"Ciao, Tesoro"!

Experiencing a definite lag in my energy and motivation, after some 10 days of marching through the alleys and canals of this city.  It is hard for me to just take time off, it would seem, and thus I continue walking, exploring, and making interesting discoveries.  Today my instinct is to do nothing.  Maybe a short walk, some more writing, some picture taking.  When I looked at my camera yesterday I saw that I had taken upwards of 700 photographs in this relatively short time.  It is interesting, though, that when you spend a lot of time moving mindfully through space and not talking a lot to others, this thing called time moves more slowly.  In fact, if someone were to ask me how long I had been here, I'd want to say "months"!  In writing to a good friend I commented that this whole experience feels like being on retreat in some way, with the stretching out of time...  I guess I had imagined that there would be more ongoing conversation with the Venetians whose city I have come to inhabit, but the opposite appears to be true.  They are not particularly interested in making friends with any foreigners; they are a people perpetually flooded with visitors from all over the world whose main interest is to maximize their Venetian vacation -- see the best sights, eat in the great places, get the best deals shopping, etc., etc. Take, take, take.... I would guess that most visitors have minimal interest in inhabiting this culture and looking below the surface at what unfolds here in real life for the Venetians.  It is hard to imagine living like that.  I even find that I become grumpy at times at the short-clad tourists tramping about San Francisco, hanging off cable cars, eating at Fishermans wharf and buying dumb t-shirts .... I want to tell them that there is so much more to experience in my city, but then I remind myself it's not my business.  So, the grumpiness comes from thinking I know better than they what their experience should be, AND not liking the congestion that they can cause at certain times, in certain places.  Well, the Venetians have it a lot worse! 
I spend a lot of my time listening to conversations amongst these Italians, trying to peer into their lives.  I do love this language, and the more I listen the better I get.  It is a language embued with exhuberance, love, affection, and passion.  This morning a lady at my hotel was saying goodbye to the kitchen help, and she said it this way:  "Ciao, tesoro," which means literally:  "goodbye, my treasure."  Can you imagine us saying that to one another in the U.S.?  I have been paying a lot of attention to people and their dogs here in Venice, and in fact have made a little project of taking as many pics of these pairs as possible.  The other day, a woman was reprimanding her dog, trying to redirect his desire to pee in a certain spot, calling him, "mio amore."  That would be like us saying to our hound back home, "please don't pee there, my love."   We do love our dogs in America, but I doubt we would so openly express our true love in public.
Perhaps my most wonderful interaction with a Venetian has been with Gianni Basso, the printer, a man whom I have looked up every time I've been in Venice, since I first stumbled on him eons of time ago.  He runs an old fashioned print studio, with hand driven presses, the real authentic kind, and, yes, it has been in his family for generations.  He is a proud man, but wonderfully proud of his craft.  He has no website, no fax machine, and he doesn't taken credit cards.  He also doesn't speak much English!  He prints the most beautiful stationary, and business cards, among other things.... I stopped by a week ago and ordered a few more editions of business cards -- not that I really NEED them -- but I treasure his work, and feel so happy to have his cards in my life when I get back home.  We talk endlessly when I go about my travels, his new clients, our feelings about Venice in winter, the great old churches that are "must sees" ... I stumble along in my creaky Italian, and the more I do it the more confident I become... the more I find the words that I need to express myself.  I am grateful to be able to have a connection with someone here, with whom I can be myself, and be seen as such.  I think to many of the others I encounter -- restaurant staff, hotel people, shop keepers -- I am just another foreign face.  But this in fact is what is true.  I am a foreigner.  I must remember that I am not just what I seem to be to myself, but I am this other persona to the Italians I meet here everyday.
As much as I love seafood, I have to confess I am becoming a bit tired of octopus, salted cod, squid, and the like.  Maybe my stomach is telling me it is wearying of this, I don't know... The next time I journey here for two weeks, I believe I'll rent an apartment, do my own shopping, and cook what I want.  Maybe.  Sounds like a great idea, AND it's a lot more work.  A lot of time figuring out how to get to the market at the right time before they shut down.  When I went to the fish and produce market the other morning specifically to take pictures it was about 10:30 am and the place had been in full swing since early on (7 maybe).  They shut down firmly at noon, pack up their stuff, clean up the arcade, and, poof, they're gone.  The Italians take marketing very seriously, and it is huge entertainment to watch them all poking at the veggies, having intense conversations about the shimmering fishes that are on display.  The amount of choice is staggering.  The wealth of beautiful looking fish from the tiny little crabs and shrimps to the huge swordfishes, soles, branzinos, and all variety that I couldn't possibly translate into English.  The produce is stunning too, punctuated by a proliferation of purple artichokes now in season, in a large variety of sizes.  And when you sample those little gems, perfectly marinated in olive oil at your little osteria, you are transported into the pleasure realm for sure.  One lunch I had recently was just this:  fresh made tagliarini with granseola (baby crab) in olive oil and garlic, with a side of those charming little purple "carciofini" (baby artichokes).  The perfect Italian lunch!
I could sit here all day writing about the culinary pleasures and disappointments (fortunately fewer of those), but something is calling me to go outside, and try my hand a little more exploring.  Only today and the weekend left before returning.  I must get to Torcello, the island with the ancient church which is said to be the "mother Venice" -- the original Venetian community.  It is a haunting place, but sadly I don't have the motivation to get out there today ....
From the Flora Hotel in the center of  San Marco, I will say, "arrivederci" for now.

On Not Knowing in Venice

Yesterday - Sunday - I walked the streets of Venice's ghetto, way on the edge of Canareggio, and I thought about what it takes in the human mind to actually conceive of such an idea as "ghetto.".  This ghetto has existed since the 1300's -- it is the oldest of all ghettos in the world, I believe.  Today the Jewish population there isn't huge (in the low hundreds), and the place has this extraordinarily peaceful feel to it.  This is not a primary tourist destination, after all, unless you are Jewish of course, and so you walk amongst the ebb and flow of Venetian daily life here, and sense the remoteness of this environment.  Clean and sparse and safe feeling.  From what I have read, it was not a horrific place for the Jews through much of its history, but instead a place where they might feel safe from the racism that pervaded European consciousness.  There they were able to live normal lives as Jewish people in fact.  And, it was that arch egomaniac Napoleon who opened up the gates, so to speak, and put an end finally to enforced ghetto existence!  Where I'm going with this, I can't say for sure ... it is just such a strange experience to travel into what feels like a time warp, to sense that you have gone back in time, and the air that you breathe, the energy of the place that you feel is simply of a much older time...... There was a slightly off kilter feeling that I experienced, not being Jewish, as I walked through the Jewish museum and looked at all the ritualistic objects and documents;  I had a distinct sense of being "other:"  I wanted to know more but didn't seem to be able to ask for help or information.  I was walking anonymously through the space, just witnessing what was before me and trying to fathom the enormity of the Jewish suffering.  There was a huge festival going on in the main square that quiet Sunday, a thoroughly communal celebration, about what I never figured out, but I stood on the periphery and watched the joyousness and exhuberance that was present:  dancing, singing, flute playing, more singing, eating, hugging, the raising of a grand silver standard held under a cloth canopy, more leaping for joy, and so on.... And over in one quieter part of the square a little girl with blue sequined sneakers was learning how to skateboard with her father.  She was celebrating herself, in fact, and liked that I took her picture.  I think I may return here, to take another look.  There is TOO much that feels unknown to me, and that makes me feel unsatisfied.
Since then I have been to an operatic performance in a nearby palazzo complete with candlelight and an elegant quartet, have gazed up at the shimmering mysterious gold mosaics of San Marco, and then wandered off in search of a theme for my day.  Turned out it was about churches. Stopped at San Zacaria, and then Santa Maria Formosa and bought a "pass" to visit some dozen other Venetian churches, and so decided I would weave that into my wanderings for the rest of my time here.   Saw just two today, complete with dingy old paintings and the occasional stunning Byzantine icon... At Santa Maria della Formosa, I had the gift of hearing a lovely soprano voice singing some exquisite liturgical music accompanied by an organ.  I had to sit down immediately on one of the hard benches and just BE, just be grateful for the refuge being offered!
So, you see there is so much, sometimes I feel too much, to take in.  Part of me wants to throw myself on my bed in my hotel room and take an afternoon rest from the sensory overload.  It is bitter cold outside, after all! Another part of me wants to keep going, with an occasional stop in a bar/cafe for a hot drink and a pause in this day's experience.  One can really just keep on going, you know, even without a particular plan.  That's the quirky part of Venice...  this wandering through a remote landscape NOT KNOWING, and it being o.k.  More will be revealed no doubt to those who are reading.

Lost in Venice

I came back to this city I have loved ever since I lived in Italy some 50+ years ago in order to truly see it without the static of thousands upon thousands of other visitors.  Winter time was the time, I told myself, because no one in their right mind goes to northern Italy in the thick of winter, the grey, relentless damp, bone-chilling winter where all seems bleak and sad and lonely.  I have been here 5 days or so now, and I have had my bones chilled, I have been lost frequently, and I am hugely happy to be here. It occurred to me that I wasn't the only one who had this vision to have Venice for myself.   First it was just the Japanese tourists running about, then the Europeans, and I said to myself:  everyone should have their chance to do this, to see this mysterious city as completely as possible.  It is a city beloved of the world, after all...Why so beloved?  Is it in fact the possibility that amidst all this watery beauty we can get lost again and again and it truly doesn't matter?  That in the act of getting lost, we are finding something really TRUE, which is OURSELVES.  We are brought back to ourselves.  Many of us go through our lives believing that knowing where you're going is what is really important;  in fact this is all just the mind attempting to feel in control....If we just breathe into the experience and let go, our mind rests, and it doesn't really matter whether or not we are lost. Besides, there is so much here that is hugely beautiful to look at -- the light hitting the waters of the small canals, the sparkling drama of shop windows, the light casting its warmth upon the cold stone buildings, the citizens of this city going about their lives in their irrepressible enthusiasm and animation, the stark beauty of the gondolas piloted by the guys in black (it is winter, after all) as they slide through the black/green waters --that arriving at any destination at any particular time ends up being pretty unimportant.  I do feel saturated by beauty here ... my senses expanding to bursting almost ... I am grateful for the chance to bathe myself in this beauty and feel my heart's immediate response. 
There is a lot more to say, of course, and there are images I want to offer up, but there is still plenty of time to do this.  For now, since it is late on a Saturday evening after a long day of walking, always walking, I will say "buona notte"!

Hibernating ...

You Reading this, Be Ready


Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along the shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
Sound from the outside fills the air?


Will you bring a better gift for the world
Than the breathing respect that you carry
Wherever you go right now?  Are you waiting
For time to show you some better thoughts?


When you turn around, starting here, lift this
New glimpse that you found; carry into evening
All that you want from this day.  The interval you spent
Reading or hearing this, keep it for life -


When can anyone give you greater than now,
Starting here, right now in this room, when you turn around?


William Stafford


This poem was tucked into a book by May Sarton (House by the Sea) that a dear friend sent me as a present.  She loves this poem.  And I say:  how can you not love this poem?  The page she typed this on has been sitting on my dining room table for days now, shuffled here and there....  And I realized I wanted to "inscribe" it into my blog so that I wouldn't have to worry about how to hold on to this so impermanent piece of paper, so that I could return again and again to re-read this exquisitely simple and profound piece.
I have been hibernating lately in this grey winter time, attempting to dose myself with healthful remedies so that I can be strong and full of energy for my trip to Italy.  It is as though an old pattern was struggling to assert itself one more time, that pattern of getting sick before I'm about to travel afar, or do something big (like go on a one month silent retreat!)...  and it looks as though I saw this pattern coming and with some degree of kindness, greeted it, and then fed myself more tincture of esoteric herbs, more hot tea, more Chinese sizzling rice soup... and lo and behold, I think the gift was appreciated and the temporary "guest" is about to depart.  I love that poem of Rumi's called "The Guest," which speaks to greeting each and every event, both pleasant and unpleasant, with the same hospitality and ease.   To hold ourselves and all others with kindness, yes, this is part of the path....  And kindness begets kindness, doesn't it?  Obama's speech last night to the grieving citizens of Tucson talked of all of us being part of the same family, and because of that interweaving of our beings, the necessity for us to speak and act with genuine good will.  It was a healing speech, I felt, and my heart felt good to hear this young president who has been struggling rise to this place of dignity to point the way out of this landscape of divisiveness and ignorance.
Today I am grateful for William Stafford's poem, the mysterious workings of herbal remedies, the grayness outdoors that makes hibernation all the easier, for Obama's heartful words, for my beautiful cat Jackson who lays on my stomach and purrs every so quietly when I rest ...  Let us all find good rest during this dark winter, cease the doing and bring on the peace.

Resting in the middle on a cold winter's night

The wind off the ocean is howling again, and I'm up here once more in Salmon Creek sitting in my big room with all the windows, wondering if I'll ever get warm.  The neighborhood feels quiet and sleepy - is it the post-holiday slump?
Came up to meet with these lovely local builders who are going to help transform my little refuge into more of a complete home - open up the house, make the environment more useful....  And of course I decided to stay over night.  There are golden and rose colored clouds streaking across the horizon as the sun finally goes to bed, and I know I need to go out and get more firewood.  I love this life of simplicity -- of just having to do what is called for, nothing more.  Go get wood, stoke the fire, make the tea, play a little music on the now seriously out of tune piano, etc.   Am not thinking about what I must do tomorrow, or next week, and this is probably good.  There is barely a week left before I head to Venice, and I've been busily trying to prepare my "stuff" for the journey while in SF.  The illusion is that if you make nice neat piles of your things, you will have an easy time of packing and departing.  Where did I get this little story?  Though I adore travel, I always get a little tense or anxious about departing the closer the time comes.  Leaving the nest.  Kind of like saying goodbye...  Now I have two nests I will leave, and in considering that, I am aware of attachment.  Attachment to the nest.  To my routine.  What's at the bottom of this?   Safety??  Peace?  Escape (and if so, from what?)?  What else??
An earnest hardworking congresswoman from Arizona was shot down today in her community while holding a gathering, and she may not survive.  Five or six others shot and killed.  This news was painful to read.  Where are things spinning to in this culture?  The devastation brought about by rage and suffering is SO unsettling -- it feels as though it is BEYOND us, out of our reach, and therefore without resolution or healing.  I was joking this morning when conversing about rampant technology and the surrealism it can perpetrate in the world, wondering what kind of strange world my grandchildren have to look forward to in their adulthood;  but, of course, what is much more disturbing is the wild out of control violence that dances around us everywhere -- in cities, towns, supermarkets, schools....  Can wisdom and energy and compassion be brought to this to help heal the pain, stop the destruction of body and spirit?
When I play Bach or Chopin on my piano, I don't think of these things, but simply sink into the music and follow its intelligence and passion.  This, of course, is a good thing.  We must make beauty in this world no matter what is going on.  But we must also inform ourselves, see our world as it is.  The Buddha pointed the way:  see things AS THEY ARE.  Only then can you participate in change.  So, finding the "middle way" is what's important.... and hold all of it somehow with equanimity.
The dark winter night has settled down upon us, and now we will be headed toward rest, sleep close to the fire glowing in the fireplace -- for it is too cold to sleep in my bedroom.   But first, perhaps, a little supper close by with some happy creative people who work from both the heart and mind.  I must say that I love having people feed me.  I cook for myself as little as possible these days, and it is fine, a large part of my life spent in nourishing other beings.  The freedom of "elder-hood" is wonderful!

Salmon Creek in the very new year....

The house by Salmon Creek has been quiet now for 24 hours, the last of the family members roaring off yesterday, going back to their lives in the world ... away from the roar of ocean and the calling of the geese.  I think they were happy to go in the end:  the coziness and close-up challenges were getting to each and everyone of us:  children trying to find entertainment, or to create new ways of being entertained, and their parents beginning to think about the business of their lives that lay ahead.  I wasn't looking ahead exactly, but rather just looking to the space (iousness) that would follow their leaving, telling myself that this would be refreshing rather than sad.
We were all here for a week together, and we endured frequent adverse conditions:  bone chilling cold and rain -- and we played games, cooked, knitted, listened to music, walked the dogs, dried off the dogs, ate, drank, played more games, drew pictures, built Lego cities, tended the ever-present fire, went kayaking, took pictures, walked on the beach, climbed the dunes, played more games, swept the floor, made cappuccinos, identified birds in the creek .... and so on.  I tried to read one of my many books on Venice, in preparation for going there in a couple of weeks, but concentration was tough, and late at night, when everyone had finally fallen asleep, my mind too wanted rest, not reading.   When our numbers were reduced to six, there was more room to breathe, but I felt a longing sadness that the entire family was not happily together.  Whether we can really do that is a good question.  Young grandchildren are growing into women with their own particular interests that have little to do with family, the youngest grandchildren are mostly on the edge between cozy cuddling beings and individuals with strong wills being pulled always outward...  So that "Little Women" idealization of family is but a fleeting phenomenon, if it exists at all.  The members grow up and away, like branches on a magnificent tree.
I am often confused about where I want to be in this mix of people, and how I want them to see me.  Of course, they will see me however they choose, so there again is another reminder of letting go.
I was very aware during our wonderful time together of pulling back into myself so as not to issue directives or reprimands or try to control the flow.  So, there I was:  in the center of this wheel of energy, and watching myself at the same time in this semi-invisible position.  Sometimes I actually felt unseen.  That felt both uncomfortable and frequently simply normal....
How much love do we need from those close to us?  And how do we deal with this need which bubbles up at the most unpredictable times?