The store was closed so I went home and hugged what I own.
Brooks Palmer
clutterbusting.com
clutterbusting.com
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Friday 6 November 2009
Toni’s 60th
How many times have I landed here in Bari, Italy? Probably at least twenty times. Yet I am always surprised when I see the new modern terminal. When did that little one room building get replaced? When did all these walkways and hustling boutiques get built? I am still wondering how all this came to be as Aldo and I exit baggage claim and look around for Toni. Toni is always the one waiting for us when we fly in--quiet, smiling, hospitable Toni. This time, however, we don’t see him. Maybe for once we have beaten him! But no, here he comes. I notice his grey and white hair. Aldo’s hair turned white years ago, but Toni’s had stubbornly remained black. Now it’s finally turning white and that still surprises me. “The arrival board said the plane was not yet here,” he explains, “So I went for a coffee.”
We hop in the car to start the familiar ninety-minute drive to Martina Franca. On my left I catch glimpses of the sea in between the buildings that seem each year to extend further and further south. On my right groves of olive trees line the highway. After about an hour we see the haphazardly placed little sign for Martina Franca and turn off the freeway to head up the gentle climbing hills. Soon we pass Zoo Safari where many years ago camels licked our car windows sending our four kids into screams of delight. We pass the restaurant where one Sunday we spent more than four hours dining with my mother-in-law, two of Aldo’s brothers and their families and our good friends from Seattle. At the next curve we see a house which reminds me of Toni’s ex-wife’s house. Even after all these years my stomach tightens a little even though the marriage had lasted only a year. Soon we’re leaving the white hill-topped town of Locorotondo and see stretching out before us the Valle D’Itria. After crossing this green fairyland spotted with hundreds of conical-shaped stone trullis, we climb the last hill to enter Martina.
Tomorrow is Toni’s sixtieth birthday and his wife Gisela has organized a surprise birthday party. I’m sure Toni must know something is up because, for one thing, Aldo and I don’t normally fly in for his birthday. Yet we play along saying we had a bit of free time so just flew down for a visit.
Gisela and Toni have been married seven years. I was thrilled when she entered the picture not only for Toni but also because her arrival as newcomer made me an old-timer. Suddenly I was not only part of the family history that Gisela was learning, but finally I knew more about them than someone else did. In Martina everyone knows everyone even before they are born. Ask “who?” and immediately an oral history of the person in question is thrown at you: his parents, children, relatives living and dead, homes, jobs, schools--a whole web of connections that place her squarely in their history and in their midst. Even if I could grasp all these connections, at least a dozen more new references have popped up that I am left wondering about. I could clearly see this vast organic web of connections but I didn’t really feel an integral part of it until Gisela arrived. Then I shifted into old-timer and it felt good.
Plans for Toni’s 60th officially started in September when I was here for my last visit. One day Gisela and I slipped away to Park Hotel to reserve the banquet room and discuss the menu. Gisela sat across from the respected owner and told him in good Italian that she wanted a simple cena, not a pranzo, as this was for a birthday, not a marriage or baptism. There would still be five courses plus wine and champagne but each course would offer only one plate, not two, as a pranzo would. She asked if I thought that was OK. “Fine,” I said. No matter what it was called I knew we wouldn't leave the table hungry! She reserved the banquet room for November 2nd, made an appointment for the following Wednesday to return and finalize the menu, and mentioned that probably thirty-five people would attend.
Every now and then over the next two months I’d get a phone call from her when Toni wasn’t home. “Should I invite so-and-so?” she’d ask me. I’d immediately think, “Waste of time,” but aloud would respond, “Why not, can’t hurt? Give it a try.” A few days later, “I invited this relative. She said she’s coming! Do you think she will?” “Not a chance,” I’d think, but then I’d say, “Well, you never know. She might.” Gisela was too new to the family to understand the entrenchment of the family quarrels and the rock-hardness of certain divisions. She’d only been around seven years and there were injuries and wounds that went back decades. She’d call again, “Niece called to say only she is coming. I told her, ‘Your family has four people. I’ll put down four places. If one comes, OK, but I have you down for four places.’” She kept the same line with everyone. “I’m inviting everyone. If they want to come or not, it’s their choice, but they’re invited. A family needs to be all together.” This Albanian was preaching to the Italians!
Last week Gisela called me again. “I haven’t slept all month worrying that it will go OK. Toni doesn’t suspect anything. Now everyone but Rosetta is coming. Says she can’t leave Benito alone. Do you think so-and-so will say something and spoil the dinner?” “Could happen,” I thought. But I said, “I hope not. I hope she behaves. Just limit the wine.”
November 2nd arrives. All Souls’ Day, Day of the Dead. Toni always thought he was unfortunate to have been born on the day when everyone went to the cemetery where his mother would cry copious tears. He would have cried, too, he wrote in a poem, if he had understood the reason behind the tears but he was too little to understand. Eventually, however, his poem goes on to say, he came to see that November 2nd was not such a bad day after all for it was on this day that everyone, the living and the dead, came together to pray. On this day the division between those he loved who were living and those he loved who were dead disappeared. They were all united.
On Monday, the big day, Aldo, Toni, Gisela, Zia Lina and I sit down at noon for the day’s main meal. With good wine we toast Toni, give him his present and light a candle on one of the local sweets. We sing Happy Birthday not once but twice.
During the afternoon several people call to wish him auguri (best wishes) but no one comes by to see him. We hope he doesn’t find that strange. Finally at 6:30 p.m. Gisela tells him to put on the new suit he had received from a niece a few days ago. I say I’m going to go dress, too, as I’m sure we’re going out although I don’t know where. Once Gisela and I are ready we announce we’re going to take Zia Lina home and will meet up with them a bit later. We’re off! I think Toni really believes we’re going to drop Zia Lina off at her apartment.
We go straight to the hotel. The banquet room looks lovely with large candles wreathed by autumn flowers and fruit on each of the seven tables. A piano is ready. Tables are set out for serving. The empty room is a bit chilly. Gisela tells me she is expecting about fifty-five people depending if everyone shows up. Fifty-five! Back in September it was thirty-five; now it’s fifty-five! I worry a little that if some people don’t show up, the empty tables will be glaring at us, but I put that thought firmly aside. Gisela is still attending to last minute details when I hear laughter. The first guests have arrived: Julia, Roberto and eight-year-old Roberta. How appropriate—seven years ago it was Julia who had introduced Toni to Gisela.
Soon Sandro from Rome arrives even though he doesn’t feel well, then Pina and Peppino with their two girls and Maria’s three boys and Martino on Lino’s side with his wife and girls and now Roberto with his family. They keep coming and coming. Some of the little kids I’ve only seen once or twice so I have to ask them their names. But as I look at the faces of the teenagers, I see the babies they once were. Gisela is counting who is here, who is missing. All the ones I thought would not come are in the room! By 8:30 p.m. we’re only missing Rosanna’s three teenage sons, Pierpaolo, and Vito of Maria who is sick. Everybody else is here kissing each other on the cheeks, talking, laughing, catching up. The room has warmed up.
At 8:45 p.m. Toni walks into the room and looks around. “Even though I might not look like it,” he says, “I am moved. I knew Gisela was planning something, but I never imagined it would be at this level. I thought maybe a small dinner, but nothing like this. I see everyone here, all of you. I am very happy.”
His friend Gianni then takes the microphone and sings. Toni and Gisela dance. The uncle who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning dances with the niece I haven’t seen in ten years. The seven-year-old chases the two-year-old. A few go outside to smoke. Another course is served. More music, more dancing. Halfway through the evening Gisela stands in front of everyone to read in perfect Italian a love poem she wrote for Toni. His face beams. He takes her hand to dance the tango while all the relatives look on.
How many times have I landed here in Bari, Italy? Probably at least twenty times. Yet I am always surprised when I see the new modern terminal. When did that little one room building get replaced? When did all these walkways and hustling boutiques get built? I am still wondering how all this came to be as Aldo and I exit baggage claim and look around for Toni. Toni is always the one waiting for us when we fly in--quiet, smiling, hospitable Toni. This time, however, we don’t see him. Maybe for once we have beaten him! But no, here he comes. I notice his grey and white hair. Aldo’s hair turned white years ago, but Toni’s had stubbornly remained black. Now it’s finally turning white and that still surprises me. “The arrival board said the plane was not yet here,” he explains, “So I went for a coffee.”
We hop in the car to start the familiar ninety-minute drive to Martina Franca. On my left I catch glimpses of the sea in between the buildings that seem each year to extend further and further south. On my right groves of olive trees line the highway. After about an hour we see the haphazardly placed little sign for Martina Franca and turn off the freeway to head up the gentle climbing hills. Soon we pass Zoo Safari where many years ago camels licked our car windows sending our four kids into screams of delight. We pass the restaurant where one Sunday we spent more than four hours dining with my mother-in-law, two of Aldo’s brothers and their families and our good friends from Seattle. At the next curve we see a house which reminds me of Toni’s ex-wife’s house. Even after all these years my stomach tightens a little even though the marriage had lasted only a year. Soon we’re leaving the white hill-topped town of Locorotondo and see stretching out before us the Valle D’Itria. After crossing this green fairyland spotted with hundreds of conical-shaped stone trullis, we climb the last hill to enter Martina.
Tomorrow is Toni’s sixtieth birthday and his wife Gisela has organized a surprise birthday party. I’m sure Toni must know something is up because, for one thing, Aldo and I don’t normally fly in for his birthday. Yet we play along saying we had a bit of free time so just flew down for a visit.
Gisela and Toni have been married seven years. I was thrilled when she entered the picture not only for Toni but also because her arrival as newcomer made me an old-timer. Suddenly I was not only part of the family history that Gisela was learning, but finally I knew more about them than someone else did. In Martina everyone knows everyone even before they are born. Ask “who?” and immediately an oral history of the person in question is thrown at you: his parents, children, relatives living and dead, homes, jobs, schools--a whole web of connections that place her squarely in their history and in their midst. Even if I could grasp all these connections, at least a dozen more new references have popped up that I am left wondering about. I could clearly see this vast organic web of connections but I didn’t really feel an integral part of it until Gisela arrived. Then I shifted into old-timer and it felt good.
Plans for Toni’s 60th officially started in September when I was here for my last visit. One day Gisela and I slipped away to Park Hotel to reserve the banquet room and discuss the menu. Gisela sat across from the respected owner and told him in good Italian that she wanted a simple cena, not a pranzo, as this was for a birthday, not a marriage or baptism. There would still be five courses plus wine and champagne but each course would offer only one plate, not two, as a pranzo would. She asked if I thought that was OK. “Fine,” I said. No matter what it was called I knew we wouldn't leave the table hungry! She reserved the banquet room for November 2nd, made an appointment for the following Wednesday to return and finalize the menu, and mentioned that probably thirty-five people would attend.
Every now and then over the next two months I’d get a phone call from her when Toni wasn’t home. “Should I invite so-and-so?” she’d ask me. I’d immediately think, “Waste of time,” but aloud would respond, “Why not, can’t hurt? Give it a try.” A few days later, “I invited this relative. She said she’s coming! Do you think she will?” “Not a chance,” I’d think, but then I’d say, “Well, you never know. She might.” Gisela was too new to the family to understand the entrenchment of the family quarrels and the rock-hardness of certain divisions. She’d only been around seven years and there were injuries and wounds that went back decades. She’d call again, “Niece called to say only she is coming. I told her, ‘Your family has four people. I’ll put down four places. If one comes, OK, but I have you down for four places.’” She kept the same line with everyone. “I’m inviting everyone. If they want to come or not, it’s their choice, but they’re invited. A family needs to be all together.” This Albanian was preaching to the Italians!
Last week Gisela called me again. “I haven’t slept all month worrying that it will go OK. Toni doesn’t suspect anything. Now everyone but Rosetta is coming. Says she can’t leave Benito alone. Do you think so-and-so will say something and spoil the dinner?” “Could happen,” I thought. But I said, “I hope not. I hope she behaves. Just limit the wine.”
November 2nd arrives. All Souls’ Day, Day of the Dead. Toni always thought he was unfortunate to have been born on the day when everyone went to the cemetery where his mother would cry copious tears. He would have cried, too, he wrote in a poem, if he had understood the reason behind the tears but he was too little to understand. Eventually, however, his poem goes on to say, he came to see that November 2nd was not such a bad day after all for it was on this day that everyone, the living and the dead, came together to pray. On this day the division between those he loved who were living and those he loved who were dead disappeared. They were all united.
On Monday, the big day, Aldo, Toni, Gisela, Zia Lina and I sit down at noon for the day’s main meal. With good wine we toast Toni, give him his present and light a candle on one of the local sweets. We sing Happy Birthday not once but twice.
During the afternoon several people call to wish him auguri (best wishes) but no one comes by to see him. We hope he doesn’t find that strange. Finally at 6:30 p.m. Gisela tells him to put on the new suit he had received from a niece a few days ago. I say I’m going to go dress, too, as I’m sure we’re going out although I don’t know where. Once Gisela and I are ready we announce we’re going to take Zia Lina home and will meet up with them a bit later. We’re off! I think Toni really believes we’re going to drop Zia Lina off at her apartment.
We go straight to the hotel. The banquet room looks lovely with large candles wreathed by autumn flowers and fruit on each of the seven tables. A piano is ready. Tables are set out for serving. The empty room is a bit chilly. Gisela tells me she is expecting about fifty-five people depending if everyone shows up. Fifty-five! Back in September it was thirty-five; now it’s fifty-five! I worry a little that if some people don’t show up, the empty tables will be glaring at us, but I put that thought firmly aside. Gisela is still attending to last minute details when I hear laughter. The first guests have arrived: Julia, Roberto and eight-year-old Roberta. How appropriate—seven years ago it was Julia who had introduced Toni to Gisela.
Soon Sandro from Rome arrives even though he doesn’t feel well, then Pina and Peppino with their two girls and Maria’s three boys and Martino on Lino’s side with his wife and girls and now Roberto with his family. They keep coming and coming. Some of the little kids I’ve only seen once or twice so I have to ask them their names. But as I look at the faces of the teenagers, I see the babies they once were. Gisela is counting who is here, who is missing. All the ones I thought would not come are in the room! By 8:30 p.m. we’re only missing Rosanna’s three teenage sons, Pierpaolo, and Vito of Maria who is sick. Everybody else is here kissing each other on the cheeks, talking, laughing, catching up. The room has warmed up.
At 8:45 p.m. Toni walks into the room and looks around. “Even though I might not look like it,” he says, “I am moved. I knew Gisela was planning something, but I never imagined it would be at this level. I thought maybe a small dinner, but nothing like this. I see everyone here, all of you. I am very happy.”
His friend Gianni then takes the microphone and sings. Toni and Gisela dance. The uncle who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning dances with the niece I haven’t seen in ten years. The seven-year-old chases the two-year-old. A few go outside to smoke. Another course is served. More music, more dancing. Halfway through the evening Gisela stands in front of everyone to read in perfect Italian a love poem she wrote for Toni. His face beams. He takes her hand to dance the tango while all the relatives look on.
Thursday 29 October 2009
Paying Attention
Almost all the seats on the 7:00 a.m. underground train from Richmond to London were full this morning. I sat sipping my latte perusing this way-too-early morning crowd. Everyone sat entranced in their own bubble transitioning from bed to work: nose in newspaper, eyes glazed over novel, ears throbbing with music, hand finishing makeup, head nodding. No one talked or expended any extra energy. The speakers announced, "This is the District Line train to Upminster." I opened my book and started reading. The speakers mumbled something but I paid them no mind. Suddenly everyone--all of us, jumped up out of our seats, dashed out the door and threw ourselves into the opposite train where we sat down just as suddenly as two seconds ago we had stood up. It happened so fast I didn't even know how I knew to get up. I must say, though, I was proud I didn't knock over that short lady in the brown poncho in front of me as I passed her quickly on my right. I did feel my elbow itching to thrust her aside but I held it in check.
Back to my book reading. Again "This is the District Line train to Upminster." I felt a soft touch of my foot as a businessman carrying a coat bag got on the train with a big black dog and stopped right by me. "It's illegal for dogs to be on the underground," I thought half a second before I noticed the dog's bright yellow halter and double leather leash. "Had he touched my foot to see if this seat was empty? I should offer him my seat," I felt lightly in my gut. "No, it's OK as is," I thought and went back to reading while the man and his dog stood calmly near me. The train started. Two stops and five minutes later a man sitted across from me left his seat to approach the standing man. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked. The man nodded and offered his arm to be escorted. I looked down at my hands. I should have gone with my first gut instinct. Had the other man been trying to figure out what to do these last five minutes before he had acted so nicely? What had graced him enough to stand and cross the floor?
The blind man sat, the gracious man got off at the next stop and I went back to my book on how to pay attention.
Back to my book reading. Again "This is the District Line train to Upminster." I felt a soft touch of my foot as a businessman carrying a coat bag got on the train with a big black dog and stopped right by me. "It's illegal for dogs to be on the underground," I thought half a second before I noticed the dog's bright yellow halter and double leather leash. "Had he touched my foot to see if this seat was empty? I should offer him my seat," I felt lightly in my gut. "No, it's OK as is," I thought and went back to reading while the man and his dog stood calmly near me. The train started. Two stops and five minutes later a man sitted across from me left his seat to approach the standing man. "Would you like to sit down?" he asked. The man nodded and offered his arm to be escorted. I looked down at my hands. I should have gone with my first gut instinct. Had the other man been trying to figure out what to do these last five minutes before he had acted so nicely? What had graced him enough to stand and cross the floor?
The blind man sat, the gracious man got off at the next stop and I went back to my book on how to pay attention.
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Flowering Orchids
Last Sunday something white caught my eye as I entered the room. Glancing towards the windowsill I saw two white orchid flowers softly silhouetted against the window pane. I stopped and stared. Two months ago under cover of darkness I had placed three of my five orchid plants out on the sidewalk hoping someone would come by and adopt them. With no remorse and lots of relief I wished them well, turned my back and walked into the house. The two remaining orchid plants escaped this same fate simply because they were not yet on the point of death.
Every now and then I gave my two orchids a good soaking, drained them as I was taught to do then set them back on the windowsill. Just recently I had cut off huge yellow leaves from each of them thinking this could mean one step nearer the sidewalk for them, too, but my hope was to keep them alive at least for another month.
Two weeks ago I went to Dublin, Ireland for a Spiritual Directors International Conference. I arrived a couple of days early to do some sight-seeing. The first day I hopped on a tour bus to head north of Dublin to Newgrange, the site of a 5000-year-old burial mound—a tomb more than five hundred years older than the Pyramids of Giza. From the outside Newgrange did not impress me: it was just a huge mound of earth topped with grass and encircled by giant blocks of stone. Twenty of us climbed up the wooden stairs leading to the entrance of the mound and then walked single-file down a narrow passage to the burial chamber deep in its center. At one point the passage became so narrow we had to turn and walk sideways. Eventually all twenty of us stood in the inner chamber which was illuminated by electric lights. Our guide then explained that the chamber normally is in complete darkness except on Dec. 21, the shortest day of the year. On that day, if the skies are clear, at exactly 8:58 a.m., the sun passes in front of the entrance at precisely the right angle to permit its light to slowly move down the same narrow corridor we had just walked through until it reaches and then completely fills the inner chamber with light. This light lasts exactly seventeen minutes. Then, as the sun continues to move slowly westward, the light begins to withdraw until the chamber and then the corridor are again left completely in darkness.
They believe the tomb at Newgrange took sixty years to build. Its granite stones weigh between one and ten tons each and came from quarries on two different rivers each about fifty miles away. The huge granite blocks were cut and then floated upriver on the tidal rivers. Five thousand years ago the average life span was twenty-five years so many generations of men worked their whole lives building this structure without ever seeing the finished mound or experiencing that seventeen minutes of light on the darkest day of the year.
After visiting Newgrange I then headed south of Dublin to Glendalough, the site of a 6th century Celtic monastery. This monastic town consists of eight well-preserved stone monuments. Several are churches, one is a thirty-meter-high Round Tower, one a three-meter-high cross carved from a single granite stone. Some stones mark ancient graves, others recent ones. For two days I wandered among the ruins. They had withstood the invading armies of Vikings, Normans and English. They had withstood wind, rain, snow and fire. Carved with Celtic circles, spirals and designs, these stones invited fingering, touching, feeling. No ruin had a "Do Not Touch" sign. I caressed the strong straight walls, sat on the simple altars, put my arms around a standing cross.
Returning then to Dublin to attend the Spiritual Directors Conference I chose to go to one of the offered workshops on writing poetry. I continually struggle with my desire to write. While I enjoy and want to write something always seems to hold me back from sitting down and doing it. As I entered the room where the workshop was to take place, that familiar fear like a gray fog immediately appeared pressing itself against my gut and chest. As I listened to the presenter, fear snuggled up cozily against me. Yet when we were told to write a short seven-line poem, I reached around the fog, picked up my pen and wrote a poem. The presence of the other participants stopped fear from blocking me.
Later the same day while sitting quietly an image came to me. Light fluffy fear in the form of fog came snuggling up against me but as I stood there feeling its strength, the fog turned to a block of cold hard granite. Afraid it would slip from my arms and crush my toes, I tried to tightly embrace it, but the stone was too heavy and slid down out of my arms. I jumped quickly out of its way, dancing around it as it hit the ground, fell over on one side and stopped there. With great relief I sat down on this excellent writing bench.
Returning home from Dublin late last Sunday night I walked into the conservatory and was surprised to see two flowering white orchids on a plant I usually kill. Flowering orchids. Fear turned to strength. Seventeen minutes of light on the darkest day of the year. All seems possible. Today I start my blog.
Twickenham, England
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