I have a secret wish.
So it is not so secret.
My wish is to see Italy.
It is a dream that has taken root in the recesses of my heart.
I don’t remember when the seed was planted, but it is a pretty strong desire.
My friend, Rhonda, discovered it and, instead of smiling sweetly while responding, “That’s nice, dear.”, she filed the information.
She and I have a few things in common.
A »lot« of things in common.
We worship at the altar of Calvin and Hobbes, we adore books – all sorts of them, enjoy music – earthy deep, and soulful, and we (like to think we) understand love, even while we continue to explore each corridor of the human heart.
We do this in order to meet its needs while it beats in each chest cavity of those we hold most precious in our worlds.
We were both homeschool mothers for years, and while life has taken a few turns that have altered that pleasant occupation, we each continue to see the minds of our children as a rich fields; capable of producing marvelous things, and we revel in the sweet privilege of planting, fertilizing, and watering.
Kindred spirits are we, though she is introvert and I am,
….not so much.
A day arrived at my doorstep;
an unfriendly day, it brought in its arms a set of circumstances that took the wind out of my sails.
Rhonda saw my sailboat drifting in the doldrums and she gave me this song;
This beautiful song.
Oh, how it soothed my soul.
It’s perfect for us, really, the lyrics mentioning the packing of “a suitcase of books, and one bag apiece…”
I thought, “Okay! 🙂 What will we read the second week?”.
I don’t know how she does it, but I will say something, and Rhonda will disappear for a moment … No doubt scrounging the “interwebs”, (her word) like Oscar the Grouch plumbs the depths of his garbage can to ferret out some treasure; emerging with a tuba, or a grand piano.
She quickly re-surfaces with an item you didn’t know you needed but won’t be able to live without once it is in your hands.
“Here ya go!”, she says smiling, and the next thing you know, you are holding a Stradivarious.
When I listen to the Italy song, treasure created by a master musician, my imagination is flooded with hazy images of Rhonda and I in the late afternoon sunlight, lounging lazily on wicker furniture haphazardly positioned on an idyllic Italian veranda, our feet (with dainty polished toenails) are propped up on over-stuffed Italian cushions…
Lavish, really, the entire scene.
The song still plays,
I lean my head back, listening…
I know I hear the surf (we are near the ocean, of course) as it crashes on the shore.
It mingles with the laughter of our children.
The sounds are carried to us by the wind.
The kind accommodating Italian wind.
Rich words preserved in hardbound beauty are consumed by eyes that never tire of them while graceful fingers barely hold them open, we feel sooo lazy.
She is reading _Lonesome Dove_ for the upteenth time.
I am reading _Jane Eyre_ for the umpteenth time plus one.
Soft colors accompany this vision; the soft browns of driftwood that match my hair and eyes, the blonde taupe of sands that match our patio, the blue-green of ocean that mirrors the color in Rhonda’s eyes,
soft blue of sky,
bright yellow of sun,
all of these blend together in that hazy creation;
For maybe more than just one moment, I am transported from the circumstances of the unhappy day into another world where respite is savored, and I am reminded that someone loved me enough to remember my heart’s desire,
Blessing me with music that sinks into my consciousness as did the first little seed of Italy-love, burrowing knowingly, and spreading roots that grasp my inner-man, taking hold to stay.
And stay it will.
For I will let it.