The Lake: Peaceful, Melancholic, a Reflection of Ourselves

The Lake: Peaceful, Melancholic, a Reflection of Ourselves

This week my parents visited, and we made many long walks through valleys of oak woods and along rolling hill ridges, following scenic parts of the Francigena Pilgrimage near my home, a long, difficult route that starts at Canterbury Cathedral in the UK, taking the traveler pilgrim via France and Switzerland all the way to the Vatican in Rome.  I was struck by how difficult the path is to follow now, with trees blown down across pathways, faded signs and rushing streams to cross using makeshift bridges of rotted branches.  This pilgrimage is not as popular as the Way of St James to Santiago de Compostela, lacking facilities and forcing pilgrims to camp in the open, a true challenge for the devout. After these walks we drove to the nearby Lake Bracciano.

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Lake Bracciano: A Painting by Me. (c) Annika Milisic-Stanley

Mother loves the lake, named after a castle-topped town; a deep, blue volcanic crater lake teeming with perch, eels and pike.  Kingfishers give us flashes of shiny emerald feather and white herons search the shore for worms and tiddlers.  The lake shined azure blue today, last week golden under a strong sun, or pastel peach through cloud reflections, the edges melting into hazy hills and a lazy sky.  Every new costume evokes a painting I have painted, or a mood I have felt. The sight of the gently lapping water is always cathartic, comforting my eyes, a symbolic eyewash. lake

Yet, for some, the lake is melancholic in the eerie quiet and calm, mirror-like surface.  On windy days, white caps smash in onto black sand, dragging out the driftwood and human detritus, spewing back lake grasses that dry, brittle and white, a pale dunes of thatch.  People swim near the shore, frightened of the depths in the centre, imagining limits at the very edge of endurance, deep enough to outdo life.  I wonder about this when I see her, lady lake, metaphor for all the ways we take an innocent thing and transform it with the psyche, our memories and preconceptions.  This human disability that stops us from shutting down our inner self to simply let the lake be.

Have a good week!

The Disobedient Wife is my debut novel, published with Cinnamon Press in 2015, winner of best book 2014, and RBRT Contemporary Fiction 2016 prizes.

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Apanthropinization: A New Word

Apanthropinization: A New Word

Today I learned a lovely new word.

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With the events of this past week: The Orlando mass shooting, the lovely Minister of Parliament (human rights defender and mother of two) shot dead in a small town in Yorkshire, I feel more and more like apanthropinzing. Retreating into the garden to gaze at my dahlias and sniff the roses.

Of course, with a husband in humanitarian work, and with my volunteering with refugees this just is not possible. We have to face reality, and try to make the world a better place in any minute way that we can. disobedient_cover draft 6

This week I finished the third draft of my latest book, ‘The Girl with the White Suitcase’ (or ‘The Virgin’s Daughter’, I cannot decide: Which do you think is the better title?).  It does not hide from the ugly truth of the world, but it has an uplifting, ultimately heart-warming ending, full of hope.

As with my first novel ‘The Disobedient Wife’, I write to explore the issues that interest me, though they may be dark, and somewhat hard-hitting. I cannot apanthropinize with my own books, and I refuse to join the reams of authors who do.

Have a great week! 🙂

Biography:

Annika Milisic-Stanley was born in 1975 in the USA to Swedish and Anglo-German parents, but grew up in Britain. After graduating from the School of Oriental and African Studies, she worked with humanitarian projects in Nepal, Kenya, Somalia, South Sudan, India, Burundi and Egypt as well as living in Tajikistan for several years. Annika now lives in Rome. In addition to writing and painting, she works as a campaigner to raise awareness on the plight of refugees in Southern Europe.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/MilisicStanley

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/26256488-the-disobedient-wife?ac=1&from_search=true

Twitter: @MilisicStanley

Blog: www.thedisobedientauthor.com

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disobedient-Wife-Annika-Milisic-Stanley/dp/1909077828/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1466078696&sr=1-1&keywords=the+disobedient+wife

Amazon Kindle/ USA: https://www.amazon.com/Disobedient-Wife-Annika-Milisic-Stanley/dp/1909077828/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1466078749&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Disobedient+Wife

Dear Expats: You CAN make friends for life

Dear Expats: You CAN make friends for life

A month ago, I traveled to Geneva for a book signing and presentation of ‘The Disobedient Wife’, my debut novel published with Cinnamon Press.  Held at Payot Genève Rive Gauche, a fancy four-floor building in the heart of the shopping/ commercial district in Geneva, it is a stone’s throw from the famous geyser in Lac Leman.  It crouched at the foot of Geneva’s old town, trolleybus tracks snaking their way in parallel to the contour of the lake.Geneva Payot Poster  It was great to meet new people, readers and fellow writers, people who worked and lived in Tajikistan, a Tajik, Azeri and an Afghan and their friends, spouses and colleagues.  Mainly though, the reason for my joy found meaning in the presence of genuine, loving friends, each representing different phases of my expatriate existence.

Expatriate life can be viewed through the prism of a novel in draft form, a work of art in progress.  One lives in episodes, or phases, with each posting or country;  a new, challenging, exciting chapter to be lived each day, in each moment in time.  The richness of the lifestyle is colored by the culture; the tastes, sounds and smells of each place.  That does not mean to say that when I move, I leave nothing of myself behind.  I know expatriates who seem to manage this, moving forward to furrow an endless track through time without looking back, without regrets.  I have come across these.  They make great friends as props in a scene, or extra guests at a party.  Lousy in the long-term, they shield their hearts from the pain of separation, choosing self-defense over love and friendship.

I am not one of those.  Even as I try to thrive on the movement (workplace, social circle and the material possessions of home,) my heart breaks with each move.  Most of the time when I leave a country, I feel as though my soul will tear into two, the old friends sadly abandoned even as I feel a familiar, happy excitement for the new experience ahead.  Tears are shed and leaving parties held, but I hold on to hope that some day, somewhere, we will meet again.

An unexpected bonus of publishing a novel has been exactly this.  I reunite with friends and go for sushi with five strangers to each other from five chapters of my life.

The first:  A friend – one of my oldest and dearest – my room-mate at school.  I count boarding school as my first early expatriate experience, living in a strange land far from everything that spelled home.  She stayed by my side for five years and together, we battled the joys and despair of puberty.  She came to visit my university and supported me as a bridesmaid at my wedding.  We ran together to breakfast in long overcoats to hide our pyjamas.  We ate toasted teacakes and drank coke floats in Tanners Cafe.  We sat in long detention on Friday nights, scribbling passages from Pilgrim’s Progress, caught with vodka and orange squash in our second year.  She is still staunchly loyal and kind, my comforting pal, ever since easing the homesickness I suffered in my first weeks away.

A Croatian friend:  We met in Kenya in 1998, a few weeks after I met my life partner, also her friend.  She attended our wedding, patiently translating the entire ceremony for my elderly father-in-law who couldn’t speak English.  Her kitchen, sweetly scented with bunches of roses hanging upside down from the ceiling.  She lives in Geneva, bringing up children whilst holding down a career as a psychologist for the traumatized and mentally unwell.

An Italian friend:  From life in Burundi, she is an incredible cook with a beautiful eye for interior design, a huge empathy for the downtrodden, abused women of this world, with a penchant for salt in the swimming pool to save her tan and… breeding puppies.  She gave me two dogs, Vuk and Crni, my faithful hounds in Burundi and Kenya.  She still has their mother, an old lady now, living with her in Geneva.

A Somali friend:   He happened to be on mission to Geneva from Addis Ababa.  We knew each other in Tajikistan, his children played with mine and his wife often came by for tea and conversation.  She cooked us French Rabbit Stew, my first and last taste of fluffy bunnies (sorry!).  He lived in Dushanbe prior to the collapse of the Soviet Empire, speaks fluent Russian and has a vast knowledge of the world during the Cold War, Glasnost and Perestroika, having lived through it.

An Austrian friend:  My sweet ‘soul Mama’ yoga teacher and chill out pal, whom I knew in Cairo, a bendy athlete with her feet in the air, her children the same age as my own.  She recently relocated to Geneva from Egypt.  She misses the sun and her flowery roof terrace, but skis every weekend, kick-starting her career once more as a Primary School teacher.

These friends came along to the signing.  They brought their friends and colleagues from work and home, cheered me on and lifted my heart with moral support, hugs and smiles.  I have not mentioned the incredible generosity of old friends online, the ones from Dushanbe and Cairo who originally read the book and offered useful, detailed comments, the ones who live on every continent and share my websites, read my reviews, support me by reading my book at their book clubs.  The friends, old and new, here in the beauty of Rome.  They promote my work across their networks without me asking.  I am lucky.

I have reflected on this since my trip to Geneva and every time, I feel a soft glow in my chest, as though my heart is held by many warm, careful hands.  The fear I once harbored, that the fluidity of expatriate life would leave me without solid, lifelong friendships… utterly unfounded.

To read more about the book, please visit here

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