THE FULLNESS OF TIME

We’ve reached that stage of life where time flies…and not just when you’re having fun. This, for me, is the greatest challenge in writing for the blog; finding time to write, which these days has been close to impossible. But then, when I finally can’t stand it anymore I sit (pardon the pun) down to write. I just sit and let all that time has been filled with since last I wrote swirl around me, waiting for an opening, or if not an opening at least for one thing to come forward and choose its place and the head of the line. So, here goes.

We went to the sea for 4 days. It seems like forever ago but was actually only last week. We went to convalesce Joel from his month of illness and to rest me from a month of care-taking and gardening. The hotel, its location, and the staff, were magnificent, the evening cabaret pianist not so much. Particularly after 10 pm., when he would try crooning until 11:30. Alas, his croon held no tune and our room was directly over him. One compensates. In our case, by dining later that we prefer and thereby delaying sleep until the last note droned out of the poor man.

The truth is, I’m good for about 36 hours of this kind of luxury. I like the lolling part and the dressing up in the evening bit, but all that friggin’ formality gets to me pretty quickly. I would have to say that being served my napkin via the wielding of a spoon and fork is not high on my list of vacation requirements. Just put the damn thing on the table when you set it. And can you tell me what the deal is with all this high-falutin’ food service that’s become the norm of the last decade? When I look at the menu and choose sole with artisanal asparagus and mushrooms on a bed of froth of a kale, believe me, when it arrives 10 minutes later you do not need to tell me that a plate of sole with artisanal asparagus and mushrooms on a bed of froth of kale is before me. Time may be flying but my short-term memory is still intact, thank you.

But I digress. On the third day I was hit with an allergic reaction to something: the menu? Too much sun? Too much relaxing? Two massages? Or merely the froth of kale? Who knows, but within 24 hours I was covered from toes to chin with a rash the description of which would beat the hell out of anything on that menu. Benadryl did zip. By Saturday night I wanted to crawl out of my crawling skin. On Sunday the rash marched into my hair and I swear only vanity kept it from taking over my face. So Joel took me to Montalcino to the little convent hospital where the emergency ward consists of 2 chairs, 1 bed, a desk and a young doctor who took one look at me, told me to drop my drawers and delivered a pain-free butt injection of cortisone. With 3 hours the itching had stopped.

So I figured it was fine to dig in another 20 plants before sundown. Hey, there is no time like the present and the present is in every moment. On Monday my favorite ‘workers’ arrived to help me place 100 rocks and boulders around the garden. What joy to work with Antonello and Luca again; the great Tuscans who made our stone steps and walls last fall. They came with Rossario, the excavator, and we 4 worked in harmony, in equality, in deep communication, with few words and much laughter. Gender, nationality, class and language melted their inherent boundaries as the day evolved. At lunch we talked of the satisfaction we feel from this kind of labor; the passion we have for the land, for simple beauty and the reward of fresh strawberries and salted dark chocolate.

And then, Morandi. The great Italian painter who lived his whole life in the same house in Bologna. I will have to refrain from telling you more right now because we have been commissioned to make a book on Morandi and I need time to let settle the thoughts and feelings, questions and interpretations that arose by spending a day in his studio, sitting on his chair, while Joel made portraits of every one of Morandi’s objects. Suffice it to say it was a spiritual privilege to be allowed into that sacred space which is usually closed off to the public by a glass wall.

Bologna, itself, is a city with which we felt affinity; from the warm colors of the stone facades to the arcaded sidewalks built originally to give shelter to the homeless. Can you imagine? A culture that covered its sidewalks with arched ceilings of great beauty in order to shelter its homeless.

Yesterday, Friday, we drove home to the farm, happy to be back in or little country patch. We lit a small fire and ate a light dinner before bathing and falling asleep listening to the new lambs calling for their mothers.

And so today arrived; as they do until they don’t. This one brought a hundred-year old olive tree, a climbing hydrangea, a rhododendron, and a large holly tree. Once again I became one of the guys, this time with Giorgio and his team from my favorite Tuscan nursery, Vivaio Martheriti. While they excavated 4-foot deep holes for the 2 trees, I finished planting the new rockery with sedums, succulents and gaura. When all was à posto, Giorgio gave me a lesson in pruning the lemon tree. This was the last planting for the season, partly because it will soon be too hot for new plants and partly because I want to sit back and enjoy this latest phase of transformation in the garden.

Now I will see what summer’s fleeting moments will bring our way. And I will take a little of this precious time to marvel at the transformation that I am undergoing as I continue to turn from the quest for recognition and instead recognize I already have what makes me truly happy: disappearing into the immeasurable moments of working with nature; disappearing into the blank page; disappearing into the arms of love.