...in no particular order
Here in the US, a cup of coffee is often an afterthought, something we order to accompany something else. “I’ll have a blueberry muffin and a large coffee with two creams.” “I’d like a piece of your apple pie and a cup of decaf.” And with the help of Starbucks’ marketing, cups of coffee have even been ushered into the realm of modern accessory (still an accompaniment). “Sunglasses…check. iPhone…check. White, paper cup with cardboard sleeve…check.”
What’s that?
Do you doubt me?
How else can we explain the popularity of “coffee drinks,” many of which are ten percent coffee and ninety percent syrupy, creamy goodness? Those, dear readers, are for the consumer who likes the idea of coffee more than the coffee itself.
In Rome, however, a “cup of coffee” – more specifically espresso or cappuccino – is both an event and the star attraction. Every café I visited had an espresso bar, appointed with stools and brass foot rails. I saw no drive-thru service options, and I saw no paper cups in the hands of passers by. Romans take time for a leisurely cup. They sit, they sip, and they talk.
(I’d also like to add that their servings were mostly very small and very dark. No fluff there, honey!)
Here’s a thought…
How often do we take time out of our day for a cup of anything? Time and out are the operative words in that question. Time spent doing nothing but enjoying a cup of coffee or tea or even ice water? Time spent with our own thoughts, or time spent enjoying someone else’s company? So caught up are we in the fashion of multi-tasking, that I suspect most of us are mindlessly sipping while checking our e-mails or texting or driving or watching television. Some of you, perhaps, are sipping while reading this blog.
That is certainly our way in the Holland house. Regardless of the beverage, multi-tasking supersedes human-to-human interaction. The television is almost always on. There are three people, three laptops, three cell phones. It should go without saying, then, that my favorite times of the day are school mornings, dinnertime, and my son’s bedtime.
Mornings, because my son’s face is the first face I see (well, the second actually, since Simon’s is the first…met about two inches from my nose.) Then while my son showers, Simon and I go outside for some early-morning fetch beneath the stars…and yes, I always sip my morning cup.
Bedtime is when I get to enjoy some surprisingly quality moments with my son. (Sometimes I think he’s more talkative at bedtime to prolong the inevitable, but I’m not complaining.)
Dinnertime, unfortunately, grows increasingly hit-or-miss as his activity schedule becomes more complex, and as our house increasingly becomes the neighborhood hangout for his friends (I’ve finally convinced his father that this is a good thing).
With all this multi-tasking and digital media that’s supposed to help mankind streamline lives, why are we not discovering more time for each other? Why do we seem to grow more and more disconnected from one another?
Here’s my challenge to you.
Pour yourself a cup of coffee, or a cold beer if that’s your preference, and turn off the television. Close your laptop and silence your phone. Then…spend however long it takes you to SIP your beverage enjoying the moment. Enjoying someone’s company? Well that’s an added bonus.
If you have been following Simon Says for a while, then you know I contracted Dengue Fever while in Puerto Rico. At the time, it seemed a terribly cruel twist of irony…I finally had an opportunity to travel beyond the continental US, and I came home with an illness that landed me in the hospital.
Dengue Fever isn’t something we see much here; I believe I was one of five reported cases among Georgia residents (since the 90’S?). My blood work was sent to the CDC for an official diagnosis, and it was the CDC who “followed up” with me after my release. So, when my physician admitted me to the hospital, he sent me with the knowledge that there are four strains (one of which can be fatal) and the hope that mine would be one of the other three. I was classified neutropenic and denied visitors, flowers, fresh fruit and fresh vegetables. I was hooked up to IV fluids and told to wait. Wait and see what happens. Wait on the CDC. Wait.
Idly waiting is not something I do well. My patience is only as good as my ability to stay busy. There, in that hospital bed, with no energy and no one to keep me company, all I could do was lie there and think. I thought about my life and of all the things for which I still hoped. I thought about the thin line I walked between nobly accepting circumstances and my own cowardice. I am not unlike Thornton Wilder’s Marquesa in The Bridge of San Luis Rey. I too realized the reality of my life. Thank goodness God has afford me a different fate than Wilder afforded The Marquesa. (She fell with the bridge two days later.) I recovered from Dengue and continually strive to live differently.
When my time comes, no one will care how smart I am or how many degrees I hold or how many scholarly texts I write. What will matter is how I loved. So I have given up my pursuit of a PhD, not because I no longer wish to teach literature at the college level, but because of the sacrifices the coursework demands. I have given up my position as the English Department Chair where I teach. I have given up my Advanced Placement classes. I have given up these things because of their demands on my time, time I want to spend being a fully-present mother while I still have a child young enough to need me. And...I now have time to write for pleasure and garden and cook and run and take pictures and play the piano. I now have time to spend a leisurely, Sunday afternoon cuddling on the couch with a lazy, lovable weim. I now have time to go to museums and to the symphony, time to study a little Italian, time to drop everything and go to Rome.
With all this time on my hands, I am a much happier person than I was before Dengue. I smile more. I laugh more. I love more openly and more fully. I see moments now, moments I might otherwise have missed.
Each morning I walked to a different café for breakfast. My order was always the same: one croissant, a cappuccino, and a bottle of water for later.
What amazed me is that croissants in Italy seem to vary quite a bit. Each croissant had a slightly different texture and a distinctly different flavor. One came filled with a lemon curd and was sprinkled with powdered sugar. One was lightly flavored with orange zest and a light glaze. Another was chocolate. They were all fabulous.
My favorite croissant, however, came served by a very chatty waiter who quickly exhausted my Italian and seemed to speak no English. Our “common” language, therefore, became Spanish, where he guided me through all the textbook, conversational phrases I know.
Eventually, he asked me my age. My age? My mind flashed. Is that more “acceptable” in other cultures, or is he just trying to keep our conversation going?
I couldn’t remember how to say the number in Spanish, so I held up my fingers and said it in English. His eyes grew large, and he said. "No, no…cuarenta y uno?"
"Si," I nodded, "cuarenta y uno. Forty-one."
My friendly, croissant-wielding waiter put his hands to his face. "Bonita!" he said. Then he pointed at me and waved his hands in an hourglass shape. "Muy bonita!"
What flavor was that particular croissant? I have no idea.
“…Can’t it help you to see that there is something wrong when all the dreams in this house – good or bad – had to depend on something that might never have happened if a man had not died? We always say at home: Accident was at the first and will be at the last a poor tree from which the fruits of life may bloom.”
-Asagai, A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry
I have taught this play several times through the years, but these lines have never resonated until this fall. You see, I paid for my trip to Rome with an inheritance from my father.
What he left me was not a grand sum. I am not wealthy. I am, however, rich with opportunities and dreams finally fulfilled through his gift to me…and by the margin of independence his gift has afforded.
So when I noticed this little man, I had to snap this pic.
I miss my father. My father was the only person in my life (other than my little sister) who asked to read my poetry. I don’t think he was particularly interested…but he was interested in me.
Have you ever felt that God is allowing you to see what could have been?
Sometimes I do.
You see, I was foolish in my youth. I was foolish and shortsighted
And then I set about trying to “undo” what I had done wrong. I tried to make the best of a bad situation.
Will I spend the rest of my life paying penance for those sins? I honestly do not know what God has in store for me.
There is one thing I do know for sure…there may be no greater love (of which we mortals are capable) than that of a mother. It is this belief that draws me to the Holy Mother.
If there is any human creature who can possibly understand me and the choices I have made (choices I still make)…she can. If there is any mortal to whom I can run for comfort…I can run to her.
Long before I was Catholic, I revered the Virgin Mother. I have never been that good. I have never known such faith. I have never felt such sorrow.
If she can endure, so can I.
When I became Catholic, I came home.
I can’t tell you why I know this, I just know…somewhere in my bones. I look back now, and I see the “pulls” since my childhood ( I would offer you a list, but I fear you would grow bored).
I have known since 2000. Known…beyond any doubt.
I recently told my mother that Catholicism is in my DNA; I was meant to be Catholic. She didn’t laugh.
You see, I was raised Protestant...I was baptized Presbyterian. I graduated from a Church of God university, where I received a minor in Bible Studies. I married a Methodist. I served as a Children’s Choir Director at a Baptist Church. I have taught British Literature, Old Testament Literature and New Testament Literature in public high school, and I have done graduate studies in The Christian Rhetoric of Modern Literature. I have grappled with predestination, damnation, and the tenants of the protestant reformation. I have read Augustine and Dawkins, Warren and Hahn. I am for all practical purposes a mutt. But all of my studies and all of my experiences have led me to this one conclusion: none of us have it all figured out. Man’s interpretation of God is far too primitive.
So what do I do? I listen to my spirit...I follow my heart. I pray.
I chose Catholicism because of this force in my spirit, calling me -- a force so great that I (a wordsmith) cannot name it. I chose Catholicism because that which Christ entrusted to Simon Peter is (quite simply) good enough for me. I chose Catholicism because Catholic worship nurtures every sensory receptor I possess…because there is beauty in every step along the liturgical way.
So why, you might ask, if I have known this since 2000, would I wait so long? Because…I am unequally yoked. And, when I finally found my courage, I waited still… for the right words and the right time. (See, I told you I’m a life-long student of patience.)
It still wasn’t easy. I met resistance…and criticism. I was accused of being disrespectful to the institution of husband.
In the end, however, my faith was met.
Please do not take my words as a testament to the virtues of a “defiant wife.” If anything, accept these as a testament to the virtues of a “praying wife” or to the virtues of prayer and the soulful pursuit of God’s will for the individual.
Going to Rome, then, was a pilgrimage in its purest sense. It was a chance for me to step out in blind faith…traveling entirely alone to a foreign country…away from my native tongue and native customs…to live completely with my own thoughts and my own spirit. It was a ritual of homecoming, a ritual of validation that I am finally going where I was always meant to be.
I traveled to the seat of Simon Peter, the foundation of Christianity. I confessed my sins on that sacred ground and attended mass in full communion with the Catholic church. I entered into the presence of the transfigured body of Christ and was at that moment as holy as I can possibly be in this lifetime.
By the way, have I ever told you how my precious pup got his name?
Rome, Italy 2011
"The reason a dog has so many friends, is that he wags his tail instead of his tongue."
-Anonymous
Traveling alone isn’t something I mind. Perhaps my solitary youth prepared me for such. Perhaps my marriage to one who’s “all about the destination” when I’m “all about the journey” has left me no other choice.
Either way, traveling alone affords me the freedom to linger when something moves me, to recognize God in the smallest details, to pause and listen when He speaks.
My first solo flight was to Puerto Rico, to Santurce and Old San Juan. I stayed two weeks for a writer’s workshop, attending sessions a couple hours per day. I spent the rest of my time mostly alone, wandering and writing.
I have visited New York City and Washington DC sans ami.
Rome, however, is my greatest solo flight. This time I loaded my iPhone with an Italian language app and an interactive GPS. I spent four glorious days by myself. (I would have stayed longer, were it not for my work schedule and my wallet.)
Unless addressed in English, I tried to communicate in Italian. Other than my transports to and from the airport, I walked everywhere I went.
I visited The Vatican, where I went to confession and attended Mass.
I visited The Sistine Chapel and The Basilica of Our Lady in Trastevera.
I ate at street side bistros and drank wine with both lunch and dinner. I attempted small talk with my waiters and met a wonderful trio from England.
At every turn, I tried my best to blend in.
I must have met some degree of success, because one gentleman seemed surprised that I am American and said he had me pegged for a German.
That evening, I ordered my entire meal, chatted with my waiter, and paid my bill entirely in Italian (broken Italian, but still Italian).
You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you. I promised you postings about my trip to Rome, and then I fell silent for five months.
I have a confession to make. I’m not really sure how to tell this story.
Maybe it’s a superstition, but there is this theory among writers that stories have energy. Those who believe this will not discuss a project before its completion, because its inherent energy is lost in the telling, lost before that energy can be translated onto the page.
I’m not sure what I believe. I have, indeed, lost momentum on projects after sharing my ideas with a friend or fellow writer. Some of these projects eventually saw completion. Some fell dead in the water. Lifeless. Spent.
I still feel the energy of Rome. After all this time. What if I tell you…and then it’s gone?
Perhaps that is the real root of my silence.
Perhaps you will think I’m overly sentimental.
Perhaps you will think I’m just nuts.
Perhaps not.
Time will tell, I guess, and you will either continue to visit Simon Says or you will drift quietly away.
I hope you will stay.
-----
P.S. Yes, this is an old-fashioned room key...not a swipe card. And yes, the concierge pulled this key from a wall of cubbies, each cubby for a different room in the hotel. I have to say, I felt a bit like a stand-in for a James Bond film (only without the stillettos and the double D's).
"He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion."
- Unknown
"All knowledge, the totality of all questions and all answers is contained in the dog."
- Kafka
It’s 2011 now, and while I find myself excited about all the possibilities ahead, I’m sad to see 2010 go. 2010 was a good year for me, a year of acceptance and healing, a year of self-discovery and personal growth, a year of new beginnings.
After all, I started Simon Says in 2010. I wish I could say that I joined the ranks of bloggers and never lost momentum, but I can’t. I started. I wrote a few posts. I went through a phase of self-doubt and silence. Finally, I chose courage and gained momentum. I’ll call 2010 the year of “finding my voice” and 2011 the year of “finding my rhythm” here on Simon Says.
I also accepted Karen Walrond’s Beauty of Different self-portrait challenge. I spent twenty-eight days photographing myself…and using each image as an opportunity to discover what makes me differently beautiful. What an experience! It was fun turning the camera on myself…a little unnerving at times, but fun…thrilling even. I am not Hollywood beautiful, nor am I model material. But I am beautiful….differently beautiful. I see that now, thanks to Karen and her challenge.
I even took my first photography workshop and joined our local museum’s photography guild.
But enough about me…
Simon has grown into a full-sized weim, but he is still very much a puppy. He still whines e-a-r-l-y in the morning to be let out of his kennel. He still chews and destroys with no regard for human, sentimental attachment or monetary value. He begs to be noticed. He begs for treats. He begs for his evening scoops of kibble. He refuses to be ignored and uses his big, behemoth body to levy his demands.
Here Simon is demanding I take a break from photo editing. He's wormed his way into my desk chair, his most recent antic. I am so ridiculously in love with this mutt. But then, those of you who have been following Simon Says already know that.
Happy 2011!
