DUALITY, DICHOTOMY, TWINS
(A "Reflective Post")
An awesome APP let’s me look at the constellations, day or night, simply by pointing my phone - anywhere. Up toward the sky, or down toward my feet, I can see where my own Aries Ram is passing, or the Leo mane is blowing.
A few nights before I left Mexico, I held up my phone to see Gemini, and pondered my torn spirit, not quite ready to leave my new home which I had barely begun to complete. I felt a wave of uncertainty pass over me, as I realized how “unrooted” my life has become.
I prayed a rosary, specifically for my children, for our unity, for our pain, and for our future. Upon finishing the Hail Holy Queen, a luminous star shone boldly in the darkening sky. I held up my phone, only to see the “Dove of Peace,” carrying an olive branch. I accepted this as confirmation of my decision to go to Italy, the land of olives.
Carolina took out a jar of olives she had preserved last sumer, or perhaps the one before. They were neither salty nor vinegary. They had been “cured” with “caustic soda” - no vinegar, no spices - just olives - Ascolan olives from the same area where we get Montepulciano wine, a Sangiovese clone, mainly from central Italy and here - Abruzzo. Giovanni cracked a pit and gave me the tiny nut inside.
“This-a little nut-a, is the heart of-a the olive. This is-a where the oil is-a from-a.” He began to explain the process of extracting oil from olives, something his grandfather did on the family farm just up the hill, over 80 years ago.
An enormous crushing wheel, made of stone, driven by horses, crushes the olives. The master of the mill tests the paste, as it sits for several hours. The oil rises to the surface, where the first virgin oil is collected in large plates, before the remaining “paste” is sent to press.
The first press begins, as the watery oil rises to the surface, is collected, then filtered. There is always a second press, and often, more. The “perla,” or “best” oil is from the first “rising,” prior to the first press.
Often, on Christmas Eve, Giovanni’s family would have a beautiful blue flaming fire in their fireplace, as they used the leftover dried olive pits and inner nuts as fuel. This fragrant fuel also served to create blue flames in oil lamps, burning throughout the night and on into the next day and night.
The fireplace was left to burn throughout the night during the winter, while the women washed diapers into the wee hours, using the water from copper pots, kept warm on the fire. They would hang the baby cloths over the embers to dry.
Though each family had a home, not everyone had a fireplace like Giovanni’s. Even through the Great Depression, his family, with 4 brothers and 3 sisters, lacked for nothing.
I take comfort knowing that neither my children nor many of their friends lacked for any basic needs. In my home, in particular, they were given much more than electronic gadgets and toys.
They were given homemade meals, musical instruments, a listening ear, and sometimes an earful of advice, as I spent most days on my feet in the kitchen, welcoming them. I miss our “kitchen circles,” some kids perched on the counter, others sitting on the floor, as we chatted and made music into the wee hours of the night.
With no real home of my own, I now seek comfort in making people feel at home with me - and hopefully, me with them. Being and reflecting light, looking into eyes of stranger, on the Metro, on the streets, in stores, and inviting them into my heart (my home), is where I find completeness now. No more yards to tend, no more tile to lay, no more roofs to repair, no more silver to polish. The kitchen, living room, dining room, and garden are the cobblestone streets of Mexico, Italy, France, and more.
I am at least two people - one who misses the past, and one who hopes in the future, all the while, striving to live fully in the present. I thrive on interactions with others, and yet, am a solitary writer. When my Parisian friend asked me what my goal is right now, my answer was simple; to make others feel loved - wherever, whatever, and whoever they are.
An African man on the Metro last week lives the same mantra. He wore an orange, yellow, and red toga, with a small square hat on his shiny head. He smiled as each passenger boarded, then asked me where I was from. I thanked him for his positivity and generous smile, as he proceeded to chat with others around us, then shout to the entire car,
“Why do you French look down at your phones and your books?! Look up at the faces all around you! Make friends! Say ‘bon jour!’ Life is short! Bon jour everybody! Bon jour!” With that, the crowd yelled exuberantly,
“Bon jour!” Bold, inspiring, and unafraid, he exited the Metro, waving his morocca, challenging everyone to pass the “bon jour!”
“Boungiorno!” I greet the lovely gal at a local corner establishment. Her name is Loredana, Lori for short. I met her the other day. I place my order, have a seat outside, and thank her when she arrives with cake.
“Grazié, Lori,” I say in my best Italian.
“Cynzia,” she says. I don’t understand. She laughs slightly, and motions that she will be right back. I am confused, but when two of her return, I understand.
“I am Loredana, and this is my twin sister, Cynzia,” says the rounder-faced one. Identical twins! They run this place together! Dirty trick, I thought.
Giovanni's shirt is dirty with food stains. He is unaware, as is his wife, who can barely see the food in front of her. When the electricity is restored, a load of laundry will precede my first hot shower.
She retires early, tired from the grocery-shopping walk and the preparation of fresh sauce for the Collevecchio gnocchi. Giovanni and I remain on the porch by candlelight, as he begins to bare his soul, sharing things with me I’d rather not know, and others that I soak in with the voracity of a burgeoning apprentice, wanting to understand, to learn, to be entertained.
He talks about his life, mostly the early years, and how he pursued Carolina for five years. He assures me of his love and appreciation for her, telling me how, although they fight like crazy, the two have become one. I see this with my parents as well. They are interdependent - one not complete without the other.
He asks about my divorces - two of them - and shakes his head in sympathy, wondering how any man could abandon such a wonderful woman. I tell him how I have never felt that “interdependency,” and he explains how such a bond occurs only after many obstacles have been surmounted.
Two cannot become one until they go through fire together. Then he segues into another war story about mountains, and Napoleon, and brave young men.
“Marriage is-a like-a war,” he says in his deep Italian accent. When-a you down-a, you gotta depend on-a some-a body else-a. You gotta trust-a them.”
We discuss reasons why people don't stay together - and why they do. I see-saw between the idea of having a partner for the sake of not being alone, and that of being alone, for the sake of not being with a partner with whom I am not happy.
"Too much-a fire," he goes on, "burn-a the pizza, if-a you know what I mean-a." I understood. Two marriages later, I now know my first relationship was under-cooked, my second, burnt to a crisp.
The first, I hardly gave a chance. The second, I trusted too much. How much is too much trust? Perhaps when I allowed my own fears to take priority over my own capabilities, I succumbed to the emotional abuse, convincing myself that other choices would have been more dangerous for me and my children - more risky.
I had a flash of the many parents I’ve seen riding bikes here, with their children standing on the rack above the rear wheel. No helmets, no knee and elbow pads. Their lives are completely at the mercy of the driver of the bike. I know only one being on whose bike rack I would ride standing up - Jesus Christ Himself! I guess I’m not cut out for war - or marriage.
As I sit before the Blessed Sacrament, contemplating the mystery of it all, gazing at the Holy Eucharist encased in gold, I think of the poor we have yet to feed, the ignorant we have yet to enlighten, and the suffering we have yet to endure.
There is no joy without knowing pain. Duality is everywhere. Ying and yang, in and out, up and down, light and dark, bondage and freedom. Running away, running toward, searching for self, denying self. It’s all the cycle of being. This is the Crucifixion Resurrection story. This is birth and dying.
These are the twins of existence. Neither can exist without the other. Seeing the two’s around me, the double consonants in so many Italian words, the rich merchants dropping coins into the cups of the homeless, the pregnant mother having coffee with the ancient great grandmother, give me hope.
Couples holding hands on honeymoon, and others holding onto each other for support in their feeble aging states, are merely signs that love endures. The nun married to God, sharing her Spouse with the universe, the monk in his cave, meeting the Divine in solitude, are ultimately expressions of nature and super nature’s interdependence on other entities, be they physical or spiritual.
I see the Church and City Hall planking the same square. I see the same men who propositioned me, attending daily Mass. I see a young mother walking her newborn in an expensive stroller. As the child screams, the mother flips her long black hair over her strapless shoulder. Her dress is suggestive, her makeup heavy, and attitude - "bothered." She picks the baby up toward her breast, and balances on her four-inch stilettos, as her partner drapes a scarf over the nursing little one. It's all so - dichotomous.
Perhaps today is beckoning each of us to hold hands with someone, or something, to be intertwined with the essence of interdependence. Holding hands can mean looking into a stranger’s eyes, smelling a flower, tasting a food, or expressing gratitude.
While sitting at the twins’ Marcafé, sipping Sambucca and savoring two pieces of Lori’s cake, I had just written the title of today’s blog, when a man passed on the street. His hands were cupped in front of him. He was holding fresh cherries, just like the ones I had picked from our tree today. He smiled and offered me some. I thanked him and told him that I had “molto” at my casa.
“Due, due,” he said (doo-ay, doo-ay) as he stretched his arms toward me, insisting I take two. He needed me to accept his gift of just-picked red globes of sweet and sour delight. A pair of hands, offering a couple of fruits, to a lady and a girl who occupy one body, on a lovely Gemini night in early June. My “yes” made his day. For a moment, I am at one with myself.
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a gift of putting a reader wherever she is....can almost sense and feel.
ReplyDeleteSent this post to my ma & pa, "twin" sisters and friend in Tasmania so they could meet my friend Barbara from Santa Barbara, who now lives in Mexico ;-)
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