February 15, 2015

First of all, my thanks to all the many people – family, friends and strangers alike, who have written in response to the latest post. An outpouring of concern, commiseration and inspiration, not to mention kindness; like the pen collector who spent 3 days at the California pen fair over the weekend searching for the Montblanc Bordeau Mini Mozart fountain pen to replace the one that was stolen last week. Unfortunately it has become an extremely rare model and she was unable to find one. But her generous effort gives us all hope. Thank you Carmen Rivera.

As the days pass, so does our anguish. That said, the universe had more challenges in store for us this past week. The first arrived on Friday night when, exhausted from the accumulative effects of the robbery and subsequent work entailed in replacing the many necessary items, we finally fell into our bed. We had just made it with fresh linens from the local laundry. Within minutes we were being bitten by insects of a variety hitherto unknown to us. We tore the linens off the bed and threw them outside in the hope that the buggers would freeze overnight before I drowned them in the washing machine the following morning.

The next day, coming home from hours of errands, we put the kettle on for tea only to discover we were out of gas, therefore, no stove, no heat, no hot water. The emergency number for the gas company rang without end. We stoked the fire, boiled water on it, closed doors to unnecessary rooms and plugged in a hotplate the farmers had brought over…promptly blowing all the fuses. We felt as though we were at a carnival stall; ducks and rabbits complete with grins popping up in such a way as to insist we become sharpshooters if we were to win. When the electricity blew I didn’t so much feel resigned as almost excited to see what else might come our way to test our survival skills.

We sautéed fish on the fire and then, stoking it some more, placed a tripod on the livid embers the intense heat of which brought my lentil vegetable soup to a rapid boil. Cheese was softened on the hearth before being spread on homemade bread and while we snuggled on the couch watching a DVD (the electricity by now restored) we put an old Tuscan contraption in our bed, its metal pan filled with hot coals from the fire. Et voila, at 10 pm., the gas company arrived and filled the tank.

During the last couple of weeks we have been given an advanced course in the nature of materialism, loss, expectation and disappointment. On day 2 of our Provence “vacation” the Marian Faithful (or should we say, Un-Faithful) concert which I’d secured prime seats for 6 months prior, was cancelled without notification. Then our dear friend Sharon was sick for days, unable to play. Nine inches of snow fell overnight which, along with freezing temperatures kept us all housebound for days. Many of the brocante shops we’d looked forward to re-visiting had gone out of business and a medieval stone head we brought back here was so unhappy to have been uprooted that even Gianni upon seeing it said “Energia negativa.” And so when the shippers arrived that night, delivering two armchairs, we wrapped the poor head in burlap and asked them to take it back to Provence when they return there next week.

Things. Their magnetism. And Ours. The magnetism sometimes coming from a place of desire instead of true need. I spent hours online on Thursday trying to find the exact same model of one of my stolen bags; a simple black, canvas satchel that had been my daily wear for years. Hours I spent, going from site to site until I finally understood the difference between determination and desperation. The next day I bought some dye and repurposed a bag I’ve had for years but which I’d discarded because of a stain.

During the first 10 years that we were coming to Tuscany, we became acquainted with an old contadino who lived on the estate. Argante, then in his 80’s, lived off the land as he had his whole life. His wardrobe consisted of 1 of each: shoes, boots, shirt, sweater, jacket, hat and a pair of pants held up with string. He was tiny and agile, sharp and humorous. One day, our friend Gianni made him a leather belt. When he gave it to him, Argante said, “Thank you, but no need. The string works well.” I saw him the day before he died, several years ago, alive as could be. As we watched him lowered into the earth we felt something truly irreplaceable had been lost.

And yet he has visited me so many times this week. He’s sitting in his kitchen, pants help up with string, cutting an apple with his only knife. He points its blade out the open door to the fields and hills. “Look,” he says, “Look at the light.”

LOOK AT THE LIGHT

FINDING THE FLOW

WE WAS ROBBED