Time Out For Travel

I'm traveling to Trinidad with my Honey to be with our daughter, her husband and our two grandchildren for Christmas. Internet access is dial up in her Rain Forest village so my postings will be curtailed. My Honey is there for a month and I'll be there for two months training to run a half marathon in Florida before returning home. I hope to start some kind of writing project with my grands while there and I'm eager to see what ideas they may have about this. They're ages 9 and 5 and I'd like to hear any suggestions you may have.
I'm excited for it all.

One of the surprises about friends made in the blogosphere is the importance you now have in my life. I couldn't have imagined this BB (before blogging), but I cherish it now. My life is rich and full with the combination of wonderful adventures in Italy/ Europe and via my blog. I'm grateful.
Please accept my best wishes for a holiday season full of joy for you and your families.

A Time I Had Magic

A Time I Had Magic

I saved a life once.

On a Nebraska Reservation

a baby was born
blue, silent.

The doctor, a stranger

to these people,
instructed: "Leave him,

he'll die."

His mother cried,

refused to hold him,

begged: "Take him
away."

I was his nurse.

I focused on him,

massaged his feet,

stroked his chest.

Life loitered,

crept in slowly,

he breathed,

    he moved,

        turned pink.

Connected to life,

I fed it to him

     like milk.

It was that kind of magic.


This is for dVerse Poets Open Link Night hosted today by Claudia. She has some wonderful things to say about falling in love with poetry and she's a great example of really fine writing.

Buried Alive

It's not like setting fire to the rain

as Adele sang when she jettisoned

her guy and friends cheered

images of mystery and catharsis

with symphony accompaniment.

It's more like being buried alive

in sand with only my head exposed

to stare alone at the sea of our love

without arms to take us where

we are meant to be.

This is in response to the visual prompt above posted at Magpie Tales.

What Choice You Had

What Choice You Had

"Come to my room, help me 

choose the dress I'll be buried in.

Is it too morbid of me to ask you?"

Your first choice a fuchsia dress

silk, long sleeved, belted.

"Is it too garish for a funeral?"

You decided,

at your funeral you would wear

what you wanted,

bright color such a deliberate

counterpoint to your fading.

Final statement

by a legend of stylish dressing.

"Perfect choice, Mom."

"Guess what," you whispered, "it's a size 10!

I've always wanted to wear a size 10."

We laughed at your perverse

pleasure - loss of weight

even if it's to cancer, size 10

even if it's in your casket.

It had its intended effect.

Mourners remarked on how 

beautiful your dress was, 

how so like you.

                                                        

                                                                                        Mary Harvey Warren

in loving memory of Mary McLellan Harvey

I posted this poem  two years ago for a 100 word challenge. This is its full version posted in response to Victoria Slaotto's prompt at dVerse Poets entitled Meeting the Bar: Writing Emotion.
Check out this great resource blog for poets which contains both information and prompts.

Don Giovanni and Opening Night for the Opera

Kierkegaard wrote that Mozart's Don Giovanni is "a work without blemish, of uninterrupted perfection." Flaubert called Don Giovanni, along with Hamlet and the sea, "the three finest things God ever made."

Tchaikovsky always held Don Giovanni in the greatest awe and regarded Mozart as his musical god.

Last night was the opening night for the Opera House, Teatro Alla Scala in Milan and they performed Mozart's masterpiece, Don Giovanni. The orchestra was under the direction of Daniel Barenboim and I was there! In a wonderful program whereby the opera is filmed up close and personal and screened in theaters all over Italy, I was able to attend, see everything, from the stunning, sumptuous theater, the people coming in in all their beautiful finery, for example the President and the Prime Minister, the orchestra warming up and then the start of the opera with the gorgeous overture. We had incomparable seats for a fraction of the cost and close to home. What a great idea. 

The quality of the music, singing and performances were astonishing, breathtaking. I located this aria, "Lá ci darem la mano" on You Tube, between Don Giovanni (an arrogant sexually promiscuous nobleman) and one of his many conquests to give you a flavor. He's trying to tempt her and it starts: "There we'll join hands and you'll say yes". They showed subtitles in Italian so it was easier to follow the dialogue and arias. They also had interviews with the director and conductor about their vision and the opera itself at intermission. It was an incredible evening.

To top it off, my friend and neighbor, who loves opera, came with us, as did our tutor and his friend. Afterwards, rather than go out for pizza, which was the first proposal, we all went back to our tutor's house for a late but delicious dinner whipped up by his friend. It was the better way to end such a full evening- in the presence of friends, sharing good food and wine, savoring the shared experience. A perfect evening.

30 - 30 - 30 - Happy Birthday, Kelly!

From my daughter's birthday on December 6 to mine on January 26 our family ages are: my father- 95, me- 65, my daughter- 35, my granddaughter- 5.

I looked up the meaning for the number 30 and found it has it's own wikipedia page and people called "thirtyophiles" who sing its intricacies and praises, most of which I don't understand. There's even a You Tube video by one of these fellows at the end of the page who goes on for six minutes about the magic of number 30. Amazing!

I just think it's very cool to have this 30 year spread between four generations of my family for these two months, even if there's no cosmic significance.

As for my daughter turning 35, now there's cosmic significance. Kelly, child of my heart, when I became a mother, I thought I was mothering her to life, but in some mysterious real way, she brought parts of me to life that never would have come forth except in response to her. Mothering her is my  favorite life role so far, although I'm crazy in love with my Honey and have great fun as grandmother to her two Dear Ones.

It has been different than I thought at every step of the way and I cherish it all. Well, after I got over myself and opened up to her as separate from me, I cherished it all. I didn't really get that it would continue my whole life, mothering, but I'm so grateful it has. I'm grateful to be Kelly's mother and I thank her for choosing me to be her mother. I admire and love her.

3 + 5 things I love about Kelly:
1. That she exhorts your two children to listen to their bodies and stop eating when they're full.
2. That she breast fed her babies on demand and trusted their wisdom to know when to stop.
3. That she chose where she wanted to live, found a way to finance going there and then followed her passion and lives there.
4. That she chose the man whom she wanted to marry, built her relationship with him, then trusted her judgement and heart and asked him to marry her.
5. That she and her husband built their own home, raise their own food, and always seek ways to strengthen their community.
6. That she knows, loves and preserves the Trinidad rain forest, encourages others to discover its treasures, and fights those who would harm it.
7. That when her son grew to hate school, she removed him and decided, after consulting with trusted friends, to home school him and her daughter.
8. (proposed by her Dad): That despite our faults and mistakes, she continues to love her parents.

Happy Birthday, Kelly!

Fall Colors in Our Neighborhood

I'm struck by the beautiful colors in our neighborhood these days of extended fall. They're different than the dramatic colors of my native New England, a bit more subtle and subdued, but lovely nonetheless. Much of the color come from the leaves still on the vines after the recent grape harvest that is the source of our wonderful regional wines.

Taken yesterday on a country road down our hill:

Taken from my balcony this afternoon as the sun momentarily broke through the clouds.
Those are vineyards in the distance peppered with olive groves.
The first photo looks west and the second, south:

What is Poetry?

First it's the words-
green words, ripe words to sip and smell, full
flavored on the tongue to transport,
temper, grip and affront.
Bottled up words concede,
become brainstorms. Words
presage, seethe and shudder, have affairs
with other words, grow gravid with illicit seed, bear
new words with primal screams.
Words smolder and succumb, relent and sulk.
A conspiracy concocted to break open our skull, bartered
to bare our heart, pursued on purpose, built in play to poems.

Ciphers decipher life, shape breath. Given mazes
poems make maps, an overview when view is overwhelming.
Poems elude and denude, invade minds in praise of words, never
inured to their salute. Poems specify new words, ascribe powers to them,
chant them, liken them to purple lupine, cast them on breath's wind,
fingered, picked, an incantation of words to stun and stupefy.
Poems revere words, cull words, draft and give back.
Poems stammer and ado, talk and bicker, clash and cause
a cause celebre. Haggles ensue in a hullabaloo. Some
rebut, some debunk, some quest or pester.
Poems bellow, howl, whoop and shout,
splash speech across the page, gnaw on magic.

This is posted in response to the generous prompt on dVerse Poets Pub by Gay Reiser Cannon on Form For All, Poetic Devices: Image, Symbol, Metaphor, Allegory. 

This site is a great way to learn more about poetry, crafting poems and read other poets.

Wake The Sleeping Giant

This is a poem written by my friend, Ruth, on her marvelous blog Synch-ro-ni-zing, posted on November 24 and entitled: What To Do On Thanksgiving. If you like great poetry, check out hers.

Take

the torch

down from the wall

and bravely wake

the sleeping giant

of your soul

Stir

dormant magnificence

out of her crouching

fraction of light

Strengthen

hibernating

hips arms and legs

into stomp

and thunder

on the dance floor of

your particular praise!

This great poem and call to action mobilized me mightily, got me meditating and writing for hours. To write in answer seemed to be a way to find my vision at this time, my dreams for the future. Ruth's poem contains two important questions:

1. Who is this sleeping giant of my soul? 

2. What do I thunder in particular praise of? 

When I was 19 years old, on a week long retreat, I had a vivid vision (not the seeing kind of vision) while praying. I tried to put it in words but it left me speechless. It was a sweeping, certain kind of  knowing that we are all one. Humans in our totality and diversity, animals as fellow creatures, protectors, and guides, all things living - trees, plants and flowers, all things in nature - mountains, land, sea and sky. All. One. And that this is the divine, the sacred, the whole, the holy. The priest on that retreat said it was heresy when I told him, but I've held that vision in my heart as a gift given to me.
It was the only vision of my life but it was enough, it's the ground of my being.

I thunder in praise of this vision. 

Other things I thunder in praise of:

- Knowing what makes me come alive and doing it. 

- Mining the wisdom of elders, of grandmothers, in association with other grandmothers who bring their voices to the issues of the day, who say what they see, who are the solution we're looking for.

- Working to increase real respect for women and children, to make the world better, healthier and happier for our grandchildren. Love is the way.

- The beauty of art and being near artists who present what is beautiful and true.

Who is my sleeping giant? She likes:

- To move, to hike, to run, and to live in a beautiful place.

- To read and have some people with whom to discuss what I read.

- To write and be in community with other writers, including poets, who like to share their work.

- To raise plants, care for them, propagate them and learn more about local ones.

- To eat local food raised organically and sustainably while living lightly on the land.

- To walk a spiritual path in fellowship with other seekers and to find ways to be of service.

- To gather the young women of my family yearly to foster deepening bonds, family healing and remain a part of the lives of these amazing Dear Ones.

- To love John in new ways and enjoy the company of others in long-term committed relationships who share and encourage one another.

- To live in a community of people who are awake, aware, alive. A community characterized by respect, kindness, attention and courage, who share resources in some way, and where individual strengths are enhanced. A diverse community, multi-racial, multi-cultural, men and women, old and young (lots of kids), gay and straight. A creative community.

- To have more contact with Kelly, Carl and the grands. To live in community with them. To have their strengths, skills and perspectives in my community. To help home school the grands.


Some of what emerged surprised me (like the last two), some is familiar but comes together in a new way. I'll sit with it and let it percolate some more. I've summarized here but there are pages of writing. My friend, Nancy, over at Life in the Second Half who agrees the revolution is love, has been asking for awhile about drawing together a community and I was intrigued but didn't feel the tug toward it until now. I have no idea how this will manifest but the energy is flowing.
What if we all woke our sleeping giant and stirred our dormant magnificence?                                                        

TEDxSF - Gratitude

For this Thanksgiving weekend, I offer this gorgeous video containing so much that I'm grateful for and some amazing time lapse photography for your viewing pleasure. Take 10 minutes and enjoy.
I'm ever so grateful for this blog world I've discovered and for each of you. Grazie mille.

The Kiss

We dressed for our day, the air
between us thick with thrown words,
they loomed, suspended from then to now with no
bridge back. He turned,
just that. Longing jolted through me

for contact, even clothed contact,
us coiled, whorled, my head wreathed in his hands,
touched lips tried upside down like us,
a kiss to map a new way back, to rebuild what was lost
one kiss at a time.


I love that these lovers, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, were long- term marrieds.
This is in response to the visual prompt at Magpie Tales #92
And for dVerse Poets Pub, open link night #19

Naples, Italy: The Birthplace of Pizza

Do you like your pizza thin and crispy, like in Rome, or soft and pliable, like in Naples? I went to Naples yesterday for the first time (the streets looked just like this except more crowded for Christmas) and tried the Naples version of pizza. As an Italian man at my table said: "This is the best pizza I've ever eaten." He said this with a look on his face resembling bliss.

How do they get the pizza  soft and pliable? They make the dough the day before and let it rise for 10- 15 hours. Then, they cook it in wood burning ovens at 485 degrees C (905 degrees F) for 60- 90 seconds. The crust is then soft and light and tastes like a dream. It looks like this (this is actually mine).

Although some pizzerias will serve other types of pizza, the "authentic" pizzas are considered to be pizza marinara, made with tomatoes, oregano, garlic and extra-virgin olive oil, and pizza margherita, (named for a Queen and my favorite), made to look like the flag of Italy with basil leaves for green, mozzarella for white and tomatoes for red. Mine has buffalo milk mozzarella (popular in this area) as a topping in the middle. It was extraordinary.

The first pizzeria in Naples, Antica Pizza Port'alba, was founded in 1738, although the first appearance of pizza was in a Latin text from the Italian town of Gaeta in 997AD. Most food historians point to Naples as the area of origin, and to Napoletana, the pizza of Naples, as the archetype of this type of pizza. 

This pizza was served in this restaurant. People wait outside in long lines until the tables empty and they can experience pizza alla Naples. It's worth the wait.

What food are you savoring today? 

Seals as Kin

Celts call seals kin as they drape on dark rock,
kinship defined in fey legend, night talk,
same salt core and more, like necks thick,
heat kept by seal but man as brick.
As waves encroach on black rock seals bark back,
give voice to loss and more, skid to sea's brack.

Seals shift shape, shed skin and become human,
stay hidden from our view, but moon's lumen
shows selkie to those who might seek
and steal skin, make her ever weak.
Kinship not enough, own as mate our kin.
Shed tears for those who block another's din


(Based on the Irish/ Scottish legend of the selkie.)

Written in response to dVerse Poets pub prompt by Beth Winter for a staccato form poem with particular rules listed here. (but I missed the time deadline, aargh!)

Brave Endeavors

My friend, Ruth, over at Synch-ro-ni-zing wrote a thought provoking post about living in the face of death, despair and fear. In her wise way she turned to poetry, bits of poems, she called a "found poem" to provide an important juxtaposition.
After reading it, the following quotes that I've collected because they spoke to me came together in a whole new way. They illuminate our work as writers and offer encouragement for this brave endeavor.



I don't think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you might nudge the world a little or make a poem that children will speak for you when you are dead. 
- Tom Stoppard


It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.
~Frederick Douglass

So don't be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don't know what work they are accomplishing within you? 

-Rilke

One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times. The light of the soul throws sparks, can send up flares, builds signal fires, causes proper matters to catch fire. To display the lantern of soul in shadowy times like these-to be fierce and to show mercy toward others; both are acts of immense bravery and greatest necessity.
-Clarissa Pinkola Estes

January Child (The Full Version)

It's Open Link Night - week 18 at dVerse- Poets Pub, devoted to the encouragement of poetry and community among poets. Check it out and tell your friends.

January Child

I came along in the dead of winter

born in my own time three weeks late.

Father was at work.

Mother begged a ride from a neighbor

to go and do her woman's work alone.

She napped me on the porch

to be toughened by the snows

and gales of winter,

to cut my teeth on New England nor'easters

and fight the undeclared war against girls.

Middle child, only girl, small for my age.

Both brothers slept the porch in spring

took for granted the abundance

of our neighborhood, the visitors and friends,

the elms and hyacinths, maples and forsythias,

spring greens, yellows and new hues,

the migratory flocks parading back to northern homes.

Both boys read books, played quiet games

grew fat on father's favor.

I grew to a storm-wintered warrior child

sight practiced on bare lilac thicket,

schooled by wind in how the world sounds,

cries accompanied by blackbirds and jays,

layered against the elements.

Perhaps my skirmishes were attempts

to win that unwinable war

but I fought with the fury of calling,

battered brothers' enemies,

marshaled anger from hidden fronts

as I gave birth to myself.

Mary H. Warren

(I published a 100 word version of this poem on 9/30/11. This is the full poem that needed to be written.)

A Dream in Which I Run Over Two Toddlers

This is offered in response to dVerse- Poets Pub prompt to use idioms and spread the poetry love
and Magpie Tales haunting visual prompt as seen here.

Last night in the graveyard shift of my dreams
I stood looking at a high hill that I needed to climb.
My niece ran over to show me a train track to take up
and a flat, open tram to sit on for the trek to the top. No directions
were given me for how to work this tram but
I was drawn up as if by an invisible cable.

I climbed slowly and then plateaued for a bit,
climbed again and again plateaued. On the third plateau
a young boy appeared beside the track in front of me. He held a rope
attached to a smaller, open trolley on which sat two toddlers.
The boy laughed as he pulled them along in the same direction I was headed
then turned and raced the toddlers' trolley toward my tram until I ran over them.
Traces of blood tipped the front of the tram.

My tram continued to the top as waves
of disbelief, horror, guilt, hope that no one saw, fear
about leaving the scene of the accident and determination to make a police report on the accident
washed over me. Through it all careened the question
of how seriously the toddlers were hurt. I saw my daughter at the hilltop,
told her of the accident. She had heard it on the news,
but never said if the two little ones lived or died.

I wandered and worried since it was longer and longer
from the time of the accident, stymied
by how to find the police and consumed
by concern over the toddlers' condition.
I felt like a woman in a foggy field surrounded by chairs
whose arrangement makes no sense as I looked around for what to do next,
as if a dream is our sixth sense but defies discernment.

Then Somebody Bends Unexpectedly

Remember the scene in Beauty and The Beast where Angela Lansbury in a voice over sings:

Tale as old as time
True as it can be
Barely even friends
Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly
Just a little change
Small to say the least
Both a little scared
Neither one prepared
Beauty and the Beast

Ever just the same
Ever a surprise
Ever as before
Ever just as sure
As the sun will rise

Tale as old as time
Tune as old as song
Bittersweet and strange
Finding you can change
Learning you were wrong
Certain as the sun
Rising in the east
Tale as old as time
Song as old as rhyme
Beauty and the Beast

I like this song because it rings true to my experience. It sings of the importance of one of the couple making that tiny first move, shifting the field, making a change. Until somebody bends, softens a bit, nothing changes. 

When I can be the one to make that small change that changes everything, I'm awed by the difference it makes, by how my Honey lets me save face, by the closeness that results. Moments before, I'm thinking "I'm right, he's wrong and this time he'll eat shit, choke and die before I back down." But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember what happened the last time one of us shifted and how good it was.

Sometimes it's me who softens (even when I hate to), sometimes it's my Honey. And every time, for 38 years, it changes the dynamic to the point that we can hear each other a little more, understand each other a little better and move towards re-establishing closeness. Deepened.

What's true in the individual level is also true on the group level- political factions, racial tensions, religious differences, family discord- people maintaining rigid positions maintain the status quo or bring about worse, including destruction of one another.  Those that can soften their heart can start the chain reaction of change. Can make the world a better place. Can bring about healing. Can't they? What do you think?

MOORE

This is offered in response to the visual prompt from Magpie Tails that can be seen here.

He wrote it on his tombstone.
MOORE. The story of his life.
He dressed it up fancy, the extra "o" and all caps. But it was always about wanting
more, more than anyone else had, more than he needed,
more than he could ever use, more than anyone wanted to give him once they knew him.
MOORE. He thought he was entitled to it,
to more, because of who he was.

He promised more, too,
in the belief that everyone wanted more,
lured them into his sticky web with visions of
more. But that kind of more can only happen
by seeing the real need for more. That more he never saw,
another's need. Never knew that obsession with his own
more blinded him to others' need, missed altogether the difference between
more and need.

He wanted it on his tombstone. MOORE.
Thought of it as his clever tongue-in-cheek epitaph to what was more important than his name.
He who dies with the most more wins. Never
caught the irony. It was on his
tombstone.

London With a Friend

I've been caught up in the whirlwind of traveling and visiting in London (and Windsor) for the first time. And all of that with a long-time friend.  What a grand time we've had. Even though I've lived in Italy for 2 1/2 years and traveled a good deal around Europe, somehow I've not been to London up to now. That's changed as of this last week. The chance to travel here with my husband and meet up with my dear friend, Mary, was too good to pass up.

It started in Windsor in a hotel directly across the street from Windsor Castle. We looked at it from our room. So day one I toured this magnificent place.

The weather was clear and fine and gave me the opportunity to get some great photos of Windsor Castle, which serves as the weekend home to the Queen or her family members, and houses priceless treasures.

The grounds are lush and beautifully kept but my favorite display (no photos allowed inside) was Queen Mary's Doll House. To see all the castle rooms reproduced in such miniature but accurate detail was delightful. I enjoy doll houses anyway so I spent a long time there just amazed at the workmanship.

London was next on my itinerary and we stayed in a hotel by Kensington Gardens and Kensington Palace, past home of Princess Margaret and Princess Diana and future home of her son, Prince William and his new bride, Kate Middleton.

The huge park and gardens were lovely and contained this magnificent tree that I named the tree of life.

Kensington Palace is in the process of a transformation but had an exibit in the meanwhile entitled "Enchanted Palace" consisting of a clever hunt through the shadowy world of the enchanted palace for the names of the seven princesses who have lived at the palace. It included an interactive visitor experience, fanciful pieces of information and displays for each of the princesses, a booklet to write their names, guides galore to give more details about their lives and a prize at the end if you got them all right. Made for a fun afternoon followed by an elegant high tea at the Orangery.

The excitement of a great city of London at night with Christmas coming was everywhere evident. I got some Christmas shopping for the grands done and loved every minute. I can't wait to see their faces when they open their special treats.

Of course, I did some old fashioned sight seeing. How could I not after hearing about and seeing in pictures these iconographic images. I'll just include a couple of night images that I thought came out well.

London theaters had so many choices for shows but not all were both available and affordable. One that was both, was the award winning "Jersey Boys". You have to see this show if you were an adolescent in the 60's. You'll sing along to every song- I sure did. Fabulous songs and a great true-life story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons makes for a incredible musical.

The National Gallery had a photography exhibit on modern actresses and influential women that was stunning but certainly one of the most endearing aspects of this trip was the time with my friend since 1989, Mary. We had time to talk and be together, time to catch up and tell our current stories, time to share and just enjoy each other again. She's a gem and reminded me of the song we sang in Girl Scouts: "Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold". You're pure gold, Mary. I'm so fortunate to call you friend.

Call and Response

This is offered in response to the prompt for a "Call and Response poem" from dVerse- Poets Pub. (before I knew of the time limit) This is a marvelous site for learning about different kinds of poetry as well.

Call and Response

"I've a strange heaviness in my arms, Mac. Can't seem to row at all. Something's wrong. I need to get back to Mae and the baby." 


"We'll turn her around, Angus. We can do the rowing. Should be back by the afternoon if the waves hold constant." 


He saw Mae sitting by the window, the baby in her arms, as he rushed into the house.


"What's wrong, Mae? The baby's so still."


"Oh, Angy Mal, our Donald died this morning. He had a fierce fever while you were gone. He fought hard, poor wee one. I was praying you'd come."


"I had to come back, I couldn't row, Mae, had a heaviness in my arms. What can I do?"


"Best to make a casket to bury our baby in. Paint it white, pure soul that he was."


Angus carried the casket in his arms for the funeral. "Mae, this is the heaviness I felt in my arms in the boat, the very same."

I Had A Dream

For Kelly

I had a dream when my daughter turned twenty: she began to eat the tall plant in our living room. I knew she wouldn't stop. She turned green like the plant, her lips, her face, her neck. I feared the plant would take her over, evolve her into a new life form. The she/plant grew wildly out of control, spread to the carpet, filled the room, then the house. I panicked, declared: "There'll be no more plant eating in this house!" As if I could stop it, or her, or needed to.

Prophecies come in dreams. She moved to Trinidad's Rain Forest, staked her claim to earth, connected to the plants in this far away land,  discovered the ancient world view and speaks it anew: "All my relations." She gives back in balance as she takes, knows her power, walks in beauty in a sacred way and brings her medicine to mother earth. Earth needs her medicine.

How to Fish And Not Get Seasick

These odd structures with the odd name of trobacchi are actually an ingenious way to fish without ever going out to sea. Like fishing huts on stilts. They dot the 15 km southern coastline in my province of Abruzzo with their organic, quirky constructions that look like the anatomy of some exotic sea creature. Two or three of their long arms provide a network for nets that project out to sea and take advantage of favorable currents to scoop up fish.

Made from acacia trees that grow behind the beaches and salvaged drift wood washed in by the tide, each one looks quite different. Fishing families since the 18th century used these ancient formations as their main source of income. It took ingenuity to devise a framework for fishing based on a sparse population that needed to lessen loss of life at sea and not be hampered by weather conditions. Indeed, as they are repaired, trobocchi have resisted decades of storms while remaining flexible. Impressive.

Due to the over- fishing in deeper waters, Trobocchi are now cultural symbols, tourist attractions and even restaurants rather than sustainable fishing machines. My Honey and I joined friends for a Slow Food meal on a trobocco not far from us near Vasto and pictured below. The food was fresh, local and typical (the criteria of Slow Food Movement) and we feasted on gifts from the sea. One dish was a local fish soup called Rodetto di Pesche all Vastese made with assorted fishes, tomatoes, garlic and olive oil. Delicious.

There is some food that feeds more than physical hunger. This would be an example. 

How about for you?

Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

It's chestnut season where I live. Chestnuts used to offer tasty sustenance through the long winter months to the peasants in this Abruzzo area of Italy. They are now available at the open markets that dot our region. Look for skins with a healthy glow and a beautiful brown shine.

Chestnuts from our local market were roasted on an open fire right on my stove in a fancy roasting pan purchased in our little town.

Wash the chestnuts in cold water first. Cut an X shape on the flatter end (so it doesn't explode when cooked) but not piercing the skin, then roast on low flame for about 15- 20 minutes. Shake them frequently and put a lid on the pan since chestnuts open up dramatically and with force. Doesn't it look like they've just opened their hearts?

Drop into a bowl when they're all opened and nicely roasted. Squeeze the chestnut before peeling and it will peel easier. Sprinkle with a little salt or cinnamon and eat while warm. Wine is a wonderful accompaniment.

I'm sorry that a blog can't contain smells because roasting chestnuts have a gorgeous, abundant, open- fire scent that made my mouth water before I ate one. European chestnuts are larger, sweeter and easier to peel than American chestnuts.

But it's the taste that is most remarkable. Chestnuts, freshly roasted, have a smooth, substantial texture. I knew I was eating a tree gift with in its essential treeness intact. Their taste hints at cinnamon (before adding it) but nutty and sweet with a full on, ample chestnut taste of their own that kept me popping them.

It seems like such a bounteous gift from the tall ones, an extravagant sharing of tree substance with us two-leggeds. Have we lavished this kind of plentiful love back on them? Or offered gratitude for this all- inclusive nourishment? These sweet chestnuts are part of me. My strength redolent with this tree gift.

Talking is Good, But We Knew That

My Honey and I were reading about stress reduction the other day. We knew the secret from experience: "talk to each other." Turns out that we were right all along. You've read all the suggestions for handling stress: exercise, meditate, breath. All good. But now they're finding that talking to your spouse or loved ones reduces stress the best. 38 years of marriage taught us that, but it's good to have research back us up. We should have written a book.

It seems too simple, doesn't it? Just talk. Tell folks that care about you and that you care about how you're feeling. Women do that with one another fairly easily on a regular basis but it's good for men too. Talk to your spouse, talk to another trusted relative, talk to a close friend. Do it often. They know you and love you. They hold your highest good in their heart. We're made for that love. It's good for us.

Have a great weekend.

100,000 Monks

100,000 Monks pray for a better world.

Let us join them.

All our energy toward a worthy goal.

What might we accomplish?

Steve Jobs, Rilke, Monet

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.
And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

                                            Steve Jobs, 
                                                    Stanford University Commencement address, 2005

You carry within you the capacity to imagine and give shape to your world. It is a pure and blessed way of living. Train yourself to this, but also trust whatever comes. If it comes from your desire, from some inner need, accept that and hate nothing.

Worpswede, July 16, 1903

Letters to a Young Poet

Rilke

Monet