Vulpes vulpes(2)

For this special season I made a linocut. By suprise the fox appeared in it, walking in the snow.
I would like to add a line underneed it, a closing sentence... (read vulpes vulpes)

"... but Fox knew who he was, a friend and faithful guardian, and he continued his course"

May we all, in the new year, be pure and thoroughly who we are, and continu to write and share our stories, our lives, with eachother!

Vulpes vulpes

Last weekend I made a small lino cut and printed it… a fox.

The fox is an animal which speaks to my imagination. It’s a rare and beautiful animal which you won’t see very often. I remember I used to see two foxes every now and then in my rear garden when I lived in Edinburgh; a crippled old fox accompanied by a younger one. 

In most folktales and mythology the fox symbolises trickery and deceit - stories of a fox stealing food from a raven or deceiving a stork with a meal served on a flat plate. Probably most of us would refer to a fox as vicious and mean – and this is because of how the fox is referred to in stories. Since long we ascribe human characteristics to animals; both Aristoteles in his work Historia Animale and Gaius Plinius Secundus, a Roman historian and scientific encyclopedist, mentioned the fox as being vicious.

But there is this other fox too. In some stories the fox is portrayed as a friend or faithful guardian, as a lover, or as a hero like in the animation of Robin Hood where the hero is illustrated as a fox by Walt Disney. And did you know that the name Zorro, the legendary hero, means ‘fox’ in Spanish?  

Which fox is the one you know? It all depends on the stories which were handed down to you isn’t it?

On one hand there is this fox who is vicious, mean, deceitful and who deserves to be expelled because of his misbehaviour. And on the other hand there is this same fox – which turns out the be different, the fox who is alert, wild and untameable. In his heart you’ll find a rebel, fighting injustice, a friend and faithful guardian!

There is a lot of power in the stories we hear and believe.

Elderberry blossom syrup

Tuesday evening I went for a cycling tour with a friend and found a few elderberry bushes in blossom! So I decided to make elderberry blossom syrop, for the first time ever. I didn't put the recuired amount of sugar in it (much too sweet), but only 1/3 of it, a lemon, and decided to add ginger! Very tasty!

Another adventure...

After 3,5 years, another adventure in the woods... It's been a long time since I experienced this kind of creativity flow - such a great experience! I love my boys!

Sinking boat (2)

Last month it was 3 years ago that my three boys were abducted, confirming years of emotional abuse. Only a few people knew the incredible pain before and after, only a few discerned the great lies of the swindler.

A couple of weeks ago I saw the film Life of Pi. One quote struck me, where Pi Patel tells something about bereavement in life (he lost his whole family in a ship wreck): "I left so much behind ... I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not having a moment to say goodbye".

Here is "not having a moment to say goodbye" equal to being powerless to take control in a very shocking situation. Being powerless in great pain leaves you helpless, hopeless, empty, and traumatised.

There are only a few people I know who dare to be honest about bereavement in life. It seems that most of them have suffered great losses too.
While my body still aches and while I dream of a much easier life, I learned that in the midst of terrible pain there is something greater than having an answer to it. Right in the middle of it lies something valuable... Maybe it's about seeing life in new perspectives, life without lies and stereotypes, life without cheap answers... About getting to know a better part of self, a more authentic self, pure, with no illusions about life...
I guess that's it... I look at life with less illusions, and practice a more honest gratitude. I am more pessimistic, but know what is important. I got acquainted with great evil, and know how to discern it from the good and to appreciate life.

Linocut 'sinking boat' made by me.

De geur van versgebakken brood

Een tijdje geleden schreef ik het volgende verhaaltje. Recentelijk heb ik er een illustratie bij gemaakt.

De geur van versgebakken brood.

Hij wist het nog goed. Als klein kind speelde hij er op de vloer. Je zou denken dat een kind went aan een geur waar het regelmatig in speelt en deze niet meer opmerkt. Maar deze kleine jongen stond regelmatig rechtop, met zijn ogen dicht en zijn neus in de lucht om de geur van versgebakken brood op te snuiven. Wat was dat lekker!

Hij was er goed in, dat snuiven, beter dan anderen. Hij kon namelijk aan de geur herkennen wat voor een brood in de oven warm lag te worden. Zo rook het tijgerbrood naar groot avontuur, kloosterbrood naar galmende gangen vol aanbiddingsmuziek, en zonnebloempittenbrood naar de uitgestrekte velden vol goudgele bloemen. Het was een gave, had zijn oom eens verteld, niet lang voordat hij stierf, gestikt in een snee roggelbrood.

Deze jongen wist wat hij later wilde worden. Net als zijn oom, zou hij zijn gevoeligheid, zijn neus, zijn gave inzetten om de mensen van heinde en verre te voorzien van het heerlijkste brood van het land.

Maar toen hij later groot geworden was werd zijn gave niet gewaardeerd. Met het ruiken van brood kon je geen boterham verdienen, vond men. Er waren mensen met hele andere neuzen, en die hun neus ophaalden voor de zijne. Brood was gewoon brood, daar moest hij niet over zeiken. En terwijl hij dat maar liet, werd het hem op zijn brood gegeven.

Zo werd hij langzaam iemand anders, anders dan hemzelf. Aan de buitenkant werd hij een prima vuilnisman en ruimde keurig de rommel op van anderen. Aan de binnenkant werd hij een lege kliko, waarin holle klanken echoden en de geur van versgebakken brood ver te zoeken was.

Autumn