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The Journey of a Learner in the footsteps of ancestors ❤️
History is unreliable. Personal history is not (usually).
My daughter is the sixth female in a straight maternal line who is born in a different country than her mother ❤️ That in itself is mind blowing. We are and come from a long line of immigrants.
They fled, dared, loved, lost, left everything, risked, feared, endured, birthed. Crossed oceans and seas, rivers, mountains even, countless bridges. Set their eyes upon unknown land. They felt lonely, misunderstood, lost in translation, held on to the tiniest comfort, searched for courage where they could, wandered and had to find themselves again and again. Fates intertwined. Hesitating with their steps, like going around the corner of a dark alley. Building new lives, they all carried each other and held us, still to this day. Sharing and keeping the stories like precious jewels, connecting us through time and space.
This is the start of a lifelong project. Or…should I say…not a start…but continuing on…from where they left it. A journal of stories, poetry, photo’s, personal ornaments, letters and documents to tell their tale ❤️
The photograph from 1930
It is the photograph
with the edges, from forgotten days,
where you pose in a sepia coloured mist,
that seems to emphasize
the serenity on your face.
We have never met one another,
but how our gaze meets here,
in this familiar way,
we surely know each other.
Your eyes seem to warn me, silently,
through time and space
captured here, for eternity.
Like actors from forgotten days,
patiently waiting for their scene.
The photographer nods and gives his praise.
On this photograph, with the edges,
you pose, near that carpet on the wall.
For the photographer
and now for me,
as the most elegant lady
or, perhaps, gazing at someone
who watches, intentionally.
Your eyes seem to silently warn me,
but urgently nonetheless.
The others who pose,
do not take notice of your eyes
and neither does the little girl,
with the same expression on her face.
She is still too young to be my grandmother
and yet, we meet through time and space.
It is the photograph from 1930,
where you silently send a message
into the future.
Where your eyes reveal,
that you would see yourself in me.
Almost a century between us,
but our eyes meet here,
through the sepia coloured mist,
so urgently.
Time does not exist.
By Silvia ❤️
The Journey of a Learner 