Bob & Mario & Camille

“Like a rock. I was strong as I could be.”
Remember Bob Seger? I enjoyed his music in the 70’s and 80’s. His style, his lyrics, he found the right combination for millions of us. Back then, I felt like I ‘got’ the meaning of the lyrics, it is now I am relating to them in a deeper way. Yeah, what thirty+ years will do, eh? Kids, jobs, betrayals, mistakes, accomplishments, moves, spouse(s), adventures, lessons learned, opportunities lost, learning to live with gratitude.
“20 years. Where’d they go? I sit and wonder where they’ve gone.”

You, too?

Bob is 77 now. I found my copy of his “Greatest Hits” CD from 1994, which got me hearing the lyrics of several of the songs in an up-close-and-personal way. And think of some of the people in my past.

I wonder where many of them are now.
In first grade, there was this sweet kid in Ms. Winans’ class with me, Neil Gibbs. His family moved away at the beginning of second grade. He was so kind to me, little Miss Not-sure-what-to-do. I have often wondered how and where he is.
“I’m older now but still running against the wind.”

Mario Taveri. My boyfriend when I lived in Brindisi, Italy. Lots of stories from that year, o la la. I was twenty-three and naïve. He was thirty-six, or so… He got me a job in the ticket agency where he worked part-time which sold tickets for the ferry boats to Greece. Backpack and all, I had gotten off the train in Brindisi to catch the boat to Corfu and Piraeus, Greece. He and several other men were latching on to us tourists as we stepped onto the depot platform. No missing that all of us were tourists and many Americans. After a short time working there, I too, learned to tell what country a traveler was from just by seeing and hearing them for a minute or two.

Mario proceeded to tell me the boat workers were on strike and no boat that evening. Did I know where to have dinner? “No,” I shook my head. He knew a great place. “Okay,” I said. Off we went. My first calamari. Wonderfully delicious.
I found out later there was no strike, he had ulterior motives.
I didn’t make it to Athens for some months, and then it was a work trip, related to moving part of the ticket agency owner’s furnishings. I got a good look at the Parthenon as we drove by. “I was livin’ to run and runnin’ to live.”

Stories. There was the young, slim Mid-Eastern man with a bodyguard. He was trafficking men from the Mid-East up to work in Europe who had no papers or passports. His bodyguard was built like Joe Greene or Dick Butkus and carried a wad of $100 U.S. dollar bills bigger that his fist. There was the Scottish woman, Anne, living there with her boyfriend, Gianni. He was no more faithful to her than a mosquito, I didn’t know why she stayed. She missed her family and home in Penrith.
There was the trio from southern France: Helene, Michel, her husband, Camille, Helene’s sister, approximately late 20’s in age. They were traveling in a van. They stayed a couple nights in Brindisi, which has historical significance: the Appian Way ends in Brindisi, Spartacus was captured near Brindisi, Cicero visited regularly, and the poet Virgil died in Brindisi. Lots to see.
One afternoon, I am coming back with a latte’, when I see Mario coming to the agency from one end of the block and Helene from the other. I knew in that second what they’d been doing the last couple hours.
Mario made a big fuss about getting me a calzone to go with my latte’. I just looked at him.
About an hour later, I heard cries and whacks from the back room. I opened the door to investigate. Mario said, “Stop. You might get hurt.” However, I saw Michel kicking Camille as she lay on the floor, trying to protect herself. I rushed in, yelled at him to stop. He looked at me, kicked her again, and stomped out to the front office.
I helped Camille wash her face, put some ice on her bruises, and sat with her awhile. Where was Helene?

Then early that evening, the three of them got in the van and drove down to the ferry dock, smiling and waving at Mario and I as we stood on the sidewalk and watched them go. As they were leaving, Camille gave me a long hug. “Remember me,” she said and pressed a small jade heart pendant in my hand, kissed me on both cheeks, and got in the van.

Yes, I still have it.

I would love to know what happened to Camille and where she is today. And Mario. And Neil. And Anne.
“Like a rock. I see myself again.”

Thank you for reading~
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Courage, Risk & Zoomies

Courage.

Really? Sometimes the actual instance is more accurately described as “What was I thinking?” “If I had known this, I wouldn’t have ____.” “What? No one told me that.” “If only I had _____ first.”

My son was telling his beloved partner about his mom’s adventures – listing how I had lived in Italy, walked on the Great Wall in China, gone to Chichen Itza, graduated from college at age 46, performed at scads of open mics, done a weekly radio show for years, and worked with incarcerated teens.

Adventures? I hadn’t thought of it that way, yet he was right.

When my remarkable daughter, super son-in-law, and I were celebrating my daughter’s successful surgery at a Mexican restaurant, I ordered the cactus salad as I had never heard of such a thing. I didn’t like it.

“Mom, you always do that – try new things and half the time you don’t like them.”

I started to dispute that, then realized she was right. I had not seen that about myself. I realized I like to try new things, yet then saw I don’t want to miss out on anything.

     As you can see, I am getting to the synopsis of my life: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Wonder pup, Lyric

     I have a five month old puppy asleep at my feet, his name is Lyric. Hopefully, he will sleep for a while longer. I had NO idea the constant vigilance, consistency, and patience required with a puppy. At this point, you can imagine I have revisited the first paragraph questions several times in the last 3 weeks since Lyric came to live with me. He is a sweet, smart and patient soul. Thank goodness.

      Ten months ago, I had enough of where I was living, so I did a ton of work, spent so much more money than I anticipated, sold my condo, and moved to where my heart called me: near the ocean. Yee gods and little fishes. Courage? Yup. Risk? Oh yeah.

      I didn’t think about it in those terms until I found these rocks. My dear and wondrous harp teacher, Harper Tasche, had a bowl of engraved rocks at his wedding some years back, inviting all attendees to take one or two, which I did. I had long since put them away and found them as I was packing and sorting in the prep for my huge move.

     The many challenges of this move have been intimidating. The unexpected issues have been overwhelming. The list of expenses has grown. The extent of needed repairs and unmaintained items seems endless. Yet, I followed my pursuant heart. As I have done so often in my life, even without having the words for it. (Did I mention sleeping on the floor of the Luxembourg airport one night in November while waiting for a flight, and the next night being locked outside and huddling up on the cold pavement until the airport reopened in the morning?)

     All righty then, Lyric and I just got back from a walk on the beach, he ran zoomies in and out of the waves, I picked up a couple agates, and listened to the waves as they foamed up on the sand.

As Tom Rush would say, “No Regrets.”

Fall in Love? Win a Prize?

Fog wafting in Photo by Mary Dessein
Ernest Hemingway’s letters show his vulnerability, says Sandra Spanier, a Hemingway scholar and editor of the book being produced, “The Letters of Ernest Hemingway.” His letters are “unguarded and unpolished” as he grumbles and doubts and rambles.

After four marriages, who knows how many relationships, writing at least twenty-six novels, winning Nobel and Pulitzer prizes, numerous dosey-does with Hollywood, and known for his bravado – he was vulnerable?

Reading this brought to mind a very vulnerable incident, taking unguarded to a new level for me. It was in the recording studio in early 2017, working on my CD, ‘The Black Prince ~ an Egyptian folktale,’ I was flailing about trying to record my harp and my voice on separate tracks for a fifteen second song. Attempt after attempt, re-do after re-do. I was frustrated and self-conscious. Devin, a most amazing and talented musician in his own right as well as a superlative recording engineer, watched me as I stopped with a huge angst-filled sigh. Excuses of “the harp won’t stay in tune,” “the lighting in here is wrong,” “my toe hurts,” were all used up. No pretending the problem wasn’t me. My failure was on display.

I looked at Devin, who was looking back at me, waiting. A few awkwardly long seconds passed, my voice expressed my exasperation and defeat, “How bad do I want this, Devin? I don’t know.”
“You want this. You wrote it, you can do it. Breathe.” He drew in and exhaled a long breath.

Some weeks later, in working with someone who would not admit they were wrong no matter what incontrovertible evidence was presented, it dawned on me that perhaps an issue with them was vulnerability. I used to get all wired up at meetings when that person would flat out deny something they had done. I ascribed it to their ego, having to feel like the boss, and/or always wanting to appear in control. Yet perhaps, the more accurate assessment might have been that they were unwilling or unable to be unguarded in front of others. As this possibility swirled around my head, it became a multi-layered lesson about releasing what does not belong to me, acceptance of the things I cannot change, and recognizing how I judge others without a larger view of the circumstances.

Vulnerable: susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm; defenseless, unguarded; at risk of abuse or neglect.

There is a postulate that one reason relationships fail is due to one or both partner’s unwillingness to be vulnerable. A while back, I was dating a nice guy who told me more than once, “I’ll never get married again. People leave.” His experience had taught him that to be vulnerable emotionally and legally was too big of a risk. He definitely wanted a romance, however, one in which he could control risk and minimize pain.
Vulnerability. Safety.

In those minutes in the recording studio, there I was: weak points overshadowed the strengths; I felt completely out in the open, like driving in a car with no windshield. No curtain to pull while I corrected a clothing malfunction. It was me hitting a wall I had not foreseen and then sitting there stunned.

Devin looked at me, no sympathetic expression, no “there, there now,” he simply said, perhaps a tad stridently, “You want this. Listen to the voice track once more.”
It worked. ‘The Black Prince ~ an Egyptian folktale’ went on to win a national award.
Vulnerability. Safety. Trust.

Fascinating thing, safety, is it not? What determines it? I bet if I asked twenty people, I would get twenty different answers. And of course safety has a dark side when it keeps us from taking a risk that would help us grow. Or fall in love. Or win a prize.

Morning fog. Photo by Mary Dessein

“The start of a new project is always very scary because you will not be the writer capable of writing it until you have already written it, but you do have to do it anyway.” Words from Brandon Taylor, a young editor and staff writer.
Vulnerability. Safety. Trust. Risk.

In some meditation and hypnosis practices, fog is used as a safety visualization, a cloud of protection from the stresses of the world. It can give us a brief respite to regroup, to pick ourselves up, to remind ourselves we are trustworthy and the risk is worth it.

“Act boldly and unseen forces will come to your aid,” Dorothea Brande. Her book, “Becoming a Writer,” published in 1934, is still in print today.

Vulnerability. Safety. Trust. Risk. Do it.