italy: a journal entry

these are the cycles of life...

I am sitting on the roof top of my rented flat in Trastevere, Rome.

I am looking out at a great city that zips at a fast clip, in a swell of heat. I have spent several weeks with a straw hat perched on my head to offer a bit of shade from the brightest sun without the slightest shadow on some of the most beautiful scenery I never imagined existed.

It has been magnificent, grand, and fully arousing. I am in the aliveness.

I have thought of you, my friend, at various moments during this Italian adventure. I checked my email to read the news in real time regarding your mother’s transition. In my sympathies, I saw the opportunity to revisit memories of my father’s death, and what it was like to say goodbye to a parent.

I recall a plethora of emotions then, that seemed to weave in and out of the days. I remember going to the grocery store and getting all the way to the cash before realizing I had a basket of food that were entirely his favourites.

Some of it felt like invasions of what “is now” with what “was as a child”; some of it felt like watching a movie of stranger's life lived with all of the pain and also glimpses of joy; some of it felt like relief.

Perhaps you will have your versions of something similar? What I know is that there is no right or wrong way to grieve, nor is there a “proper” length of time. It is your process. Period. I want you to know that I have seen you be far more than a loyal daughter to your mom. Way beyond this, my friend, you have been strong hands to help her, and an enormous heart filled with grace.

It is time for the compassion to pour out---for you. I send prayers and loving kindness your way. My hand on your back…

In some vein of this, I have been present to my life in a way I have never been.

These are the cycles of life…

On this trip, all of my senses have come AWAKE.

My eyes have been aware of the sharp colours of nature on the hike through Cinque Terre… Lush green, cacti, moss, grapes—against rugged cliffs, blue sky, and the gorgeous swim in the salty ocean that took my breath away.

I have felt the soft breeze on our boat ride along the Amalfi Coast: with the spectacular caves formed in the rocky inlets on the right, and the infinity of the ocean off to the left.

I have been in awe at the touch of textures of architecture made of raw material that weathered war and have stood time in an incomprehensible way. Sculpture that is alive centuries later; smooth surfaces depicting movement and feeling.

I have heard the music of baroque in the outdoor theatre of Rome, the rush of cars in the back alley, the passionate conversations in Italian where there is all talking and nobody is listening, yet everyone is laughing.

I have savoured the taste of fresh basil garnishing sweet tomatoes, the sizzle of lemon in sparkling spritz, the richness of chocolate gelato, and the flavours of mamma’s homemade sauce.

I have smelled the espresso bar lining every street.

I am basking in sheer sensuous bliss.

In the Cycles of Life….

There is evidence of the artist long before now.

There are dreams and possibility of the artist today.

Italy is the home of the artist.

I feel it deeply…very deeply.

I feel immersed in a world charged by creative expression.

I feel the pain of judgement for the artist.

I feel the power of politics and pope and the artist.

I feel the hard work and discipline and hours of the student.

I feel the brilliance of the master.

I feel the miles walked on the earth.

I feel the vastness of the heavens.

I am in the expansion.

In this cycle of life I am beginning to live.

I am the artist of my life.

A wee small dot on the big world of artist.

A dot just the same.