Here is the House to hold me

Here is the House to hold me

Here is the House to hold me The 10th Anniversary of the Linking Worlds Project

© 2024, Knara Agasaryan; Elin Babcock; Magdalena Brzezinska; Carmen Camilleri;

Robin Cox; Edward Cromarty; Dmitry Finozhenok; Jim Fleckenstein; Michael Gibson; Elisabeth Granli; Romina Guerra; Judith Gutlerner; Aki Halme; Abeer Hassan; Elżbieta Hetman; Iwona Hetman-Pawlaczyk; Yulia Ivanova; Anthony Kolasny; Agneta M. Lindh; Anna Łosińska; Dexter Mac; Sole Afra Martinez; Lia Mastrodonato; Guðný Sigridur Olafsdottir; Renske Oort; Mieke van Os; Ola Porebska; Sayafika; Sonia Roychowdhury; Peter Sansom; Cathy Silk; Arevhat Simonyants; William Strnad III; Julia Teplova; Zita Toth; Dąbrówka Ujec; Natasha Vanderlinden; Simona Vasilache; Cynthia Willett No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The title of the volume was inspired by Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman’s The Housewife.

©Cover Art: Yulia Ivanova

Poznan, Poland

20. 10. 2024

Foreword The 10th anniversary of our project is somewhat tricky. Last year, we published our 10th volume on the ninth anniversary because there were two projects in the first year (2015). So, this is our true 10th anniversary, and it’s incredible to have lived to witness it.

It all began with Cynthia Willett’s remarkable art project where participants were asked to express how we all live under the same ancient skies. By the way, the project even journeyed to space aboard the OSIRIS-REx spacecraft and landed on asteroid Bennu! I still find that mind-blowing.

I loved Cynthia’s unifying and inspiring idea. For a long time, I had been a creator too shy to share my art, poetry, and prose with the world. Cynthia encouraged me, and I will be forever grateful to her for that. Following that nudge, I instinctively sensed there might be others out there like me: eager to create, collaborate, and make this world a better place, however clichéd that might sound.

They say you don’t choose your family. Yet in 2015, I opened my metaphorical home (the theme of this edition) to my close friends by inviting them to participate in the first collaborative project, titled The Linking Words. Over the years, nearly 90 contributors have become either permanent or temporary residents of the home, each leaving an indelible mark and shaping the project into something unique, extraordinary, and inclusive. Agneta M Lindh dubbed the project “The Linking Worlds,” and the name seems so fitting!

Once, an acquaintance condescendingly remarked that the participants were “the project’s only audience.” Well, I’m not sorry to disappoint him. According to Issuu’s statistics, our volumes have been read over 5,000 times, including in countries with no participants, such as Nicaragua, Paraguay, Kenya, Saudi Arabia, Mongolia, and Georgia.

I want to sincerely thank all the participants and readers for the wonderful decade!

Magdalena Brzezinska

Elisabeth Granli, Norway/USA

tell me

tell me, with your musings and pondering how to build a home, a loving place architects, builders, and interior designing build structure, a dwelling, a pleasant space but a home is a creation from different matter the home is created from a joining of souls mingling and harmonizing their personalities it is living beyond their physical mold creating a history and recalling of stories providing a feeling of affection when retold

Anthony Kolasny, USA

La Donna, Mieke van Os 94 (h) x 74 (b) x 4 (d) cm acrylic, tempera, marker, wax, varnish on canvas, floating frame in traffic black, ready to hang, 2023

THUIS I’m coming home hang my coat on the coat rack free myself from my worries look into your eyes attract your love: at home!

At home, where I loose myself in a book, get goosebumps from a song that crawls under my skin.

A place where it is nice to be from time to time, to be alone every now and then, where nothing necessary needs to be done, where you feel a close friendship, where the outside world comes in.

At home, where expectations just walk in, without knocking, brazenly, pretending they belong there.

Where the day takes you by surprise and spins a web of possibilities and future visions.

At home, where the windows provide a view of the world: an unknown place, a distant city, another country where you can relax on holiday, sit on the edge of a fountain, light a candle for a loved one in an old church, or play a board game in pleasant company.

Where you take time to relax, unhurried, in a world where everything and everyone moves.

Essential, Lia Mastrodonato, Italy/Germany Mixed media, charcoal and acrylic on paper

At home, the word keeps haunting my head, asking: when is something your home?

Why do you say ‘at home’ and not just ‘at my house’?

Home is not in the bricks of my house, it’s in my head, in my parents, in my brothers and sister, in my love, in shared history.

At home, the scent of comfort and security, a place with sad and especially happy memories, one that embraces me with warm words, loving moments, own stories and living past, attached to my soul.

At home, it has brought me to where I’m today, wherever life has led me and wherever I’m going.

It fills a heart with love, here and now, there and later.

That matters, that determines my life, that’s life.

At home, there are so many valuable things in all the days after all these years, even if life bites you in the back for a moment and there are setbacks from time to time.

There is so much encompassed in the word ‘THUIS’ (at home), where time seems to slow down and the world seems to hold its breath, stands still.

Mieke van Os, The Netherlands

Elżbieta Hetman, Poland

Home

Wherever you are Home is in your own body An asylum for your private thoughts An independent means of transport A solid foundation and cement A secluded island and a vast ocean A comfortable bed and a roof over your head A milky lamp and a soft rug You give someone a substitute for home When you smile sincerely When you notice another person When you bend over an animal's fate You carry it inside you for the rest of your life Share it generously with the address found In the right person

Iwona Hetman-Pawlaczyk, Poland

Rainbow Palms in Full Acrylic

My Dreamscape Oasis

Beneath the shade of palms that dance, In hues of gold and green are radiant plants, At home I find, though strange it seems, They’re painted in the colors of my dreams.

Each leaf a whisper, soft and low, In pinks and blues that gently glow, The world outside may rage and storm, Yet home, in light, the heart grows warm.

No grand estate with gilded walls, No marble halls where echo calls, But peace, my friend, in every beam, A tapestry of light and sheen.

The wind, a sigh, the air so sweet, Where skies and lakes and heaven meet, In this small grove, my soul takes flight, Bathed in a prism’s soft delight.

So let the world its riches chase, And toil in vain for fleeting grace.

For here, beneath these rainbow trees, I’ve found my home, and sweet release.

Art and poetry by Jim Fleckenstein, Hardeeville, SC, USA

Yulia Ivanova, Russia

Home Poland, early eighties Christmas is coming!

Mum has to work right until the Eve, the preparations started well in advance.

She commandeered the kitchen, cooking and baking multiple dishes at once. She’s delegating minor jobs to me, great responsibility! Small hands are capable of intricate dumpling making, the smaller the more skills on display. The progress is slow, she’s huffing impatiently, if it wasn’t for the myriad of foods she has to prepare, she’d have taken over.

Then there are the floors to polish, with a special paste, a whiff of it, and there is no doubt that things are getting serious. Right hand, swish, swish, tired, left hand, swish, swish, until the hall is shiny and slick, now quick, a few slides along the whole length, before I am discovered and directed to the next task.

Wash your hands, glancing towards the carp fish, swimming in the bathtub, don’t make friends with them, they’ll be starring in the celebratory supper, and you won’t be able to swallow a morsel of your friend.

Time to put up the Christmas tree! The assembly is Dad’s job, he needs to secure the top with nylon threads and anchor in three points, I can’t watch the balancing act on the wobbly ladder. I’ll be back when the boxes are out, the treasure revealed. We have something very special – decorations he brought from abroad, from East, the most unique. They are tiny like grapes, miniature glass lanterns, figurines, intricate mushrooms. They go on the highest branches, near the top, and bigger baubles are lower.

No time to play, the solemn supper is finally starting. All the frantic activity, the tension subsides.

Gradually over Christmas Mum relaxes, family visits decrease and my little friends from upstairs can come visit.

We are princesses from neighbouring kingdoms, each wearing a different colour of tinsel shawl and holding a matching sceptre – bauble. We admire longingly the tiny decorations on the top of the tree, too high to reach.

The no-man’s time – the days till New Year are the best. We are patiently waiting, playing nicely, knowing that the moment will come when we are home alone!

Two tiny mushroom figurines broke off of their threads. Too precious to discard, stashed for this very moment. Parents aren’t, time to play: THE BLIND MUSHROOM PICKING IN THE FOREST! The four of us, in the darkness, on all fours, on the floor, ears covered. I throw the mushrooms high up in the air and cover my ears to eliminate my advantage of hearing where they fell. We descend on the “forest floor” to find them, making a ruckus, like a cavalry charge with our sharp knees.

Silent night is no more, not for my downstairs neighbour, who can only withstand maybe four games, before she comes upstairs, knocking on my door, asking for parents, to complain. She claims her chandelier is violently shaking and they can’t hear TV! We deny.

Sadly the games come to an end, till next time!

Ola Porebska, Poland/Australia

I've never been the kind of person who is attached to a place - my home is anywhere where I feel safe and can find nice people to chat with.

Home has always been about the people around and the confidence that these people are there for me. The thing is... they started leaving. Those whose eyes are shut at the drawing, they were observing me drawing it from up above. There are two more of them now, whose eyes are shut.

Home is what's in your heart. It also includes the pain. I'm learning to live with it now.

Art and prose by Julia Teplova, Ukraine/UK

Home sweet Home...

What makes you feel home?

When you are not alone.

Even if you are hard, as a stone, You need to have someone to answer the phone.

What makes a house your home?

When it is cosy and warm.

If you feel loved and cared for, It's impossible to be scared.

What makes a flat your home?

When you can hide there in the storm.

If you have understanding inside, Happiness, care, and joy will pour outside.

Who makes you feel home?

Family, kids, and parents are your comfort zone.

When you have peace and quiet, Good health in body and mind.

What makes you feel home?

When you are not alone...

28.09.2024

Art and poetry by Arevhat Simonyants, Uzbekistan

Malta is my home. I've travelled to a lot of places around the world that are far bigger than our tiny island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, but Malta is the place I call home.

The topmost picture is of Gozo, our sister island to which I escape from the maddening crowd.

Then, in the middle, there is a typical Maltese window, the traditional louvered windows.

The bottommost is Mdina, our first fortress city. There we go for a walk in summer to enjoy the breeze on its romantic old roads.

Art and prose by Carmen Camilleri, Malta

She took her son by the hand and said: it’s you and me.

Trust in us trust is Our Home.

Miles and miles down the road, it's still true.

Their hearts are their four walls, their hearth and their haven.

Art and poetry by Agneta M. Lindh, Sweden

Guðný Sigridur Olafsdottir, Iceland

My Childhood Playground We lived on the steep bank of the stream. Three four-story houses in the middle of nothing. The school was three kilometers along the road or two through the forest. The school bus did not stop at our stop, it only took those who lived far away.

For the little ones, their play area was the line of sight of their mothers watching over them. For us, the size of the developed space was limited only by our ability to return in time for dinner.

The forest, which seemed endless, stubborn streams, slow channels, and a river with a beautiful name, like the daughter of a Viking, Ulla, running to meet her sister Essa, were the arena of our games. Hazel thickets and large strawberry fields, guarded by countless swarms of mosquitoes – our buffets.

We played on the ice of frozen rivers and went to meet the birth of caddisflies. Steep sandy banks became climbing walls, and their gentler brothers were places where everyone became Bob Beamon.

The deep furrows left by the tank tracks served us as long, paired sled runs.

The network of asphalt roads that intersected military units was bike paths.

This huge world was waiting for us. There was room for everyone: for friendly groups, and for me, a quiet introvert.

Dmitry Finozhenok, Russia

Michael Gibson, USA

Who Will I Be Today I am Alexander Bay. How do you do?

I have a story. May I share it with you?

One day all was fine. The next it was not.

One day I am free. Now I'm in one spot.

Coronavirus with a curve and a spike.

It is a long word that I do not like.

My school is all closed. My teachers gone home.

I had lots of friends. Now I'm alone.

My park was so crowded. I waited to swing.

Now it is empty. Not one human being.

I will think for myself. A hard and long thought.

When nothing is open. Nothing is bought.

What can I do with what I have here.

Something will come. It will appear.

Out of the blue, I know what to do.

I am a builder, house building every day.

I build houses in the home where I stay.

The living room corner today will do fine.

You can build a house, too, something like mine.

I am a builder of a blanket house today.

How do I do it you might wish to say?

The piano is not long. It is quite tall.

My house is my size. It is quite small.

I stretch the blanket from piano to stool.

It will be my home. It will be my school.

A green string holds up the pictures I drew.

I drew them myself. You can draw, too.

I am a builder, house building every day.

I build a house in the home where I stay.

Yulia Ivanova, Russia

I have my lunch on a mat that is blue.

My animals and heroes eat with me, too.

Now I am sleeping. Can not move about.

Some of me inside, some of me out.

Who will I be tomorrow?

I have a dream. Be a cook.

To the kitchen I go with my recipe book.

Tomorrow is here. What will I do?

I have a dream. I hope it comes true.

Blanket House Building Materials One blanket Put over a table or chairs or piano and stool One long string and safety pins Pin string to the blanket Pin art to the string to make the Gallery of Art Inside the blanket house a pillow and friends of your choice for company. a place to read a place to work on numbers a flashlight if it is dark a place to eat and drink a place to sleep and dream.

Elin Babcock, USA

Sole Afra Martinez, Argentina

Den in the Stars The snow-covered den saw the birth of a bear Warmth and milk, his sleeping mother's love The small cub was safe and content in heart All was well in his small snoring home The cub did not know of the sky or the stars The den was as cozy as it was dark Warm spring invites the bears from the dark Feasts the mother while plays the young bear He’s learning new skills and to follow his stars Back rubbing on trees, many new things to love Sweet honey raided from buzzing bees’ home He rolls in the flowers and holds one to his snout Time matures, and so does the hero with a snout The brave growing bear has no fear for the dark He quests for a mate, wants to start a new home With the one of his dreams, the perfect she-bear The one whose hugs make one dizzy with love The one whose eyes outshine all stars Tender moments seen only by the stars Two bears together, fur pressing on fur New life finds a beginning in their ursine love Soon days become brief, nights frosty and dark Fair twins the drowsy mother will bear The prospect of cubs adds new meaning to home Majestic and regal. The whole forest is his home Soft fern floor, pine walls, the ceiling a canopy of stars To wander alone is the lot of King Bears High in the trees are the marks of his claws He’s sure of his strength. His spirit is wild but not dark He watches the sunsets over the woods that he loves

Magdalena Brzezinska, Poland

Time reshapes his majesty’s love Younger bears contend for the throne of his home He lives in his dreams and they comfort in the dark The voice of ancient bears calls strong from the stars Generations of great ones with their eternal paws The best adventure yet awaits the old bear He lived true, he loved strong, and gazed on the stars Bright is his next home as light fills his fond heart When the night sky is dark, he’s one with the Great Bear

Aki Halme, Finland

A RED-WINDOWED HOUSE (A fairy tale told to a grandson before going to bed)

“Granny, why does your house have such big windows?”

“To see the whole wide world better, dear.”

“And Gran, why are the doors so wide?”

“To always stay open for friends who wish to visit us.”

“And why do you need such a large oven in the kitchen?”

“To cook hearty meals for everyone, and to keep the house warm.”

“Granny, why are your hands so big?”

“To hold you close, my love, and never let you go.”

Art and poetry by Dąbrówka Ujec, Poland/The Netherlands

Sayafika, Japan

Your children reflect the kind of home they come from. If they are polite, have good manners, and are well behaved, they present a good picture of the home they live in. Being the mother of a 10-month-old son, I was very conscious to remain pleasant, patient and avoid using profanity. I wanted to set the best example for him. My young son was just learning how to speak and make the connections between words and meanings. He couldn’t walk yet, but he was able to say a few words.

It happened one late afternoon as I was scrambling to make him lunch. We had gotten home late from shopping and I was tired. Meanwhile, my son was sitting in his highchair, bib on, banging the top of the tray and wanting to eat. I was busy stirring the macaroni and cheese, peas, and applesauce in his hot plate. I was hungry too, and could hardly wait for him to eat so I could grab something myself. He began banging his feet against the chair. He wanted his food! He smelled the delicious odor of his beloved mac & cheese, and could hardly wait to eat it. My hands were shaky at this point, and I was anxious to feed him and calm him down. I hastily pulled the plug out from the hot plate. The force of it pulled me back, tilted the plate and, you guessed it! … The food went flying everywhere, spilling all over the kitchen counter, the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. There were yellow sticky noodles everywhere, even in my hair, and those little peas rolled under every imaginable surface. That was my son‘s lunch! I would have to make up a whole new pot of mac & cheese, which would take at least a half hour.

The despair and horror of what I just did exploded with me as the food went flying.

With tears in my eyes, I smacked my hand against the kitchen counter and yelled “Damn!” I expected my son to start crying as well, but instead, the most unexpected reaction occurred!

My son dissolved into the most hysterical, joyous peels of laughter I have ever heard! He kept hitting his hand on his highchair tray, yelling, “Damn!” then laughing again. He imitated my behavior over and over again. Each time he did, he laughed even harder. I was so surprised at his reaction, but also relieved to realize I had the time to recook his lunch. He laughed and laughed for the entire half-hour it took to remake it. Afterwards, he was exhausted and blissfully took a nap.

A few weeks went by. One day I took him shopping with me again. It was always challenging to check out the food, to unload the shopping cart filled with groceries which was always next to the candy displays. He was grabbing the candy, I was telling him to put it down while I was unloading the cart. I was in a hurry to unload the groceries so we could leave before he grabbed more chewing gum. As a result of such haste, one of the items I removed slipped out of my hand and fell. It broke open and its contents spilled everywhere. I was embarrassed, but then I became even more embarrassed when I heard my son yell “Damn!” then lean over in the cart to slap his hand down on the conveyor belt and dissolve into peels of laughter. “ Damn, damn, damn……” he kept shouting on top of his lungs! People in the store turned to see who was shouting such profanity at such a young age. I was mortified. What kind of home did people think I had? What kind of mother raises her son to use such words? I rushed out of the supermarket and never returned again hoping no one recognized me.

Looking back, a half-century ago, I can appreciate the humor in this situation, looking at it from my son‘s point of view. It was also impressive that he was able to understand that this was a similar situation as me spilling his food at home. I also appreciate in the end how our home was the kind where laughter was encouraged, as well as an occasional stray profanity.

I have finally gone back to that supermarket.

Judy Gutlerner, USA

Hogar

LEARN TO LIVE

Daily song ignites the tender fire anew, weaving wills, tears, and laughter that rise.

A mammal’s cradle holds us close and true, a promise of eternal peace, our prize.

Why does the valley burn with shadows deep?

The echo of our games is lost and hollow, the endless night breaks our trembling feet, under the bitter rain of despair and sorrow.

Yet, doubt transforms, filling the earth with signs, soft murmurs and fruits of hope’s embrace, adorning the garden where our courage lies.

An endless fountain of wisdom does flow, that at the sacred fire makes us face a truth: live and love, and fear no more.

Art and poetry by Romina Guerra Alvarez, Chile

Home is where the heart is And my heart is anywhere they are.

My small family, my world, my life.

Home is a feeling, a need, a shelter.

May everyone find home, peace, and love.

Wherever and whenever can that be.

Art and lyrical prose by Abeer Hassan, Egypt

Home Home is where the heart is – they say, But what has such great power?

To imprint on us those that lay As the foundations of our Rootedness?

And are these static? Can they change?

Are they chosen or rather found?

Oh, how mysterious, how strange Are the intricacies around Human hearts.

A country? A building? A place?

The people who mean for us Acceptance, assurance of peace?

Who cherish, value, guide and thus Make us thrive?

It may be some or all of these.

But - however they may appear Their presence in your life means There’s something you need to hear: You are blessed.

2024

Art and poetry by Zita Tóth, Hungary/Scotland

𝐖𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝟕 (𝐀 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐬𝐭) clay and hydrocal, 16 x 15 x 10 inches (40.64 x 38 x 25 cm) 2024 Cynthia Willett, USA

Inspired by

The Guest House – Jalaluddin Rumi This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

Home 2024, Peter Sansom, The Netherlands

Wild tides whip and surge dislocating directions Homeward routes splinter

Cathy Silk, The Netherlands

We are so small... the world is ours

Art and aphorism by Simona Vasilache, Romania/Japan

Guðný Sigridur Olafsdottir, Iceland

Nowhere Special I'm a globetrotting nomad.

I ain't got no home.

If you ask from whence I hail Or what place I call my own, I'll just stare for a moment, Embarrassed and confused, "What's that mean? I dunno what!

Can I be ...um, excused?" 'cause the truth is when you say: "home" and "from" Very likely in your brain They are a simple unison.

But for me, nothin' doing!

Do I have to spell it out?

Every stage. Of my life.

Parallels. A re-route.

And not only that, But the spans in-between...

Lay fractured by disruption And a major change of scene.

And the cycle to "keep going" Rounds on me every few years; Though I've stayed put for a while now The wanderlust endures.

So with my heart flung in pieces ‘cross the whole wide massive globe, Where I'm “from” doesn't factor, Only where this thought arose: That 'here' are my people!

They accept me as I am!

I don't fit into their culture; I don't live their social plan.

But they greet me with a welcome So sincere I almost cry (which I do, when the time comes, to say that last goodbye).

And I leave with a feeling In my bones identified,

Magdalena Brzezinska, Poland

To be homesickness incarnate, Boiled down and rarefied.

It don’t matter that we're different In 'most every sort of way: Color, food, nation and accent, Or to whom or if we pray.

What's important is the kindness That they show someone like me Who is homeless in an outland sense, Like one adrift at sea.

And my desperate hope for these folks, For I feel as if they’re kin, Is that safety, joy, and comfort reign; Disaster never seen.

So when you ask, "where you from?"

Watch me smile, for since birth: I ain’t from nowhere special Just a place called Planet Earth.

Natasha Vanderlinden, USA

The Gift

At home in the world I’ve come to realize that a home is not a place, but a feeling of belonging I was an unplanned child, but despite that, or maybe because of it, I felt wanted by God, I felt that this is where I was supposed to be.

So, I tried to find a home.

I haven’t had a real home since I was a very young girl, when I was living at my beloved grandparents’ place.

Since I grew up, moved out on my own and later on left the country, I had 36 different addresses.

I never felt like any of these places were my real home.

I was happy in some of them, but they were all temporary.

My idea of a home was something more permanent.

Was I all this time searching for a home? Longing for a home?

But never finding it?

Was I asking for too much? Maybe finding a place to call home was not for me in this life.

Then, over time I came to realize that feeling at home had more to do with the sense of belonging than with the place itself.

Feeling welcome. Having a purpose. And filled with love.

It is not the place but how it makes me feel that makes it a home, even if it’s just for a short time.

My most precious memory of feeling at home is a visit to a shelter for children I visited in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

These children had been rescued from trafficking, homelessness, child marriage and all kinds of horrific circumstances.

But, these children were just like other children, they laughed and cried, went to school and played together.

They had made the shelter their home.

They were safe from harm, they had the care of loving adults and each other’s friendship.

I felt so at home, and I realized I was just like them.

The last day of my visit, one of the girls ran up to a flower garden on the roof to pick a flower for me, and then ran downstairs to give it to me.

It brought tears to my eyes and as I left, I was so grateful to have gotten a glimpse into their home.

Photo and story by Elisabeth Granli, Norway/USA

Anna Łosińska, Poland

The Returning Homecoming was hastened on the train Last night as I slept, dreaming grey words From buried family oral histories Surrendered to the hemorrhage of war and my birth.

After eating soup and barley rice, Served in remembered steel bowls, I rise, And then with my pale tree-veined right hand Open the weathered wooden gate of our childhood home.

Morning has scattered heavy white dew Upon cosmos blooming by the road, As the smoke of burning coal briquettes Marries the yellowing rice paddies in the valley.

Magpies scream consonants to me From withered poplar branches, posing questions above Wide flat rocks at the whispering stream Where our mother with other women washed the clothing.

A red dragonfly lands on my wrist, Announcing descent from its long-dead ancestors I would catch in my net and release Where our father kept an ox with which we plowed the land.

There’s no answer to the magpies’ questions, No escape from the dragonfly’s fragile hold On my guilt and elegiac art for this village Where our unconceived siblings now call me by another name.

William Strnad, Poland

Dexter Mac, USA

Home What is home? For most people home is a place of security and shelter. A private place where one feels comfortable, welcome, and protected. A haven where one can go at any time for privacy, safety, warmth, and emotional compassion.

However, I did not feel comfortable with this description of what home “should be”. It seemed elitist, a description of what most people desire home to be, but a dream experienced by few. For too many people home involves hunger, physical and emotional abuse, and the financial insecurity of not being able to afford a place to live.

The realities of discrimination, unemployment, poverty, and violence permeate global and local societies. The high cost of living of basic services such as medical treatment, legal care, food prices, real estate, and education can make the security associated with having a home an unachievable dream. The realities of crime and domestic violence ruin lives, and the tragedies of war and famine destroy hope.

Most people in the west live in a culture that espouses freedom, equality, and opportunity. The majority of people are honest, want to help build a better world, and desire to be productive. However, inequalities and lack of opportunity still permeate society. Living in the US, I could focus on an outdated, somewhat barbaric capitalist system, but despite the biased claims of right-wing pundits, the US does not have a capitalist system, it has a mixed economy. Still, the costs of medical care and insurance are untenable. If medical care was affordable, would health insurance even be necessary? How could a society that claims to be humane not provide universal health care for all legal residents? The legal system is corrupt, as evidenced by legal costs that alienate all but the wealthiest sector of society. How could the majority of people find a closed door to affordable quality legal care in an equitable society? The cost of housing is out of control. Why isn’t affordable housing made accessible? Food companies habitually price gouge, mislabel, and knowingly use unhealthy food additives for marketing purposes, regardless of the effects of their actions on consumers. Despite the skyrocketing costs of education, teachers are underpaid and are not given the fair benefits of a noble and necessary profession. Instead, bureaucrats reap the rewards of an overpriced higher education system. Workers who want employment find jobs being outsourced to cheap labor and are refused employment and training for reasons of discrimination. Crime, domestic violence, and drug abuse victimize individuals who, if given the opportunity, desire to have the security of a safe haven to call home.

Despite the inequities and abuses that exist, for most people life in Western culture provides greater opportunity to build a secure home than living in developing nations. A closer look at the inconsistencies of Western society considered along with the non-western global realities may allude to a new experience of home in which it is not possible to expect the consistency of past generations, and in which greater struggles will be required to achieve the dream of achieving the security and comfort of the socialized images of what home should be. At the same time, new perspectives of gender and racial equality may provide positive change in areas such as domestic violence and social inequality that will alter future visions of the meanings of “home”.

Edward Cromarty, USA

Sunny Cove Steps

The Wanderer – a tribute to Pete In late October 2023, my best friend (outside of my family) Pete died suddenly after undergoing a biopsy for what turned out to be a cancerous growth in the brain. My wife and I flew to Cape Town, South Africa, so I could share my tribute to Pete in person at a Memorial Service to celebrate his life. A day or so after the Memorial Service, I was completing my walk along the Fish Hoek beach and back to our accommodation. I had been praying for Pete’s family and reflecting on his life and our friendship.

I was climbing up Sunny Cove Steps when the Parable of the Lost Sheep (Matthew 18: 10 – 14) popped into my head. Jesus tells the parable of the lost sheep to show that the Kingdom of God is accessible to all, even those who were sinners or strayed from God’s path. He uses the example of a shepherd (God) who has one hundred sheep and one goes missing. The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine others and searches high and low for the lost sheep.

I wanted to capture the complexities of Pete’s character and life journey expressed in our communication and correspondence over a fifty-one-year’ time period. God alone knows Pete’s thoughts until he took his final breath on planet Earth. So, I reflected on this possibly divine moment and wrote The Wanderer.

Photo and introduction by Robin Cox, New Zealand

The Wanderer “Wait awhile,” the kindly Shepherd whispered to the flock.

“One’s gone missing, though I know his path.”

Staff in hand, focused, purposeful, to recover the rebellious, proud, stubborn lost sheep, unconditionally loved.

He is surfing the rolling waves on the mighty ocean of his imaginings, sharing with loved ones and friends.

Proudly hunched behind the wheel, alert, attentive, confident, dreamer, visionary, sailor extraordinaire Searching …

He is the poet, the writer, the mystic, developer of mind-changing games and workshops, creator of entrepreneurial, potentially life-changing experiences, positive agent of change, idealistic dreamer, strumming melodic sounds, ‘Hello darkness, my old friend,’ on the ‘Streets of London’ Searching …

He is training the masses on the African continent, hungry to learn, listening intently to every word, interacting, laughing, inspired by his knowledge, skills, expertise.

Lives enriched, new horizons beckoning, equipped, motivated, challenged Searching …

He is peacefully resting in the African bush with his precious loved ones, marvelling at the wild—the beloved, majestic elephants— the plethora of feathered friends, the variety of tall ancestral trees,

the winding mountain paths, African dawn, pink sunset skies, starry, starry nights flickering love messages Searching …

He is reaching out, the servant leader, with a hopeful hand-up to the struggling disadvantaged.

Selfless, empathetic, kind and caring, uplifting drifting lives, the captivating, caring smile, authentic, compassionate eyes, encouraging, sharing, giving, giving, giving, wanting nothing in return Searching …

He is researching, corresponding, robust discussions interlaced with fun times, humour, the life of the party, global communicator, deep thinker, stumbling, controlling, persevering, entrepreneurial, philosophical Searching …

He is embracing his loved ones, providing, kind, supporting, exploring and extending bonding love, fellow pilgrims, adventurers, travellers, unbreakable familial ties, precious, adored soulmates Searching …

He is wearily waiting, spent, wandering, wondering, lonely, seemingly lost.

“Ah, there you are, little one,” the kindly Shepherd compassionately whispers, gathering him in His strong, loving arms and taking him home.

Lost, now found.

Robin Cox, New Zealand

Anna Łosińska, Poland

Home is mum.

Her hugs instead of warm plaid, Her smile instead of sunlight, Her voice instead of the alarm clock.

Home is memories.

Scents that you remember wherever you are, Sounds that make you feel cozy, Touches that make you feel loved.

Home is the morning tea with milk, Armenian pastry for Easter, Christmas tree with old toys from my childhood...

I don't have all these anymore.

Now my home is my solitude, My inner weakness and strength, Now my home is me.

Knara Agasaryan, Uzbekistan

Longing for Loon Imagine a tiny little village, a hamlet, with a couple of farms, sandy roads, a narrow winding river, and the occasional sounds of birds, cows, pigs, and chickens chatting with each other and searching for food. Between the farm fields and heather fields just outside the village, there is an impressive, mysterious dolmen, but it is not very well known, so it is peaceful and not often visited.

This is Loon, where my mother was born and lived until she was six years old.

Her father was the head of the small elementary school, and in the absence of a mayor, church minister or doctor, he was highly respected and his family was well taken care of by the self-sufficient farmers’ community. Even though it was during the Second World War, these were my mother’s happiest years. She was young, innocent, and oblivious, protected by the arms of her parents and the villagers. She wandered around, along the river, to the dolmen, in the fields, was always welcome in the farmers’ kitchens, and ‘helped’ her father at school, next to their house.

From Loon, the family moved to a nearby city, and my mother moved eight more times throughout her life. For study, work, her husband’s work, and her second husband’s work. All her life away from Loon, anywhere where she lived, she never truly felt at home. She created her own little home with countless books, books, books: with a book in her hand and her mind in the book, it mattered less where she was and she was at peace. She wasn’t only a reader, but also a writer of short stories and numerous letters to magazines and newspapers, always under her alias last name ‘from Loon’.

When retirement approached, she was dreaming about moving back to Loon, but her husband preferred to move to the city where he was born. After he passed away, there was another chance. Yet she agreed with her children that it was more sensible to move close to one of them instead of to her much-loved Loon, which still did not have many facilities, no doctor, fewer farms, and not even an elementary school anymore. The few times that she briefly visited Loon, we could see her relief and joy of feeling at home in her eyes and we could hear it in her voice, which naturally adapted to Loon’s dialect.

Why did she never push through, why didn’t we do anything in our power to make it possible for her to move back? There may have been good reasons, but feelings of regret and melancholy are surfacing now that it is too late. We will still bring her back to Loon, and we can only hope that wherever she is, she will feel that she is finally home.

Art and story by Renske Oort, The Netherlands/Germany

There was a woman In her cupped hands she cradled to sleep all that I am Her waning scent awakes me at dawn she comes softly to part the curtains swollen with the night I’m home

Art and poetry by Magdalena Brzezinska, Poland