HERE A MOO... 29 July 2011
29th July 2011
The cows have been rather chatty for a couple of days now. Actually, they don't sound that casual, but rather- since yesterday morning - cantankerous, reaching, last night, a crescendo that sounded like a unanimous cry of complaint, so much so that we closed our bedroom window in order to sleep. They were still at it when we awoke this morning.
Vincenzo came to apologize after breakfast. It turns out that the vitelloni - their kids - have been taken to another pasture to fatten up and the Mama Moo's were distraught over the separation. We told Vincenzo not to worry, that these were the sounds of nature, and as such were enjoyable rather than intrusive. In fact, over dinner last night, which we ate peasant style outside.
Joel and I discussed the difference between living here as opposed to Provincetown or New York City. We agreed that one of the greatest pleasures here is the sound of silence punctuated here and there with a moo, a whinny, an oink, a frog-ian grrdup, a coo-coo-coo and a cric, crac, crow.
Why is it that these sounds enhance the silence while the ceaseless chatter of humans more often robs us of it? As we sat out here in the scrub, looking at the light on the hills, moaning with relish over our dinner of vegetable bean soup, hunks of bread and cheese, tomatoes and salami, I had a sudden vision of the herds racing down Broadway, phones clutched to ears, mouthing the often inane contents of heightened concerns; saw then, CNN, Fox News. Saw Huffington Post scroll its increasingly tabloid info, heard the weekly renters in Ptown hollering alcohol-laced profanity and pseudo joy and I realized how challenging it has become to experience humanity as nature. Words are everywhere, yet meaning is hard to find. It is as though fear has us by the throat and we are all screaming WOLF!
Here on the farm there's not much to say. After a week of rain we seized our opportunity this morning to do a laundry and hang it on the line to dry. Good timing, as now we hear thunder rolling through the hills. And we are in the hills here. Yesterday, while Joel caught up with some studio emails, I went for a wildflower-gathering walk. It's instant happiness for me to walk along this quiet country road, the heat of it coming up through my sandals, a breeze lifting the hem of my skirt. It's huge country here; fields rolling up and down the sides of hills, the hills themselves rolling one after the other into the far distance; the sky enormous and ever-changing over the terrain, the terrain changing colors along with the light. I get lost in time, my focus ranging from the cornflower at hand, to the far-away peak of Mount Amiata.
Enough flowers gathered to fill all the vases, I turn and head back to the farm. Terrain is one of the big differences between here and Provence. Here people live on the hills as well as in the valleys. In Provence you mainly live in the valley. Oh, there are lots of hill towns in Provence - we'll be living in one of them this autumn - but these places rise straight up from the valley, the nature of the terrain being rocky. Here the hills roll gently and subside, allowing people to scatter their dwellings over them in such a way as never to feel isolated, whereas in Provence, once outside a valley or hill town, you are up in the mountains where the occasional house feels, to me, uncomfortably isolated.
Delicious charcoal grey clouds are beginning to encroach from all directions, especially from the east and thunder, also gathering momentum, seems to be moving in circles. Surely rain is imminent. But when it comes to rain it would be hard to beat Wednesday's non-stop performance. It started during the night and kept up a steady, straight thrum right through until late evening.
It was, of course, a day of scheduled sessions for me. After the last experience of chasing a signal for every session, usually to no avail, my dear husband on Tuesday, found two six-foot long bamboo poles which he tied together for strength and then lashing his dongle - no dirty snickers please - to the end, had managed to secure this "antenna" out the upstairs skylight
aiming it toward Montalcino, which had kindly rewarded him with a strong signal. Until the rains came. At which point we, of course, had to bring in the antenna and close the skylight. Bye-bye Skype. Even my trusty BlackBerry had trouble staying faithful in this storm, although I did manage to conduct one session on it while sitting by the open French doors, rain splashing on my feet.
The moo-ing has ceased. Whether due to feeling out-performed by the thunder or to porosity of bovine memory I do not know. Here on this hillside farm we have a lot to learn about the sounds of silence.