I took the first step. A shiver passed through me in the warm Italian sun. It was not cold. I was scared. Of someone following me? No. Of finding a place, being stranded, dying alone and unloved? No. I was scared of what was inside of me, or, more accurately, what wasn’t. It has been a week since I left American shores and I have not written one word. Sure I have opened the computer to write, but I have lingered over emails and CS profiles and whatever else I could justify doing until the open door of time slipped away. I have not written, not from the place where I must go, deep within myself to write.
I took the second step. “Why are you so scared,” I asked, myself. “What if I can’t?” I responded. “What if it is no longer there? What if I have no words to express what I see. Worse, what if I no longer see?” Such strange questions, really. “No longer see.” Do we reach a point where we no longer see? It looks to me as if many do – those who have dulled themselves through work or alcohol or mere habitual existence to the world around them until it seems there is only one dull grey world to know. Or maybe, that is just my perception. People tell me all the time I must be so brave to do what I do, live without a plan, a home, a safety net; travel the world with the freedom of the wind to go wherever I am called. They do not understand - that does not scare me; that is easy. It is the mediocrity of existence that scares me. How would I keep alive whatever this spirit is that is me chained in the redundancy of a formalized existence?
I continued to mount the stairs. So many voices, so many me-s, a cacophony rising in my mind. The scared self, the wise self, the confident self, the doubting self, the nag, the abuser, the victim, the woman, the lover, the unloved, the writer, all expressing their reasons why I should and should not continue. There were other things that needed doing. There always are. Even on the road. Even in a life without so-called responsibilities. In the every-day world my writer voice cannot stand up to the voice that demands. It asks quietly and like a small child is told “in a minute” “maybe tomorrow” “later” again and again and again. It accepts meekly, as powerless children must. But the road, the road belongs to the writer. Here she knows it is her right to rule for I have carved this space for her. I knew she was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Her quiet yet strong voice gently calling me upward.
The hesitancy in my step began to dissipate. An excitement took over. Three hours all my own to write from my favorite perch at Fortezza Pia high above Ascoli. I had gone there many times in my days here. It was my first proverbial writer’s garret in the sky. The thoughts began to run in time with the blood pumping through my body from the exertion of the long upward climb. With the thoughts came the fears. Could I catch the twisting thoughts in time? They run like forest nymphs, darting in and out amongst trees. They come with force and clarity, swirling around you so close you almost feel their touch, and then dance away, taunting and teasing you to find the words to express them. Sometimes you do. Often you don’t. Would I today? Could I clear the cobwebs of this space, untouched for six months? Could I thrust open the windows of the tightly shuttered tower room in my mind, filling it with sunshine, and illuminate some darkened page with words that flow through my fingers?
The transition is always difficult for me; moving between the two worlds within which I live. This place between some formalized existence of work and money, taxes and to-dos, specified identities – lawyer, bartender, tenant, New Yorker – and the road where these things are mere memories and my purpose is only to inhale life and breathe out in words what has passed through me; the sights, tastes, sounds, smells, the feelings beneath my fingers and within my heart.
Something within me knows that some people live in both worlds simultaneously. They find the stolen moments of spiritual ecstasy, intellectual inquiry, philosophical perusals, and the lingering light of love somewhere between the laundry and the mail. I do not know how to do anything but die second by second in a day that resembles the day before and the day before that, my spirit flickering like a candle beneath a slowly descending glass.
Perhaps we all feel as if we are missing something in that other world where we do not live. I wonder what it is like to descend deep into a single place, just as others wonder what it is like to be carried on the wings of the wind to so many. I envy you who sit in your warm homes, reading this now from the same room as you read your emails yesterday, greeting the day with your love by your side or your familiar favorite pillow beneath your head, passing the evenings with friends who sit before you rather than across some wireless signal from the sky. And I have seen envy in the eyes of those who have these things for the excitement of the unknown that I face everyday. It seems the best we can do is embrace the lives we have chosen for they are indeed our own creation.
And so as I look across the rolling hills of my beloved Italy, my thoughts turn to the road ahead, the places waiting to be seen, the experiences waiting to be had, the words waiting to be expressed. As I move toward all that is new, my heart is warmed by the love I carry for those who wish me well from all corners of the world. Unfettered by the descending glass, the candle that is my spirit burns with the hope that in some small way I bring to those who have the courage that I do not - those who face the every day world, who keep the wheels churning, the taxes paid, the world moving - a stolen moment between the laundry and the mail that makes them smile or think or burrow safely and joyfully into their own familiar bed with visions of a world beyond and a heart that is happy to be home.
With love and light,
Sherry
My Dear Sherry,
The gift is still there. Don't ever doubt yourself. I've told you for years that your words are so very special. They touch all of us in different ways, but yet, the warmth of your smile and love of life itself, bring us all to visualize life and love through your eyes. Don't ever stop!
Gary
Posted by: Gary | June 05, 2007 at 05:07 PM
Finally!
Lady, you truly know how to write and it is a pleasure to see the world through your eyes.
jerry
Posted by: jerry | June 02, 2007 at 04:53 PM