Monthly Archives: August 2015

“Silken prey” by John Sandford


“If you haven’t read Sandford, you have missed one of the great summer-read novelists of all time” read a review by Stephen King. That sold me the 400 page book, in a summer resort.

It was the first book I read by Sandford. He is a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist and an author of the Prey series, four Kidd novels and the Virgil Flowers series.
The book stuck to my hands for three day. Took it with me at the breakfast table, to the coffee shop and in bed at night. It is an engaging thriller. It has politics, crimes, criminal investigations, love affaires of different kinds, blackmail and other tense atmospherics, with wry humour and twists up to the last sentence.
Lucas Davenport, a lead investigator from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension is asked by the governor to look into a possibly implanted child pornography case during an election campaign for a senator seat. The race is between a democrat, Monroe looking young and rich Grant, and a republican, Smalls. By their names you can guess who won the campaign.

I’ll let you discover the rest of the intrigue, which unfolds in 10 days prior to the date of the elections. Enjoy your late summer reads!

A perfect birthday


On my birth day, I opened my big smart eyes in a soviet hospital. Grey walls, grey faces…other grey stuff. I was not impressed.
This year’s birthday had it all:IMG_2533
the to-tears-joy of saying “Good Morning, Sun” for gratitude,
the “Happy Birthday” song early morning by my dearest ones for love;
the mountain view to the right, sea view to the left , both reigned by the blue sky for harmony,
fitness with a handsome Italian fitness trainer right on the beach for fun,

water games with my kid for the love of childhood,
the 60cent perfect cake from the pasticceria at the corner to blow a candle for yet another great year,
a Proseco, courtesy of the hotel, at the perfect temperature for legerity,
the hug of the warm sea and the kiss of the golden sun for nature’s love,

the totally forgotten gadgets and ignored social media for the power of mindfulness,
the intense lover’s kiss for the power of lasting attraction,
the intense afternoon rain for prosperity,
the patient dress which waited to be worn on this special day for elegance,
fireworks under the growing moon for colorfulness and life’s generosity,

numerous birthday wishes from friends to cherrish.
My greatest gift this year was the reinstated awareness and it’s best companion – the feeling of gratitude. And the swim suit which still fits 😉

“The One I Was” by Eliza Graham


untitled“I am ready to be happy now”, the end line of the book, got me intrigued as it kind of resonates with my current mind set. It had also good recommendations on
I read it almost in one go, which is my indicator of the quality of the writing. Page after page, my mind was traveling back and forth in time, from late 30s in England and in Germany to modern times. I admired the ease and elegance with which the author balanced through extremes of the history of anti-semitism in the nazi Germany, on one hand, and the benevolent goodwill of a British family who provided a home to six Jew boys who had the chance to get out of Germany in a Kindertransport/special train, on the other hand, all interlinking very personal stories of its many lively characters.
The book is a splendid tribute to empathy. Towards others and towards the self. In search of forgiveness, Rosamond Hunter chose a career of an end-of-life nurse. It brought her to her childhood home – Fairfleet – when she accepted to take care of Benny Gault, known to her as Benjamin who first came to Fairfleet, England, in 1939, having fled Nazi Germany on a Kindertransport train. She spends with him his last days and they revisit together their life stories. They discover the love they shared for Harriet – Rosamond’s glamorous grandmother who was war time pilot – and Benny’s benefactor. Benny confined to Rosamond his life-time secret of having took the place of a Jewish boy, his beloved friend, whom he helped pass the medical exam and who died on the day the Kindertransport train was leaving Germany. Will let you discover why he did that as it is also a lesson of empathy and forgiveness in a son-father relationship.
Graham’s characters are quite complex. Rosamond is a loving daughter who also adored her grandmother, a proud sister, a professional truly dedicated to the last breath of her patients, a lover who would not settle for second best when it comes to men in her life, a women who experienced pregnancy loss only to understand that having life to continue through her is what is she wants most. Will let you discover the rest.
The book is from a mental shelf where I store books which make me subtly smile when I think about its characters.

What a 107-year-old poet can teach you about mindfulness


PoemsfromthePondWorth posting and reposting on our daily wall of life:
Chorus of Cells Excerpted from Poems from the Pond, by Peggy Freydberg

Every morning,
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I like to make my bed.
In fact, the starting of each day
is the biggest thing I ever do.
I smooth away the dreams disclosed by tangled sheets,
I smack the dented pillow’s revelations to oblivion,
I finish with the pattern of the spread exactly centered.
The night is won.
And now the day can open.

All this I like to do,
mastering the making of my bed
with hands that trust beginnings.
All this I need to do,
directed by the silent message
of the luxury of my breathing.

And every night,
I like to fold the covers back,
and get in bed,
and live the dark, wise poetry of the night’s dreaming,
dreading the extent of its improbabilities,
but surrendering to the truth it knows and I do not;
even though its technicolor cruelties,
or the music of its myths,
feels like someone else’s experience,
not mine.

I know that I could no more cease
to want to make my bed each morning,
and fold the covers back at night,
than I could cease
to want to put one foot before the other.

Being very old and so because of it,
all this I am compelled to do,
day after day,
night after night,
directed by the silent message
of the constancy of my breathing,
that bears the news I am alive.

Thank you