midnight runs

The dark nights have come to San Miniato once more. Sometimes when I wander the empty streets, I can hear an howl hooting. Is it calling my name, I wonder, like in the famous novel by Margaret Craven.  I have only ever seen one owl in this area and it was a beautiful white one. It gleamed like fresh snow on a branch. 

But that was a few years ago.

Sometimes I dream that I go running in the night. Like at 3 a.m. in the morning, I get up from my bed and I disappear. I go different places. Sometimes to cities or remote stretches of road that would scare me if they were real. And then, sometimes I wonder, when I have woken, whether it was real after all. 

Winter feels like a weighted blanket this year. But much colder, of course.

Stone-hearted

 Yesterday I reached for my paintbrush and a stone to paint which should sound like a good thing, but I don’t think it is. I haven’t painted stones since 2013 and I associate this hobby with a period of great hardship and sorrow. That’s not to say that I don’t love the things I painted back then. They were, and still are, beautiful life expressions. I still have a few of them even now and others I have given to people whom I love and trust. But it bothers me that I feel the need to paint now because I know it means I am feeling broken again.  This time, actually, I feel even worse. I feel my peace has been broken. My trust has been destroyed and after I have shown such courage, such vulnerability.

Lockdown, I think, was a better period for me. It protected me from giving too much of myself, of my light and creativity, in the flesh. 

I hope I am wrong.  I am an INFJ - HSP after all. I feel things very deeply. I worry terribly, too. Although, unfortunately, I am also very intuitive.  But yet, perhaps my peace is not gone, perhaps it is just resting and my trust is safely resting, too. I hope so. The idea of that returning darkness, after finally finding my balance, terrifies me.

Rar

 Gosh, it doesn't seem to matter where I live but every year at this time my central heating breaks. Luckily, for my landlord I don't tend to get angry about these things. I mean I get frustrated and my fingers are frozen but I remain pretty zen. Actually, I rarely get angry which means when I do it can be quite fierce. Betrayal of trust is what really makes me angry, I have realised. It makes me quite dangerous. 

RAR 

The Four Seasons

This afternoon I went to a performance of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" at La Chiesa di San Domenico" in San Miniato. The audience consisted mostly of people over the age of 70 who had miraculously avoided covid although I did get cornered by the mama of a boy I have taught for the past 4 years. Fortunately, I adore him so it was easy to wax lyrical as the musicians strung their bows.  

It was a wonderful performance. "The Four Seasons" is such an exciting and evocative piece. I can only imagine how exhilarating it must have been for the teens in its day. I mean some of the wildly, rhythmic parts are so powerful and thrilling. How the youth of that time weren't forever caught casting aside their corsets and codpieces in a  display of frenzied passion is beyond me. Or perhaps they were. Perhaps Vivaldi performances were just one big "hook up" fest.

Anyway, at the end of the concert I cried a few tears. Partly because the music was so compelling and partly because of my Myers-Briggs Personality type - which is INFJ. ( A story for another time.) The great thing about compulsory masks means the tears could dribble down my face and no one could see them.

Now, of course, I want to start up the violin again. I used to play as a child and if memory serves correctly, I was actually quite decent. My mother was tyrannical though and so I started dreading practice because I hated being watched and then being  forced to perform in front of others ( INFJ anyone?) I guess acquiring a violin as a possession at this point  isn't probably the wisest of investments.

Sigh. In an alternate world I am a classical violinist who rescues baby goats. 

Treasures

 Sometimes I feel like a fire has gone through my life and now all that remains is me, a couple of dresses and box or two of things. I guess in a way it is true, minus the actual fire part.

A month ago, I went back to Basel to go through all my belongings that have been kindly kept by D in all the years since we parted. I was pretty ruthless about what I should keep and only came home with a bulging suitcase filled mostly with cheese (ha ha), photos, stones, a mushroom lamp, a few cherished necklaces, and a scarf.  I am unencumbered by life’s possessions which, on the one hand is quite liberating, but on the other feels very sad. Is that all I have amounted to? Am I really starting my life now with so few possessions?

I will be honest. It was hard to see my old writing desk and my glorious full-length mirror now the assumed property of Damien’s wife. I have no problem with her as a person but seeing my things just taken over was hard, especially when I would love to write at something instead of a bony kitchen table with the world’s worst seats. And my bed, O my bed. Such a beautiful, comfortable thing that held me and my dreams so tightly.  Such a place of joy and comfort. The bed I have now is actually nauseating. I can only sleep on the far-right side because the mattress and frame are so bad it makes me physically unwell to lie in the middle. But I couldn’t afford to bring those things back with me and I am at peace with it, mostly.

There are just two things that have been dwelling on my mind over this past month. My great-grandfather’s wooden chest that he made probably a hundred years ago. I noticed that it has been commandeered by someone in the building complex where D lives to hold Christmas decorations so at least it has meaningful purpose. The other thing is my crazy, blue chandelier. I am sad not to have that. I am sad not to have things that feel like an expression of myself.

But, you know, my poor mother has spent her life collecting lovely things and in the past month she was taken from her home to a hospital and now a nursing home and all her treasures are separated from her now anyway. So what is really the point of possessions in the end? Perhaps my treasures are what I carry in my heart and my mind. My memories, my experiences, my adventures, my love, my dreams, my hopes. I can take them anywhere and I can keep building on them, can’t I?

Mind you, it would be nice to have a bed comfortable enough to dream in again 😊

80 trips around the sun

 Today is my mother's 80th birthday. She is not in a good place right now and it is very hard to be so far from her. This morning though we managed to connect early on whatsapp and talk about happy things like past trips to Italy, rogue cats and cake. The time difference makes things tough, too, so I have felt like a zombie for most of that day but this is a small price to pay to be able to talk to my mama.

La Rocca

 

My life, if little else, is always an adventure.

La Rocca

Today I decided to climb up to La Rocca (the tower of Federico II) which is the highest point in San Miniato so I could watch dusk settle over the Tuscan hills with Three Paw’s ashes. I don’t visit La Rocca enough but if I am honest, I hardly ever think “why don’t I climb to the highest point in the land” after a long day of verb conjugation online. Anyway, I got there just as the blue was morphing into orange and then whoosh an enormous wind blew through. Fortunately, it did not take Three Paw (let’s not even contemplate that potential disaster) but it blew my bag right off the ledge into an olive grove below and unfortunately that bag had my wallet and keys and all things a lady living on her own might need to fight the demons of the night. I briefly considered jumping from the wall down to retrieve it, but I would surely have broken an ankle, so I am glad common sense prevailed. I hunted around the whole wall looking for an easy way down but this medieval fortress, designed to repel enemies, was not forthcoming. Eventually,

Sunset

I decided to go down the side of the tower and see if I could find a way in. Luckily I saw a family was just leaving their home so I started yelling, ”Aiuta mi.” A very nice lady came over, so I reported my tragic tale (the ashes of Three Paw tucked under my arm) and she agreed to let me into the lower garden. Then this young man came over expressing concern that perhaps the upper garden might be locked, and I was like “yes, maybe, but you have to let me at least try.” He seemed defeated by the very idea of trying but fortunately I am an optimist deep down and I was able to persuade him that I would be one doing all the trying. (I never understand why people give up before exhausting every possible option. For example, you have just eaten a huge meal, and someone brings out the most amazing looking chocolate pudding you have ever seen.  The pessimist would decline “O, I have no room left” but me, I am thinking “surely, I can fill up just one lung.”)

Spot the bag - the drop from the top was higher than it looks

Anyway, I left Three paw with the lady and clambered up the hill, untwisted the metal gate and found a way to squeeze into the upper grove. I got my bag and returned a dizzy mess of mud and baggage.  I thanked the woman profusely and then returned to La Rocca where Three Paw and I sat to watch the orange glow descend beneath the trees.

Three Paw enjoying her view

Watching the sunset over San Miniato tonight was important. Not just to honour Three Paw on the anniversary of her death but also because of the many times in the past I had watched the same sun set when my parents have visited over the years. Sunsets don’t need to mean the end. They can mean another day is coming.

Post-adventure - you can't see me puffing but I am

Four years

Today four years ago I said goodbye to this amazing soul but we never really leave the ones we love, do we?