Adieu to a dear friend

Dearest Maria,
 
As I light candles for my morning meditation, I’m thinking of you and all the light you brought into my life. In these last years, my daily prayer was more of a plea for mercy: “God, have mercy and allow Maria to stay one day longer.” For life without you seemed unimaginable. Yet, as is so often the case, the universe has grander plans for you than any of us individuals. So now you have been released from your burdens and suffering. I’m so glad you believe in heaven, though I may not, for surely you will be joyfully happy there.
 
And you have left your family and friends with a difficult task: we are to be happy that you have found peace and tranquility. We must celebrate your light, the courage you have shown, and most particularly, those endless acts of human kindness you gifted each and every one of us. Your ability to love and be loved, no matter what our flaws are, has been a constant inspiration to me.
 
What I learnt from you is how life, in all its fullness, is both of everything: sadness and happiness, doubt and certainty, responsibility and freedom, and lastly, sickness and health. Your ability to embrace the positive while acknowledging the struggles was a lifelong practice of patience.
 
I remember the countless times when visiting, how you managed somehow to sail through all the chaos to get the girls off to school, Helmut to work, and you as well. You were the pivot point of turning every potential meltdown into something that could be fixed right then and there.
 
No matter what was going on, there was harmony in the chaos of daily goings-on. It was so endearing to see how Helmut, muffled in pragmatism, managed to weather the storms of female unpredictability. How you would calmly be packing lunch boxes and running downstairs with a load of laundry and then going out to quickly water the garden. All the while the family would running up or down the stairs, shouting or singing the anthem which is uniquely that of the Wittmann–Speber household.
 
Your girls have always been the treasure and pride of your life. They have grown into women with unmistakably unique skills and big hearts. You and Helmut gave them constancy in love. They move with confidence as adults that has grown from the knowledge they are deeply loved.
 
Even though we only saw each other once or twice a year, your family has always been part of the Hadley/Cavallaro family. Our children more like cousins than the children of a friend of their mother. How precious this was for them. May Anna, Fee, and Lisi and Helmut know they can always count on us if they are in need of solace.
 
So, the moment has come to pass forward the light of your loving being. May we all take dear, dear care to share it with our loved ones, as well as with strangers.
 
Winter is here, and I know I am going to miss you so intensely, be sad, and even feel diminished in my spiritual core. That is what happens when best friends part ways. Yet spring will come, won’t it, Maria? Surely there will come a time when I can think of you without tears. I can talk to you without having to lift up the phone. We met as young women and became kindred souls, sharing all the sorrows and joys that made our lives so grand. Thank you. I love you.
 
Love and affection,

Your Lia

Beautiful sounds: halyards

The clanging of halyards echoes through the rigging as we ride out a storm in a sheltered harbour. 

Sadness unshared

A young woman travelling through Europe meets a young artist in Amsterdam. He plays a sad song on a scruffy guitar. She listens, rejoicing with her whole being in the song’s words; so profoundly touched by how the songwriter manages to build and crash the hope of love eternal. Not a tale of romance gone wrong, but rather the universal tragedy of love unleashed. 

The man turns to her and says he was surprised to see such depth of sadness in her eyes as he played. He says it in a way that is half fascination, half abhorrence—wondering how she could be so very much other than all the other women he had played the song to.

She looks back at him, puzzled. Until then, she had believed everyone felt deep sadness every day. But now, that guarded look in his eyes—previously so sexually charged—makes her feel embarrassed. Shamed, even, for having shown her vulnerability.

#booksIlove: DS Cross Thrillers

Title: All of the DS Cross series, by Tim Sullivan

First time I read the book: 2025, on recommendation from Sonja Heinlien

Generally, I love a detective series. The main characters have time to develop and play off each other. It is not only about the crime, but also about letting the characters occupy space in my mind for a longer period of time. 

I slurped this series: The Denist, The Cyclist, The Patient, The Politician, The Monk, and The Teacher. I still have The Bookseller to go.

The main character George Cross is on the spectrum and has earned reluctant acknowledgement for his excellence the hard way. He's bull-headed and brilliant. He has also suffered much bullying on the force over the years and his way of handling it is both frustrating and amusing to those that like working with him.

Not wanting to move on

Leaves turning yellow
My feet warm in soft slippers
Summer is over.

Café Catlove, Gijón, Spain

 #1
 
A young mother and father come into the café with their cute little baby. The woman starts breastfeeding. The man's friend enters the café after about fifteen minutes, and he and the father exchange a brief conversation. The two men get up and leave with the baby carriage. The woman then gets up and continues to breastfeed while following them out of the café.
Walking while breastfeeding is a skill I never had.
 
 
 #2
 
So far, I have failed to find a good cup of tea. After searching for two hours, I found one that at least offered tea. The menu was heavy with green and matcha. There were only two black tea choices: with milk (con leche) and Americano. Since I couldn't imagine what Americano would be, I opted for tea and milk.
 
This turns out to be warm milk with some tea dust floating around. No tea leaves or tea bag in sight. No use of boiling water in the process. Definitely an acquired taste.
 
 
#3
 
No one here seems to speak English. They smile shyly and speak Spanish slowly. Occasionally, they give one-word sentences a try: "card", "here" (when seating in a restaurant), or "sorry" and a shake of their head (when asked if they speak English). It doesn't matter if the person is young or old. All are universally living in a world where Spanish is a given.
 
Last night, while trying to order wine, the waiter did not know whether the wine was "dry." He did not suggest asking his colleague. Instead, "don't understand" in Spanish was his response.

Whether driving taxis, working in shops, or cafés, there are only people speaking Spanish. And truthfully, I have only heard a smattering of people speaking other languages. So, I dug out my Google translator and smatterings of words from my early years in Caracas, and did the best I could . What fun!