornerstone for a lot of people. It brought gratification, acceptance, approval, love even. To be there always for someone gave us both strength. But it held huge responsibilities and guilt at times. When we moved to Italy 16 years ago, this same friend sobbed on the phone and said, “How can you move so far away and leave me? You’re my cornerstone.” Talk about guilt.
And when the cornerstone crumbles just a bit, changes position and becomes jumbled among other stones and bits of brick, who’s there to pick up the pieces? Where’s the cornerstone for the cornerstone? Not from the people to whom I’ve been one, apparently.
My original post as I wrote it was full of details about this person or that, those who had “wronged” me with their selfishness, those who never called me to ask how I’m doing, those who have gotten pissed off at me if I don’t call even when I’m in a difficult phase of my life. Ahem.
I realized that it sounded whiny and that I was feeling sorry for myself. I’m not. On the contrary, after the horrible break with my life-long friend who accused me of all sorts of terrible deeds that I had done to her, it was the kick in the ass I needed to let go and change my behavior. It was actually a gift, though a painful one.
I’ve learned a lot about life from building fires every night in our wood-buring stove. If you keep messing with it, trying to make it light more quickly by fussing and trying to control it, it won’t light. The best thing to do is let it catch by itself and then watch it glow and eventually brighten into a beautiful, roaring fire.
So, the cornerstone has been put away in a safe place where even I can’t get to it. It can crumble on its own, wear down, eventually slip away. And I won’t have to take responsibility any more for making sure it holds.
And I truly appreciate even more the other two wonderful friends I’ve had for over 40 years. One I met in junior high, the other when we worked together in our late teens. We’re always there for each other even if we don’t talk or write for months. I know now it’s because we’ve never considered the other to be a cornerstone, rather we’ve been more like gentle wild grasses that bend in the wind, grow and die with the changing seasons, then come back greener than ever, breathing with life, sometimes with surprising gifts, caressing each others’ hearts with brilliance, color, and love.
Posted in Reflections, Umbria
Tagged awakening, cornerstone, gifts of life, Italian stories, moments, photography, Umbria, Writing
This week’s photo challenge is “symbol.” I don’t usually write much for these photo challenges because I think the photo should speak for itself. But we were also asked to tell the story behind the choice of our symbol.
My mother’s hands. The last time I saw her. We were sitting on her patio in San Miguel de Allende, July 2010.
These hands held me, caressed me, bathed me, massaged me, wrapped around my face, and held me when I was learning to swim. They brushed my hair, cooked food, tended flowers in the garden, held our kitties, stroked our dogs, and cared for her beloved horses.
They held castanets and ballet positions when we danced together. And they played her piano. Beautifully. They were poetry in motion.
They never once hurt me. They were living symbols of love. And when she was dying, I held her hands in mine and gave her back as much love as I could.
Posted in Moments, Weekly photo challenges
Tagged moms, photography, photos, postaweek, reflections, San Miguel de Allende, symbol, weekly photo challenge
Writing in Umbria 