Dig Deep

DIG DEEP

"(Every man should) plant a tree, have a child and write a book. These all live on after us, insuring a measure of immortality". 

- attributed to the Talmud and Jose Marti, Cuban revolutionist and poet. 

My book is in a box under my bed. The child...well, it´s rather complicated for me. But to plant a tree, now that I can do and I did today. In fact, I planted several trees; among them a pear, an apple, a loquat, a mandarin and a peach. When I was a child, growing up in inner city Leeds, we had an allotment but I have no firm memories on growing produce. Until this particular juncture in my life, I´ve only managed to grow tomatoes on window boxes but now things are different; now we have land that can be used for planting. 

For as long as I can remember I´ve always imagined owning a house in its own land and my dreams were very specific. There had to be old stones and there had to be water. When we stumbled upon our new home, first online and then in person, by bouncing along the country road that is its approach, in an urban car designed for tarmac, we knew it was ours. We love the way it sits firmly at the edge of a flat valley, flanked by olives, on the banks of a river beautifully named as The River of Silences. We knew we had found home; our place of solace and peace; the place where nothing else matters. 

But as many journeys in life, the road hasn´t been an easy one. There were many dark days when I thought it would never happen, when I imagined that the dream would simply slip through my fingers and it would forever remain a figment of my own overactive imagination. That´s why every single time I drive home, I breathe a deep sigh, often stopping the car to let the thankfulness seep in. 

So today, as I was preparing the holes to plant the trees, I has this thought; that we have to dig deep through the rough times and rely on our resolve. We must seek the support and laughter of those that really love us and cherish those we love and hold them close. For there are days that merely getting out of bed is much more than a momentary act of the will and more like an endeavour that seeks to diminish us and keep us down. It´s on those particular days that we must dig deep and remember the understanding words of the wise and the guidance of our peers and make sure we remove the brittle stones of fear, insecurity and low self-worth, so there are no unexposed dark corners to hide beneath. You see, for a tree to stand strong and firm, there must be a significantly deep hole so the roots can develop and spread. All rocks need to be removed and then carefully, oh so very carefully, the empty spaces around the roots should be filled in with good, robust and decent soil, packed down and watered by a gardeners deft hand. There are so many factors dictating healthy growth; sunshine, water, wind, air and animals all play a role in the either healthy blooming of a young tree or else the demise of a weak sapling that fails to take root. Humans, just like trees are dependant on so many factors that they´re impossible to list. It´s a delicate and complicated journey that requires skill and learning and many of us have felt (and still do feel) ill-equipped for the job. 

But today it became apparent to me, more than ever before, how important it is to dig deep and prepare for the future. If we are not committed to our eventual growth by making sure that all the above mentioned factors are taken into account, rather than skulking away from the responsibilities of our true self, then we will not blossom into the people we were meant to be. If we do not look after ourselves then we will not bear fruit. 

So on this day, I am reminded of those bleak days, when I had to dig deep. When I had to keep the shadows at bay and trust in a blind future. When it was only the love, support and understanding of those that love me that enabled me to clear the path towards this, my happy and healthy future. 

Now all the trees are planted, the rains have come to settle them into their new surroundings. Nature takes over now. All we know how to do has been done, so all that remains is patience to wait gently until the first apple ripens in the autumn sunshine. 

Manni Coe  May 9th 2016 

The Nazis would have killed him 3 times over; for having Down Syndrome, for being gay and for being Jewish.

I need to exteriorise something. It lays heavy on my chest and maybe my nightmares last night are something to do with the fact that I haven´t acted upon an impulse to write, until now.

Last week Reuben, myself and a friend Nico were enjoying lunch and the conversation moved into talk of the holocaust. I shared the experience of my visit to the camps several years ago. The memories re-appeared as if it was yesterday.

I went to Auschwitz with my father, long before we knew we were Jewish (that´s another post, another story). I was prepared for the figures of Jewish mortalities as I had learnt them in school but what took me, and my father, quite by storm were the figures for gypsies, gays, the mentally ill, the undesirables. We stood in front of a chart that explained all the different classification systems and colour coding. 375,000 Gypsies were killed at Auschwitz - a shocking figure.

As we moved down the wall of photos of victims, each one identified for their ¨crime¨against the Aryan Ideal, eyes stared out at us. We stopped in front of a section of gay men. I came out to my parents when I was 21 but it´s still an issue and it was even more of an issue back then. My father who has done an amazing job at throwing off the shackles that his English, war torn British upbringing afforded him moved a milestone and touched my arm. There were no words but that little "arm touch" was worth a monument in my mind. 

But that was then and this is now. I am confronted with Reuben sitting in front of me tucking into his Sunday lunch of Iberian Pork and the tears pour out of me. Maybe I was feeling "Sunday Sensitive", maybe I was feeling hungover from a brilliant Saturday night of festivities. Reuben´s identification under the Nazi´s would have been of the most complicated. A Jewish Star made up of one black inverted triangle for having Down Syndrome, overlaid by a yellow star for being Jewish and topped with a pink bar for being gay. He was the kind of human the Nazis felt threatened the Ayran race. Those of you that know me know how much I adore Reuben. Those I´ve never met, I´ll sum it up for you; if I had to take one person to a desert island it would be Reubs. He is the most wholesome, loving, accepting person I know, who never criticises and is eternally grateful and positive. I wondered what might have become of him had he been born in Germany in 1920. Reuben is unique and under the Nazis he would have been singled out, I´m sure, but for all the wrong reasons. As I write this in 2014, I am bursting with pride and gratitude that he can live freely without threat or hindrance. He has a gay flag in his bedroom, a Jewish star on his desk and wears a T shirt from the Down Syndrome association that says "Keep Calm, it´s only an extra Chromosome."

He smiles at me and speaks his secret word "Nnya" (the name of this blog) and tucks into his pork. He is free and he is happy. He makes me happier and causes more tears to rush of of me. But these  are good tears and need to form and fall. 

Estrecho

Asustado por el silencio de los pájaros
Testigos a tiempos nublados
Y sombra nos cubre

Una ligera cinta blanca
Delicada y mutante
Seperando dos mares

Barcos se llaman en la noche
Sus sirenas formando acordes
De una música africana

Más alla de de las olas
Lejos de mi arena
Percibo un alma perdido

Alma con ritmo, alma con afán
Alma con sueños sin definir
En la uña de Europa

Esto es un mero recuerdo
Que tiembla las aguas del Estrecho
Con su memoria indudablemente lejana

New in New York

Icy wind rips through years past
Dampness of memory gone
Empty recollections
In my heart, new beats settle
One, Two, Three, Four
Steady and clear
Waters of a fresh well
From where I hear your voice
Feintly, calling me by name

Shadows disperse
And I no longer feel pain
Neither the dull ache of it
New in New York
Grand central and her stone
Faces forging futures
All american girls
And sons following fathers

Pull your wool over your ears
Let the street take you
Walk, walk and don´t you tire
For weary souls are kindly asked to leave.

Seventeen

Seventeen

Seventeen hard stones,
cold from the outside in.
Strained smiles
and heavy sadness.

Intelligent agony.
Caresses not void of love.
But love is feint
Love is distant.

Cupid´s blind arrow
The Virgin´s tear drop
Her son died alone
Time his only friend

Take pity away from your gaze
And let me live...

Lord and Gypsy

Pampa and park,

ombu and oak,

lord and gypsy,

lady and moor,

east  Atlantic,

west Atlantic,

chairman and carpenter,

seamstress and duke

…

mourn her.

And remember, together,

the strength of her voice.

Tango and Duende

dance for her.

A lover not of life,

but of the marrow of life.

She nourished not from the olive,

but from that which gives the olive breath.

The sands of the deserts have counted,

with great sadness, the hour of her passing.

Quiet corners of Andalucía sigh.

Murmurs, along ancient paths,

carry the news of her crossing.

Mists cling to the hillsides,

yearning for just a while longer

to consider her beauty.

Heiress of collective cultures.

Her vision nonpareil.

Can anyone replace her?

Rich in deep knowledge,

shy of feigning,

abundant in love.

Seeker of humanity.

Great and unmovable as a mountain summit.

Her soul carried the weight,

of the very nature of life.

Her eyes, deep pools of brilliant blue,

candles of humanity.

Now,

…

the valley of her silence

floods with the crystal waters

of her ancestral transparency,

and they remain, for each of us,

in our own due course,

to consider, with great care,

our own reflection.

From deep within the waters

will rise the comfort of her gaze,

urging us onwards.

And we will glimpse

her perpetual smile.

Manni Coe ©