I wake up today
feeling that heavy warmth
in my body
and I think,
I love my life
And by life
I don’t mean
what I do, or what I have
I mean that happiness
I had as a child
of being alive
These Italian Pastries
We only had 6 hours on the island of Lipari. It was August 7, 2019 and my family and I had arrived by traghetto from mainland Sicily around midday. For the daily dip in the sea essential to many Italians on vacation like Enrico’s father who was with us, we went straight to a black pebble beach called Canneto. Those who dared swam with the jellyfish, and in our wet bathing suits, we all ate Sicilian bread called pane cunzato piled high with salty capers, marinated eggplant, and sundried tomatoes.
In a drive around the island, we stopped at a cliff where prickly pear cactus with yellow fruits and magenta bougainvillea tumbled down a dirt path towards the sea. In the distance Stromboli exhaled white smoke from its crater and the wind blew it along like a song.
At a single stand, a single man was selling little bottles of Malvasia wine and figurines carved out of volcanic rock. I was drawn to a bag of hand-made cookies, as if they needed to tell me something, so I counted six euros from my wallet and took them home.
In a very brief piece published today in a literary journal called River Teeth, I try to understand why — of all the things I needed to bring home from Sicily — it was these Italian pastries.
Happy to share it with you: These Italian Pastries at River Teeth.
Still Searching
We go to the bike shop to fix Mark’s brakes. The kids don’t wear helmets. I don’t wear a mask. I feel like I’m killing people with my bare face.
The world is quiet. I kind of like it until I remember why. We buy a baker’s dozen from the bagel truck in the parking lot because they seem needy.
I wish I could enjoy this time more. But swirls of happiness don’t last. The heaviness returns, and I start sighing as if I could push it out.
I do meditations in the morning. I tell my son Mark it helps, but he says it doesn’t and I wonder if maybe he’s right.
This morning I could feel that sweet-sad feeling of being me that has always been there, since I was a child, looking out through my eyes.
They say that presence is my soul and that every soul is part of the universal soul.
I know that things change yet something is always the same. Something massive, something bigger than anything, something that includes us all and makes everything possible.
Last night I dreamed of a guide I once had. She disappeared in the darkness, and I kept looking for her.
Maybe I never find her because I am not meant to be afraid. If I stop searching, maybe I will see that this darkness is OK too.
The cat purrs. The coffee brews. The water in my shower will join the sea one day. I look in the mirror and see the scar. It’s fading, but I know that it will never really go away.
Painting with Words 