When I booked Villa Esmeralda for our September Retreat, it seemed like a wonderful rental home, one which would serve many of our needs for Beauty, Privacy, Accessibility and Comfort. The rental agent was easy to work with, and he assured us that once there, we would be in good hands as Roberta, who was to prepare our meals, was actually the owner’s daughter in law. She knew the home well, and would be able to answer our questions. Roberta and I had a few Skype sessions in preparation for our arrival, and she shared with me that her son happened to have been an exchange student just a few miles from our island, the previous year. Talk about the odds of this, considering how tiny both Anacortes and Portovenere are... It was agreed that she would pick Carol and myself in La Spezia, and take us to the house so that we may get it ready for our guests. Once arrived, we found out that this beautiful villa was actually not a rental home. In fact, this was to be the first time that anyone outside of the family would stay there. Roberta explained with love in her voice that this was her in law’s home, and that she had been married on that very terrace 27 years earlier. Then she went on to say that as her husband’s dad had died the year before, there had been talks of selling the home. Opening it to being rented was her attempt at keeping it in the family. Being the first “strangers” to stay there felt like a big honor, and when she said that she wanted us to meet Zia Teresa, I knew this would be an important meeting. Zia Teresa (Aunt Teresa) lives right next door to Villa Esmeralda. Her terrace pretty much touching our terrace, there is no telling the two homes apart, seen from the beach. She is eighty four years old, and because she is not used to having strangers next door, she had asked Roberta to please introduce us that day. Something about the way Roberta presented the request made me think that Zia Teresa might be a tough cookie. The hours passed and there was no sign of our neighbor. We did see what seemed like a much younger woman roll up her awning at the end of the day, but no Zia Teresa. Later that evening, she came down. She hopped down, really. Trim, energetic and with a heck of a handshake - which quickly turned into a cheek kiss-kiss - her eye contact was bright and clear, and I knew then that she was the younger woman we had seen cranking up her blinds, earlier. She spoke some French, and she and I immediately liked each other. Roberta smiled said that “she was sure glad about that,” and I knew better than to ask more details. As the days passed, we would wave at each other from our respective homes. I asked her a couple of time times if we weren’t being too loud, and she told me how much she enjoyed having us nearby, and hearing us laugh. On the last day, she invited me on a tour of her home, and let me know that if I needed a place to stay, “she had a little apartment down below we could talk about.” She also said that she was about to close up her beach home for the winter, and go spend the next few months in La Spezia, as she did each year. We said goodbye, the sweet Retreat ended, and I filed away the mysterious apartment for later. Two days ago, I wanted to share Portovenere, this blessed place, with my partner. We rented a stylish white Fiat 500 for a few days, and headed towards the Cinque Terre, barely an hour from our village. The only hiccup to the plan was the parking. Having experienced a nightmarish parking situation in that town a few months before, (I actually considered walking away from the car in an underground lot), I was still scarred and not excited about the thought. But hey, it would work out. Well, one does not improvise themselves an Italian driver - nor passenger. And if one does, one will most likely gain a few new gray hairs. Both of our Lizards were on pretty high alert, and a few snippy words were exchanged. As we passed the Navy base and the road started to twist and turn, I thought it best to slightly angle my body away from my dear driver, and focus intently on whatever was happening outside the passenger window. That’s when I saw her. Zia Freaking Teresa. Right there on the side of the road, hopping out of her car, and climbing a short hill to a statue store. STOP THE CAR!!! He did. I thought maybe I had imagined the whole thing. I mean... I know a total of two people in this whole area, and 50% of that population would happen to be at the exact same place as me at the exact same time?? I think I just saw Zia Teresa. You think you just saw who? I explained. He suggested I get out of the car and do something. Seconds later, Zia Teresa and I were kiss-kissing and she seemed just as surprised as I was. She was shopping with her cousin, the owner of Villa Esmeralda, and introduced us. She was beaming, she was talking faster than I could understand, and there was something about being with her again, completely out of the blue, that reminded me of the magical mandala with all live in. From down below, it may look random and crazy, but from up above, it all makes so much sense. From up above, we’re all connected. Hearts, souls and places. Teresa wanted to meet “mi amico” and so down to the Fiat we went. She hugged him and he hugged her, and as she kissed-kissed me goodbye, she reminded me that parking was tough, down in Portovenere - and that I was invited to park down at the house, in her private parking spot. Home. Home everywhere. This sense of home that has not yet left me, and keeps on winking at me, day after day. Reminding me that I am only co-creating this life, that someone with a much bigger plan - and serious leads on great parking spots - is right there by my side. It took me hours to stop asking: can you believe we ran into Zia Teresa??? The fact that that day was my grandma’s birthday eventually did occur to me. Here’s to life, to co-creating, to zippy little cars, and to looking and living this well, when we are 84 years old. XOXO PS: we found THE best deal on renting a car in Europe. Let me know if you need that info. Share on Facebook Receive my blog posts straight into your inbox. After a day of work, it's a pleasure of the senses to lace up our hiking shoes and make our way into the hills. We walk past ancient walls, cats lazing around, bright flowers cascading from window boxes, laundry hanging from balconies - then we take a dirt road to the right, and we are in the middle of olive trees, wild rosemary and red colored dirt. Calm everywhere. The sound of birds, and of the day ending with a sweet sigh. Last night, just as I was, once again, trying to find words to express this bliss, I was frozen mid sentence by a shock to my ears and my mind What the h*** was that?? Gunshots. Gunshots in "my" peaceful hills. Instantly confusing to my Essence sensor. Minutes later, same thing. And again. I turned around and went home. I guess this old place cares little about the story I want to make about it, and when hunting season starts, there are gunshots to celebrate that. This morning still, birds chirping alternate with gunshots. It's sunny, it's beautiful, the olive trees are still happy and wise - and it's hunting season. I don't have to like it. Well, my gut has been acting up a bit (gluten, dairy - repeat) in the last three days, and I have been a on a steady diet of chicken and rice. The beautiful roasted chicken we had bought at the Lucca market is gone, and so we make our way to the store to pick up a chicken to roast ourselves, with a bit of fresh rosemary. We use our Duolingo words to tell the man behind the counter what we would like, and he immediately puts a fat bird on the scale. A fat bird - complete with a head, beak, eyes, and feet. I can't do this. What's going to happen when we get home? I'm sure not going to cut off that head, nor do I want it cut by someone else in our kitchen. The man sees the look on my face and asks me if I would like him to cut it for me. I nod, slightly queasy. He grabs his knife and gets to work expertly and swiftly on removing the offensive parts. I can't wait to get out of there. And then ... then ... he picks the now unattached head, the feet, and god knows what else, and wraps them carefully in a little bit of paper for us to take home. As a treat, I am guessing. After all, we are paying for it. In unison, we let him know that no thank you, we don't need them. As we walk out of the store, I can almost see him shaking his head and wondering what's the matter with us. I walk fast, trying to dispel some nervous energy, while the sunny hills resound with occasional gunshots. I flinch with each one of them. My partner says nothing for a bit, and then he does. He starts to ask: you realize that there is a disconnect, here and that ... I interrupt him. I know. I know. I am not fully blind to my blind spots. I dislike hunters, and I don't want to see the eyes of the chicken I'm about to roast with rosemary. A good little bit of hypocrisy to file away for later. Within hours of meeting my companion years ago, he had told me about his friend Max. He had told me about the important chunk of life they had shared together, he had told me stories, painted several vignettes of two younger men living free and a bit wild. One late night, he recounted to me the day Max took off on his sailboat for an open ended adventure around the world, and how he had stood on the bluff overlooking the ocean, watching the boat get smaller - and wept. Time passed, and I think they saw each other once since that day. That was 21 years ago. As life will have it, we found out recently, that Max had settled a few miles from the village where we were to spend some time, here in Italy. A few clicks of the laptop put the two of them in touch, and it was agreed that they would reunite once we got here. Reunions of the heart are exhilirating and scary. They are are part meeting the other, and part meeting ourselves again. Will we recognize who we find? It took a few days for my partner to be ready to reach out, and once the day was set, I could see a blend of excitement and fear making its way. At one point, I think I sensed a bit of protecting, too. Cherished memories are crucial and tender, and allowing them to move from the nest of our deeper private crevices onto the light of Today requires courage. A few texts were exchanged along with an invitation to spend the day together and be treated to a tour of Livorno. To which I heard a quiet: what I really want to see is him, not so much the city. Yesterday was the day, and at 10 am, a car pulled into our driveway. My partner had been up since the crack of dawn, gone on a solo hike into the hills, and we had been pretty quiet. The air was crisp, the sky shiny blue, and a sweet vulnerable energy was dancing around. The driver door opened and the two men instantly beamed at each other before entangling their arms, shoulders and hearts for a good while. Then Max deposited a kiss on his friend’s cheek, and off we went. I could tell quickly that the woman sharing the back seat with me was someone very special. The 40-minute drive to the city was filled with two timeline recounting of their decades spent apart. The wheres, the whens and the whos were passed back and forth, with a peppering of clarifying questions. I listened and took it all in. The passions, the learning, the giving ups, the getting up again, the hopes, the humanness. Really, they were carefully saying: this is me. Show me you. It was a rich ritual and I felt privileged to be witness to it. As we arrived into the city, Max drove us by his workplace and pointed to us the building where he shows up on week mornings. The place of which he says that “he does not love the work, but has learned to make it a spiritual practice.” And then, he took us to a small park, and stopped the car in front of a gathering of these beautiful, tall Italian trees we have been admiring daily. Jumping out of the door, he said: Now, I demonstrate! We all got out and watched him open the hatchback and extract a blanket. His companion laughed and shook her head as he told us to follow him. Arrived at the foot of a particular tree, he laid the blanket down right next to the trunk and explained: this is where we come to have a picnic every work day. Mina brings lunch, and we eat right here, under the tree. Mina laughed and confirmed that yes, this did happen every day (this blew my mind a little bit, as it spoke of something I may not have in me, but wish I did) Then, he said: but first, I do this. And within a millisecond he had his back on the ground, his legs flat up the tree trunk, and enough room on the blanket for his buddy to join him. Which he did with glee. These two men stayed there, looking up at the tree, right next to each other. I could not tell you how long it lasted, but I can tell you that when they got up, something had happened. Something which Max summarized by saying “Yup. You’re still my brother.” And that was that. The rest of the day was spent in a blissful cloud of walking, swimming, eating, singing and talking. None of us wanted the day to end. A key had turned in a lock, and the rest of life could now be enjoyed from that new place. Or maybe that old place. We did get a tour of the city, and Livorno is indeed beautiful. But more than anything, Max had taken his friend to his tree. And no site, no gelato and no tour would ever match that. Taking the ones we love to our trees. Allowing them to guide us to theirs. And then staying there for as long as it takes for our hearts to line up. Sharing the small sacred places, moments, sights and tastes of our lives with each other. Away from the facts, and away from the shiny spots. Being vulnerable enough to allow this quiet intimacy. Being brave enough to say: this is me. Please show me you. |
SCARED OF THE SACRED
HAPPINESS SCHOOL:
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