The Man in the Piazza

The hot Tuscan sun beats down on my back while a breeze gently swirls my hair in and out of my face. Clouds pass by slowly, light and fluffy, non-threatening today.  A dark man in a pressed blue Italian shirt leans out of his window three stories up, peering over the square.  His salt and pepper hair contrasts perfectly with the dark behind the window.  His watch reflects the sunlight onto the stone building.  He has those eyes that draw me in, the ones with the deeply creased lines showing a lifetime lived smiling, enjoying what he's been given.

I sit in the square, suitcase in hand, waiting for my train but unwilling to go inside the stuffy station.  I have too many hours to wait and too much of Italy to still soak in.  It is my last day in what has been my longest stay in Italy to date.  This square reminds me of all the reasons I love this place and keep returning.

There are fragrant roses of pink and white stripes in geometric patterns all over the square.  Two tall obelisk stand at opposite ends of the square and when the sun gets too hot I take refuge in their shade.  There are multiple cafe's within my eyesight and of course a gelateria.  Young men sit talking with their hands while their cigarette smoke spins with each movement. People pass by in a frenzy to catch a train or perhaps a bus, few sit and savor the view.

From here there is the church decorated in stone of green and red hues.  And the hills of Fiesole behind the church look green and inviting.  If only there were a place I could drop this bag.  I could spend this time more wisely but maybe sitting and savoring the moment was just what I needed most.  I venture no further than a cafe where I grab a smoothie to stem my hunger and then back out I go to the square to sit and ponder and observe.

The ambulance comes several times by with its blaring horn.  These are the horns my boys said they couldn't wait to get away from.  They are loud and terrifying and then just down right annoying. The police also pass by more than once.  Their uniforms, stylish, make them even more attractive than they otherwise might be.  A couple walks hand in hand.  They gaze at each other in that newlywed, so in love way.

The man on the balcony finally finishes his phone conversation.  I have gazed up occasionally to watch him and imagine who he is talking with.  Now he stands, leaning casually over the railing staring down as I gaze up.  He is handsome and obviously wealthy based on the hotel where he is staying and the suit which he so elegantly occupies.

I was hoping this day to see my friend but alas work has kept him.  His story was one I wanted to hear more of.  His story is the kind of story that makes anyone count their blessings.  It is tragic and he is young and he should have much more in life.  But of course, he is satisfied for now with safety and clothes, a job and food. Why is the world so filled with sadness?  Why does life have to be so hard?

And yet here in this square I can forget all of that.  I can look at a church built hundreds of years ago that has withstood the tragedies of this life and brought healing to some.  I can look around the square and see happiness, contentment and fulfillment.  I can gaze from below at the crowd, hiding behind my suitcase and sunglasses while the man gazes from above sheltered by the balcony and distance, both observers of a world in motion, appreciating a moment and sharing perspective.

Getting Lost in Order to Be Found

Never be scared to be lost in a new city, sometimes you have to be lost to be found.  On the first day in each new place I have visited I have had to get my bearings which usually involves getting lost in order to be found.  This summer proved no different.  In fact, the pressure and responsibility of having more people with me may have even made it occur more often.  Or, at least, I noticed it more. I did let the kids know that it wasn't a big deal to get lost in a new place and that sometimes by getting lost you really were being found.  What follows is a few stories of our lost moments and those moments when we were found.

In Rome on our first day we took a bus into the city from the camp.  The first bus took us to the depot area. We had to get off that bus and embark on another to actually get us where we wanted to go, the Colosseum.  I asked using my Italian which bus we needed.  We received what I thought were great instructions and off we went down the road to catch that bus.  We needed the 46 bus. We did pass by a Metro station but the bus, according to those at the camp, was easier.  We waited for the bus and in no short time along it came.  We climbed aboard and were on our first adventure.  This bus wound through neighborhood after neighborhood, up and down the hills of Rome, letting off and on passengers with their bags from the market, or an occasional businessman heading home for lunch.  Finally we arrived at yet another depot. I was confused as we departed because I didn't recognize the surroundings but I figured the center of Rome could be close by.  We exited and climbed a nearby hill.  I thought if I looked out I could surely figure out how close we were to our destination.  No such luck.  We had been misled.  We were near a hospital but nothing else.  I went to a nearby coffee stand and once again asked for help.  My Italian was not good enough for the woman behind the counter.  She and I could understand a little of each other but not enough.  She enlisted the help of another man.  His English was as good as my Italian and between the three of us and one more bystander we figured out that there were two number 46 buses and we had boarded the wrong one, of course.  We needed to get back on another bus and return to our place of departure.  With many thanks I left and gathered the children and went back to the terminal.  We climbed aboard another bus and sure enough actually made it to the center of Rome. We were found.  Once in the center of Rome I had no problems finding all of the places we wanted to visit and getting home that night was easy because we had been lost to begin with.  We knew all the wrong roads and buses.

And then there was Florence.  When we made it to Florence via train I had directions in my hand, written in English, on how to get to the camp plus I had been to Florence before.  This should have been easy but of course it was not.  We left the station and crossed the street to the bus station that was in front of the McDonald's, just as the directions instructed.  We kept waiting and looking for the right bus number.  This time we needed the number 12.  We waited, and melted in the heat of Florence but no bus 12 came along.  I asked everyone to keep their eyes open at each of the bus stops, the ones across the street and in front of the train station and to be looking for that bus number.  We stood for along time before I was finally able to ask a bus driver who was not immediately departing.  Sure enough we needed to be across the street.  As soon as I got that answer, Max piped up, "I saw that bus on the other side."  Really! We trucked our luggage back across the street and boarded the bus.  This bus ride was an adventure of its own and more like a carnival ride than a city bus ride.  The driver loved weaving through traffic at breakneck speed.  Our balance was challenged with every turn especially considering we each had some rolling luggage that didn't want to stay put.  At the top of the hill we departed looking for the camp which of course had no signs marking it.  When I called the camp to ask for further instructions they asked which way was the bus going when I got off.  Seriously, I had just explained I came up from the train terminal but whatever.  It took a few more minutes to find the unmarked entrance and check in.  We were found. Found by the beautiful olive grove camp that would be our home for four days.

 The only other time in Florence when we needed to be found was when we were looking for the synagogue.  The signs in Italy are sometimes very unhelpful.  They will point in one direction but really they mean a different direction.  We gave up on the synagogue and I had to find it when I returned later in the summer. Before we departed the first time I took a mental picture in my mind from above Florence so that I knew which direction to head it when looking. Found.

And then there was that moment when we were driving out of Florence headed to the north.  It was pouring down rain and I followed the directions I was given exactly, since all the GPS devices were checked out, only to be taken to a parking lot behind the train station, not helpful when you are trying to get out of the city. It was pouring down rain and now I had to turn around.  This should have been easy.  I learned to drive on a manual.  I kept pushing down as hard as I could and back trying to get it to slip into the reverse spot.  It would not go.  How was I going to turn this car?  I did briefly consider getting out and pushing but just then like magic it went in.  Unfortunately, I had no idea until more attempts how it had managed to go in.   I left the parking lot and found my way around the train station eventually and then out of the city with only one red light run and minimal honking from other drivers.

The highway would be the next questionable moment. We drove north to Ravenna following the signs until suddenly there were signs to the right on the other road.  The highway had divided some miles back.  There were four lanes, a barrier and two more lanes.  We were in the four in the middle. I spotted the signs in the two lane area and panicked. Again we were without a GPS so as soon as I saw those signs I figured we had made a wrong lane choice.  We exited the freeway and turned around.  When I got to the poll booth I asked about going to Ravenna.  He said to turn around again, of course.  There were two ways and the way I had originally chosen would be the quickest.  We turned back around and made it to Ravenna but the journey was not over.  We had to get to our hotel which was on the beach.  We drove around and around, surprising, and couldn't find it, one roundabout after another, my head circling.  This was a little beach town how hard could it be?  Again, the rain dumped in buckets perhaps obscuring our sight.   I had to call the booking company for the hotel and ask for directions.  He used google maps to get me to the right place. Found again and now we knew the route to the beach and the market.

As I was driving again to Venice or really a town outside of Venice, I kept receiving text messages from the landlord we would be renting an apartment from.  We are driving this beautiful two lane road along the coast, past large, deep rivers, enormous farms and little villages.  I am loving every minute but his texts are telling me I should have taken the freeway.  This road would take too long, in his words.  But I contentedly stopped at a roadside farm and picked up fruit.  The old lady at the stand was helpful and sweet and had obviously lovingly grown the produce right behind the stand on her farm.  Our journey was taking  longer than I expected but that is what makes it a journey and not a trip.  When we began to close in on our destination I tried to contact the owner for more clear directions to get right to the apartment.  He does not respond.  I do my best, again, with the written directions.  This town is plagued by both canals, complete with one way streets on each side and roundabouts.  I found a pizzeria that was open and asked again for help.  They were able to give us great directions and we made it in no time.  The apartment was spacious for a one-bedroom and perfectly suited to our needs.  We unloaded and headed to the Venice airport to take the car back.  We would be visiting Venice for the first time this afternoon.

In Venice we didn't get lost but maybe that was because after one time through we were strategizing ways to avoid it altogether. More on that in another blog.

Berlin was next and there was no way in a city of 3.5 million and 7 Holiday Inns there could be any hope that we would arrive at the correct one the first time but we sure tried.  The problem with Berlin was that by this time we had lost, even though Greta and I both had copies, our documents with confirmations and reservation information. In Venice we had no internet access or phone service so we couldn't retrieve the stuff before we left.  I was using my memory, you know the one that had made reservations in 7 towns over the course of 7 months, to navigate us to the correct Holiday Inn.  Berlin Mitte sounded really familiar and so that is where we headed.  As the rain trickled down on the dark streets of Berlin we drug our suitcases past a bar showing the Germany World Cup game, which we would see later, and into the lobby of said Holiday Inn.  Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.  As Greta texted Danielle and Paul, the other two people who had copies of everything, I used my German that I learned when I was between the ages of 16-19 to ask the front desk if they could possibly call the other Holiday Inns and find our reservation.  Graciously they did and put us back on the right train headed in the right direction.  Now we had walked the streets of Berlin at night, used the train and the subway and were ready for anything that came our way.  Lost and then found again.

Hamburg may be my favorite lost story.  It may take me until eternity to find out if it was an angel or the devil that led us to our hotel but we did arrive safely so I am leaning towards angel.  We had walked off the bus and this time again had directions in hand.  At the hotel in Berlin I had reliable internet and could retrieve our needed itinerary. We followed the directions looking for a particular street.  I was not finding it so I asked a German couple with a map.  The street we were looking for was not on their map and so they left and we continued walking. I saw a gigantic lit up city map across the street and it was as Max and I were deeply examining and had just found our location that a man swooped in behind us and asked if we needed help.  I explained we thought we had it but he insisted on helping and so I showed him our hotel address.  He looked at me and said it was a long ways away, a mile and a half.  He obviously didn't know who he was addressing and so I explained we were not afraid of walking.  He told us he would take us part of the way until he was sure we would be on the right track since it was in the same direction he was heading.  As we walked he told me his life story which I am saving for another blog.  At the crucial junction he left us and we were reading the numbers of the addresses and knew we were close when he suddenly appeared again.  This time I emphatically said we were fine and not lost and told the kids to walk as quickly as possible for the next block and a half until we went through the doors of the hotel. Good Samaritan? I am still not sure. When I write my blog about him you can decide.  Hamburg the next day was a breeze because we had walked, observed and taken in what we needed to in order to be found again.

Getting lost is not so scary if you have the right perspective. The key to being lost is in the observation.  What did you learn, what did you see and where did you go?  This makes getting lost really just you finding your way and therefore being found.

The lost Synagogue 

Hamburg

The olive grove camp and view

Mira and one of it's many canals

Berlin from above

Solitude for my Soul

Solitude for my soul sitting under an olive tree in the speckled shade of the Tuscan sunlight gazing out onto fields of olives, grapes and tall jutting cypress.  A small forest stands in the distance. A hilltop town gazes down at me from above making me feel small and insignificant.  The cicadas chirp loudly and the birds chime in behind.  An occasional grasshopper rustles in the dry grass nearby.  A tall oak that has lost all of its foliage guards a creek of berries, black I assume, and a field of vines.  Now I can let my heart rest.  Behind is the cathedral where I have just experienced a portion of mass followed by soothing Gregorian chants.  I needed this Sunday of solitude.  This day to rest my soul on things not of myself.

The church is down a long steep road and it lies on the pilgrims road to Rome.  This pilgrims path is one we will often follow on this journey through Tuscany.  A path which seekers have long followed in search of solitude for their own souls.  The church was once a sanctuary for wanderers and once again is fulfilling that role.

The olive trees here are old, the trunks large, mangled messes with an occasional hole.  They perch on a shelf above the cathedral.

The cathedral itself is impressive on the outside for its size and arches but inside it is simple.  I am reminded of my Aunt Evy when I have to rise and sit with different songs.  I look to my left for guidance, an obvious devotee makes every movement clear.  The more I pay attention the better I can read his movements and adjust mine so that they mimic one who truly knows what to do. I lift my heart skyward as they chant and sing an Amen at then end.

Solitude for my soul at the Abbazia Di Sant'Antimo

Russia-Part I The Moment that Changed My Life Forever

A long flight has brought me across the Pacific to Incheon, South Korea. The fate of the rest of my life lies on a large island off the coast of Siberia; its name Sakhalin.  I wait impatiently in my small hotel room for the next day when I will travel on to Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, Russia.  The long flight that brought me to Korea was pleasant on a modern and clean airline but soon I will be thrown back in time to an era of intrigue and exile. I climb the steps in the morning and depart eager to begin my latest adventure.

The plane lands on an airstrip that is concrete but the landing is far from smooth because the strip is plagued with cracks and potholes. The landscape looks like something I would see at home, large treed mountains line the horizon, aspen like trees surround the airport.  As I step down to disembark immediately I am drawn to what is different here.  CCCP it reads on the airport and the hammer and sickle are still displayed with prominence.  The trucks that come for the luggage are vintage 1950 and mechanics are working on other outdated equipment.  The equipment they are working on was made long before I was born but seems to be the only available in this far outpost of Russia.

Walking inside we line up to go through customs but the process is altogether scary.  Guards are unfriendly and my few words of Russian are no consolation when having to deal with their looks of scorn.  Their faces seem to say, "Why so much luggage?  Typical Americans."  I feel resented immediately.  Our driver is waiting and is even more angry about the luggage, wondering where he will fit it in the small car he has brought.  At last we cram every inch of the Soviet-era black sedan and head to our hotel.

Driving past heaps of garbage piled as high as houses and run down shacks I think of my times in other impoverished places and begin to make comparisons.  Jamaica with its ten-foot high fences hid its filth better, the shanties of several other Caribbean islands seem like palaces here, and Mexico looks like a 1st world country with all the amenities. My mood is transformed to melancholy as I think of the lives that are being lived out this way.  This island is one of the places the intelligent, educated people were forced to when Lenin and Stalin took over. Their hope was to eliminate the possibility of anyone criticizing the government or noticing the problems with it. These surroundings are discouraging.

Few streets are paved and our hotel is on a dirt road.  It is a few stories tall and has a restaurant. The elevator to our room is barely big enough for two people, let alone for our four big bags.  We have to stack and cram again and hope the weight limit is not reached.  Opening our room we are comforted by what will be our home for more than a week.  It has two rooms and a two-room bathroom set up.  

We are eagerly anticipating meeting Maxim and Nikolai, who up until this trip we had only seen in videos and photographs.  We should certainly be tired but neither Troy or I can sleep.  We turn on the TV to find it doesn't work very well.  We turn it back off and test out the bed.  The bed is large but it is lumpy.  Troy picks the best side and leaves me to suffer with the huge dip.  We try to sleep but to no avail.  We are waiting for our translator to call and say we can go and visit the boys.

We wait and wait.  Troy becomes impatient and decides to venture across the street to the market.  He says he will pick up a few things to get us through the week.  Without fear he leaves the hotel and crosses the street.  I watch him from the window.  He is back shortly with a few things.

At last we get the call we have been waiting for, Irene, our translator.  As Troy best describes her, "Here is our translator Irene, who speaks Korean, Russian and a wee bit of English."  Her lack of knowledge of the English language would plague us for this week and a half.  Her lack of timeliness would also haunt us.

In her broken English she constantly tells us "maybe" we will go and see the boys today.  "Maybe" we will go to court today.  "Maybe" we will take some passport photos.  She seems to have no idea that maybe means sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn't. The first day the only thing we manage to get accomplished is the exchanging of money in the basement of the travel center.  Do we go to a typical bank to exchange money, of course not.  We are led down the circular stairs past some "shady" shops to a door.  After a knock by our translator a man opens up.  We are to exchange money with him.  When you speak little of the language and are being guided by someone you have paid to trust, you exchange money in the closet of the business center and try not to question how much he stole.  Irene leads us back up the stairs and outside to the courtyard.  We spy a Lenin statue in a park in the distance.  We are exhausted and want to see the boys but today was impossible according to Irene, so we are forced to retreat to our hotel and wait.

The second day we were in Russia we finally were able to see the boys.  After much pacing and anticipation and my anxiety level being quite unreasonable we reached the orphanage.  We were funneled through the building making sure to not see the unmentionable parts.  We pass a small restroom and climb some concrete stairs, cold but red, to the second floor.  It is here, in the room we saw in the video, that we will meet Maxim and Nikolai for the first time.  It is a moment I will never forget and will cherish in the deep recesses of my heart.  The ladies walked in with Max and Nikolai.  They gave Max to Troy and Nikolai to me.  Nikolai instantly took to me.  We bonded in less than five minutes. He was so blond and so big for a baby his age.  I tried my best to fit the shoes we had brought to him on his feet but to no avail.  They were far too small.  Max on the other hand was so small for his age.  His frame was less that we expected and every piece of clothing was too big. Max, as a personality,  was also a more difficult case.  He would not talk at first. It took him awhile to release the permanent scowl that showed he distrusted everyone in his life.  Eventually though, he began speaking to Troy.  When we were able to take them outside to the playground and give Max some play cars, our relationships began to develop.  Max and I raced cars down the slide, he pushed Nikolai and I on the swing and he shouted any time a car would come into the parking lot.  His obsession with cars was instant. "Machinna, Machinna"  he shouted constantly.  He hardly spoke but once there was a car around, in his hands or he was in one, you could not turn him off.

Nikolai made very little noise but he was comforted by my touch.  He wanted to be held constantly and I did not say no.  He was heavy even as a baby.  He did not speak, in spite of being old enough. He also did not babble.  He didn't hardly make a noise.  After being home and researching I was not surprised by this but while in Russia I was worried.  He didn't cry when he should have.  He just sat quite.

That first day was both the most joyous and the most severely agonizing in my life because after spending the day with them I had to leave and return to a hotel room that felt even more empty.

Choices

We are meant to make choices in life.  Some are easier than others.  Some are made quickly without much thought and others take deep reflection first.  I have made so many choices in my life that matter with such clarity such as adopting my boys.  I knew without a doubt it was what I was meant to do.  I knew they were the boys chosen for me.  Even at the beginning stages when I was picking an agency I knew I had picked wisely.  I would be proven right once we were in Russia and talked with other adoptive parents.

Mother's worry leads us to doubt many of our decisions while we raise our kids.  But I know my mothering decisions are always made in love and when made in love those that love you will forgive.  My friend Robin gave me a prayer card that I use often in Mothering.  It says, "Most loving Father, the example of parenthood, teach us what to give and what to withhold.  Show us when to reprove and when to praise.  Make us gentle and considerate yet firm and watchful.  Keep us from weak indulgence or from great severity.  Give us the courage to be disliked sometimes by our children, when we must do necessary things which are displeasing in their eyes.  Give us the imagination to enter their world in order to understand and guide them.  Give us all the virtues we need to lead them by word and example..."  I say this prayer often especially when I am making a choice that has to do with Max or Nikolai. I say it most often when I making those significant choices such as switching their school a few years back.

My pastor preached a sermon last Sunday after I had already composed this post.  He explained that with every choice your are saying yes to something but it also means you are saying no to something else.  That statement rang true with me, even if it made me doubt.  When we are making choices about who to spend our time with we are saying yes to one and no to the other.  Our choices show what we value most.  On Mother's Day Max said, "I am choosing not to go to the rodeo because I know you want me to spend time with you.  It is not because I don't want to go."  At first I was offended by his statement but later realized he choose to do what was valuable to me.  He didn't make it easy to be with him but he did make the right choice.

Sometimes are choices are marred by deception.  We deceive ourselves about our responsibility in our decision making process.  We often blame others or blame the modern, technology-ridden world.  But in the end it is our compass that guides our decisions and we are the ones who have to live with those that we make.

Perhaps what is most important about choices is to not be tormented by the ones you didn't choose and sometimes that is the most difficult lesson of all. So, here's to wishing for Solomon's wisdom, no wonder he asked for it and he didn't have technology to deal with.
 

I remember the smell of

I remember the smell of my Dad's roses as I wandered through his gardens with my tiny bare  feet,
And again they would be there each year as my feet grew bigger in the Spring to welcome new life,
My favorite was down by the front fence along the road,
It was a peach color and even now I can smell it just by closing my eyes,
It had an intoxicating smell which I cannot describe and it smelled like no other rose in the garden,
I would run my fingers over the soft petals taking in their silky smoothness,
My fingers would then guide me down and I would lean in for the first deep breath,
I smelled all of the flowers in my Dad's garden but never did one take me in and make me linger such as that one,
He decided one year to move the rose and in spite of knowing what a wonderful gardener my Dad was, I was scared I would never breathe that smell again,
We had other roses of the same color but none of the same smell,
He did move it successfully and I sighed in relief,
Even now each year I touch the petals, lean over and take in that first breath of peachy goodness,
My Dad knows how much I love that rose and all the others in his garden and upon my departure he often showers me with a bouquet,
I take the flowers home and dwell on that scent and their beauty,
I have pressed many roses into books and I am always amazed how they stay soft and how the smell lingers for years,
This peach rose is pressed instead into my heart, a stamp on my childhood I will not forget.

A Great Capacity to Love

Not everyone in the world is built the same when it comes to their capacity to love.  Some people can love one person at a time.  Some will only love their family.  Others will love their friends and their family.  Some love on a very surface level and others love deeply.  These categories of love, like all things in life are what sets us apart.  They are what shape the human race and make life worth living.

I have finally accepted that I have been gifted with a deeper capacity for love than others.  This greater capacity to love has meant something in my life.  It has meant I have had to suffer heartbreak and pain at the cost of loving too many people.  But it has also shaped my life into the beautiful gift it is today.  I had to go through a divorce because I was meant to love many and spread that love to show the depth with which people can love.  I was meant to adopt my children because my love works different than other people's.  I have had many friends tell me they hoped I would someday be able to experience having a baby of my own because it would be different, but they are wrong about me.  I know what my love is like.  Blood is of little significance to me.  I love my boys deeply and I loved them from the moment I had a piece of paper in my hand with their names on it.  I love them in a way that other mothers love their children but even with this deeper appreciation for who they truly are.

I love my friends this way as well.  My friends are my family.  I would sacrifice anything for them.  My family I would go through hell for if I was asked.  My children sometimes put me through hell but I still love them deeply.  If someone dropped a child on my doorstep tomorrow I would take them in and love them just as deeply as Max and Nikolai.  I liken my love to the adoptive mom of Moses who could not let that baby go without care even though it was clearly a Jewish baby.  But I don't just love my family and my close friends.

My students, whether they know it or not, also get a measure of my love.  I don't write referrals and if I have disciplined a student I often don't remember what happened the next day.  I am the same way with my kids.  Forgiveness comes fast when you have a great capacity to love.  In each of my students I see their beauty and uniqueness.  I often tell them I don't want to see a carbon cutout.  I relish the differences.  I relish the differences in everyone.

In my home, in my school life, in my friendships, I love.  If I have dated you, I have likely loved you in some measure.  There is rarely a man that I cannot see the good in.  Sometimes they don't want me to see the good.  Sometimes they build walls around their hearts and souls but I manage to get through.  I was built to share this kind of love.  We are not all built this way but I was and now I accept it.  I am no longer hurt by loving in this manner.  I pray myself through some of it just to protect my wounds.

I am also no longer scared to express my love.  Life is to short to leave words unsaid.  Unfortunately, I sometimes lack the courage to say it in person.   So if I have said it in a text message, or email or letter know that I meant to say to you in person.

I don't expect others to understand my love.  We are all meant to love in our own way.  I have had some incredible moments in life though where others did completely understand my kind of love and in those I dwell.

If you are in my life you can expect to be loved.  In that love I will show you what we are meant to be in life to others.

Dreams I have Dared to Dream

To sip a coffee while standing in a bar,
Walk a cobblestone street with beautifully constructed Italian shoes,
Dance like no one is watching while everyone is watching
Love passionately, abundantly with fervor
Though these things are simple they are the things of which I dream.  

I have dared to dream many dreams in my life and been laughed at by those who are not daydreamers. There are people in this world who when they were children they became discouraged by dreaming and soon forgot how to do it altogether.  I have never lost that ability.  I still daydream on a daily basis but more than that I dare to dream of what my life will bring and how it will be changed. My daydreams are intricate mazes tied to the current details of my life only the details how I would like them to become.

To walk arm in arm with a man,
Who while walking with me, lifts me  above what I could be on my own,
To take my children around the world not just in my stories but also in person,
To show them what reckless abandonment of selfishness led me to scoop them into my arms,
And have them understand and want to replicate it.


I am not afraid of change but rather embrace it.  I have never been great at keeping things the same. I have a gypsy soul much like my grandmother, who could only show hers by wearing clothes and jewelry no one else would dare. Neither of us like to keep our feet on the ground but much prefer our head in the clouds.  Both of us have been tossed by the harsh waves of life against many a rock that tried to drown us but both managed to keep our heads above water.   Gypsies, they wander about, they daydream, they sing.  They do not want the carbon copy life of a capitalist society or one of the communist model either.  They prefer, or should I say we prefer, to live life on our own terms.  We have faith and it is deep but others don't always recognize it.  

To smile that secret smile across a room at someone who knows but then again doesn't,
To climb a high mountain and shout from the top,
To listen to a concert where my son is the star,
And sail on a boat to a far off isle.

Recently I have embraced speaking a new language.  It is difficult and challenging.  But my gypsy soul longs to speak another language because in that I can begin to live out that dream of mine to live on a farm in Italy. I wonder if that would be too much of a settled life for this gypsy soul of mine but I think not because I would make sure I could leave often enough to make it bearable.  I am sure that would not be my only job as well.  Of course, the challenges of having a self-sustaining farm with all the things I dream to grow would be a full-time job.

Grapes hanging on the vine in the warm sun,
Olives dangling from the tree,
Fruit trees with their temptations of apricot, apple and blood oranges,
Beds filled with zucchini, tomatoes, basil, oregano,
Rosemary hedges lining a walkway mixed with the smell of lavender,
A patio to sit and indulge the senses and sip a warm cup of tea.

I look forward to all the visitors in my life and the stories they tell.  I look forward to retelling their stories as well.  We will share our adventures because we are dreamers.  Only dreamers would make the journey to my far away farm.  And only another dreamer would share it with me.

My at home dreams for now are simpler;  hike all the trails I have not hiked yet in my area,  conquer new skills such as rock climbing, travel as much as my budget will allow to as far away as I can and share glasses of wine with family and friends and appreciate every second I have with them. And of course, I wish to share love with each person in my life in the unique way that shows their unique role in my life. And last of all to keep on dreaming.

Where are you loved the best?

I have taken to telling my boys that "I am where you are loved the best." It is a saying from "Where the Wild Things Are."  It is interesting because their responses are varied.  Sometimes they will challenge me and say God is where they are loved the best and then I have to say, "On this earth, I am where you are loved the best."  I have been saying this because I have seen their souls becoming more wounded each day by what the world throws at them.  People say hurtful things, they are forced to conform to the world's ideas about who they are and should be.  I am reminded how my own mother and father were the place I was loved the best.  And really even still they are my rocks in the rivers of life.

I am that non-conformist river.  Man wants to tame the rivers and so we study them and build dams and try to control the uncontrollable.  I have sometimes in life built my own dams but over the last three years I have been trying to break down those dams.  I built those dams because the world wanted me to do so.  Conform to this rule, look this way, do these things; in the world it is a never-ending deluge of shoulds.  I should look different as a Mom according to the world but here I am as me and I know my boys are secure and well-taken care of and most of all protected.  We don't have all the things the rest of the world has and says we "need".  We have some things but what we do have is love.

I love to go and jump on the trampoline with my boys and send them high in the sky.  I love the feeling in my throat when they shoot me so high I lose my breath.  I am that Mom.  I am the Mom that reads to my kids.  I teach them to dance.  We hike and bike and play basketball.  I say sorry when I have been overly harsh.  I defend them at school when they are being victimized by a system that wants to make them into work-a-holic robots. I cry in front of them when they hurt my feelings and make them wrestle with how to make it up to Mom.  I send them messages that go on and on about how great they are.  I feed them with love everyday.  I hope that when they leave me they have been well-fed enough that it will sustain them throughout their lives.  But most of all I hope they remember that I am where they are loved the best.  I hope they will return to me when they need to be loved the best and fed. My two strong-willed children and their strong-willed Mom will always be okay in this world that tries to rub our edginess off because we are loved by each other and because those of us that are strong-willed do not let the world tell us where we should be loved the best.  We know that place because we listen to our hearts.

So where are you loved the best?  Where do you get the food of love?