January 4, 2014 Rome,
Italy
“Music,
when soft voices die,
Vibrates
in the memory;
Odours
when sweet violets sicken,
Live
within the sense they quicken.
Rose
leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are
heaped for the beloved’s bed;
And
so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love
itself shall slumber on.”
(Shelley)
How
many times during my teenaged years did I recite this poem? There were weeks
when I recited it once, twice, maybe even three times a day. I wandered lonely
as a cloud through a beautiful and quiet woods that no longer exists. Once on
the outskirts of town next to a huge forest, my old neighborhood from childhood
and that long-gone forest is now just a series of middle class ramblers and
developments.
And
still, I spent those years subscribing to “Victoria Magazine,” walking those
woodland paths with a copy of Shelley or Keats or Tennyson under my arm, or
later, Mary Wolstencraft or Virginia Woolf. And always, “Anne of Green Gables.”
I learned the names of all the trees by their leaves, and found four leaf
clovers between wild raspberry bushes. And in the winter, there is no peace
quite like the thick deep silence of a snowy woods.
I
spent hours dreaming of songs, of lore, of poems, of history, and… well… to be
honest… of love.
I
fabricated a knight in shining armor so smart and kind, and yet a little bit of
an intellectual sparring partner; a romance so beautiful (and imaaaaaginary)
that I would literally stay home some nights to continue the saga in my mind.
It took many years of practicing “BE HERE NOW” and “BEING PRESENT” to snatch me
from my daydream life, so that I may have THIS one I was actually living.
In fact, this was the theme of the
last five years of my life: accepting what is, being grateful for what I have,
and bearing no attachment to the outcome of my artistic labors. i.e.: Singing
for joy and joy alone, rather than for some idea of success.
Yes,
of course I am ambitious. And of course I am PRACTICING the aforementioned. I
am no master (yet) of certain of these habits. I have reaped immense benefit
from letting go of the past, letting go of the future, letting go of judgment,
and of stopping the LIVING IN MY HEAD. I live life here, and am finding more
and more amazement in that life HERE, wherever that HERE may be.
So
HERE I AM in Rome, Italy. It would be extremely unlikely to be sad or
disappointed in anyway in ROMA! Of course, those among us who carry the
melancholic artist’s torch can find such ecstasy in the agony of the romance of
Rome. Especially these days, a foggy drizzle descending upon the narrow
streets.
And
what have I found so far? So many things. Many. I would love to be sharing all
my experiences with you- adventures in food, in speaking Italian, in family, in
history. And in time, I will. But! For now I will share a few items for those
among you who share a fondness for romantic experiences.
I
want you all to know. I could never have been in the relationship I enjoy today
if I were still living in my head. As beautiful and wonderful as my mate is, I
would never have been able to notice it because I was always looking at what
was missing- and being in an idealized world in my head meant SOMETHING was
always missing. Not with the guy in front of me, necessarily. If the guy wasn’t
that into me, great! Unrequited love was SOOOOO romantic! Right? WRONG.
If
the guy WAS in to me, clearly, there was something wrong with him. Not
necessarily as a symptom of my own fear of intimacy, mind you. Oh, no, no. Of
course not. (Wink.) Probably he was, well, you know, he was 5’11” and I liked
guys who were 6’ tall. Or he was a cat lover and I was allergic. Or he drank
just a little tooo much or he liked the Packers and I was a Vikings fan (this
is a snort and a half. I haven’t watched a football game but once in six
years!) or blah blah blah blah blah blah.
Bottom line was: if the guy wasn’t
into me, I could safely avoid intimacy and sharing my real self by projecting
some romantic ideal onto him and then pining after that. If he WAS into me,
then I would find anything wrong with him that I could to RUN AWAY.
Shockingly, none of these habits
led to positive and joy-filled relationships.
But, I was willing to change my
ways and see my bad habits. I was willing to learn and to grow. And so I did.
Let
me tell you. I worked on this for years, practicing dating guys with no
attachment to outcome. (What do you mean, I’m just getting to know a guy for…
gasp…. Fun!.....) Truly. I went on many dates with many men, some nice, some
not so nice. All ages, all races, all incomes, all heights, all weights, all
styles, all religions. I practiced looking for things to like and being honest
about what I didn’t like. (Honest with myself, that is.) I had to rewire my
system. I forgot about all my poetry and romance, at least for a little while…
And
I met this guy. This wonderful, talented, smart, honorable, kind, handsome guy
I am dating. At first, and he knows this so it’s not like I am revealing
anything too intimate here, I thought he was very cute but not really interested
in me. He probably liked tall skinny blonde models. I mean, who doesn’t, right?
And then, slowly, as we got to know each other, I began delighting in surprise
after surprise. He wasn’t the kind of guy who swept a girl off her feet when
first meeting her. And so in the past I may have moved on quickly, because he
was neither totally into me nor totally NOT into me. He was open and available
without being needy or pressing.
WHAT THE ….!?
And
so, in kind, I responded. We courted. We took walks. We got to know one another
And what surprises befell me: he loved classical music, especially Chopin. He
read Osho. We differed in opinions over which era had better pop music, the 80s
or the 90s, but I learned to love cheesy love ballads because I could hear them
through his ears. In fact, I let go of being too cool for school and just
started enjoying songs I had before only listened to furtively on deserted
highways in the middle of nowhere. I let myself go. I stopped trying. And I got
to know this guy, and every day there were- and are- more surprises.
For
example, and back to TODAY and this blog. My beloved is a natural born Italian
and we are visiting his family for the holidays. We have been having a
wonderful time, hanging out with his family, eating all manner of delicious
food, checking out piazzas in the lovely lilting rain… This morning, Carlo
pulled out a tome from his childhood bookshelf. It was his English Literature
book from high school. And with great nostalgia, he opened it to the English
Romantics. Together, we read Shelley, Byron (my old poetry flame) and Keats
(his favorite.) It struck me: I worked so hard as an adult to never expect such
a romantic experience ever in life, although as a young girl I had pined after
such an experience rather passionately. Only once I had let go of that
attachment, that need, was it EXACTLY WHAT I RECEIVED: my handsome partner
holding my hand, reading from my favorite poets, which were some of his
favorite poets, too. I died a million unrequited loves in that moment and was
born again in a healthy relationship based on respect, encouragement, and
shared passions. Wow.
So,
when we learned that Il Cemetiro Accatolica was open until 5- aka the English
Cemetery- aka THE PLACE WHERE JOHN KEATS WAS BURIED… I delighted in another
strange discovery that I am not the ONLY weirdo who finds cemeteries romantic.
And
a perfect day it was for a cemetery full of cats (there is a cat rescue within
the cemetery grounds) and poets. It rained in the late afternoon, leaving the
green of the trees dark and moody, saturated with the fullness of living. Carlo
used his father’s tartan umbrella as a walking stick as we went in search of
the tombstone on which reads: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
As
we happened upon it, it got me thinking, of course, about the ephemeral nature
of life, and how lucky I am to be here, to be me, to have this fleeting moment.
And then, there was that hearkening to something just outside of my awareness
of love- that is what always draws me in to poetry and music - and then,
leaving those thoughts for another time or another thinker, I smiled as Carlo
reached for my hand and nodded “yes” to his question: “ready for a cappuccino?”
Later
that evening, back at his mother’s home after dinner, Carlo showed me another
English text book in which was written a quote from the composer Chopin:
“To
me, you are the gate of paradise. For you I will renounce fame, creativity,
everything.”
Then
he said, “Look! When I was 17 and a foreign exchange student in the UK I
replaced the beginning of this quote with, ‘To me, your eyes are the gates of
paradise.’ And I told that to a Finnish girl! It was a line I used!”
“Did it work?” I asked.
He responded with a nod half yes,
half no. “I got only one kiss, and not even a French kiss.”
I
laughed. Oh, guys. They will say anything when they are 17 (ahem. Or 27, 37,
47...) And us girls? Will we believe it?
After
all, I’m part Finnish myself.
I
don’t need to believe it. I just experience it.
Here’s to the proper use of poetry,
and the responsible use of kissing.
XOXOX
Ciao for now,
Erin
