I’ve stayed put, stayed in one place for longer amounts of time since I posted yesterday. I’d say that I’ve slowed down a little. Nothing specific to report, just a feeling.

   Today, not a cloud in the sky. A little wind, but picture perfect. Consequently, I’m trying to post a slide show of a few pictures taken this morning as I walked from my hotel to The Abbey and back.

   This sunny, June weather has me thinking about the Celtic love and longing for place. Wherever we live, our home and surroundings feed our mind, body spirit. When I’m on Iona I want to live here permanently, pretending the long, long, winters don’t exist.

    Yesterday on my way to the Machair, I chatted with Jenny who was gardening outside her home. “I love it here; I’m not very busy and that suits me just fine.” I left envying her simple life and place of solitude. Today my weaving friend Moya invited me to her home and studio on Tuesday. I left envying her sense of purpose and place of silence, with only the sound of the loom.

     Many of us long for the perfect place, although no one place can satisfy all our needs. My home is perfect; but a perfect place on Iona would satisfy another need.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of our 2004 Camry with 175,000 miles showing on the odometer. Jim and I are on our way to Pennsylvania to visit Emily, Tony and our grandkids. On the way we’ll stop for lunch at my sister’s. It’s a particularly a poignant time for me, because she now lives in the condo that was Mom’s home from age 80 to 90.

     Um, it just dawned on me that for the last seven years of Mom’s life, we drove this very car to visit her. Longevity comes in many flavors.

The fog is rolling in and rolling out; my umbrella goes up and down. I’m grateful that it isn’t windy or cold; I’m grateful that I’m here, at the moment enjoying a soup and sandwich.

    Inclement weather drew me into Iona Gallery and Pottery selling local paintings and pottery. Different artists’ renditions of Iona. The woman tending the shop was crocheting. “No, I don’t paint; my passion is weaving.” She went on to tell me that after coming to Iona on and off for thirty years, she moved to the island five years ago. Her small house has a tiny bedroom and kitchen and a living room for her loom. She hopes to buy a bigger home where she can weave and have her own shop.    

     I figure Maura to be in her early sixties. She admitted that her finances are limited, always have been, so when she started dreaming of moving to Iona she focused on the all financial obstacles. Added to that, her friends thought her dream was impossible/crazy. “Then, when I started thinking of possibilities instead of obstacles, things fell into place and here I am.”  She doesn’t know how it will all work out, but she believes that if she keeps her dreams, whatever happens will be just right for the moment.

      We agreed how essential it is not to create our own ageism by limiting our dreams. “I may pop tomorrow, but I’m living today.”

      We talked about craft, about the need to do something with our hands. Women’s work through the ages. I told her that as a writer, I sometimes feel out of balance—too much in my head. I’m now inspired me to pick up the simple knitting that that I brought from home.

     And then there was the topic of solitude, which permeated the entire conversation. I told her about my need for solitude and about my solitary travel. She told me that when friends come to visit, she makes certain that she has time alone. She loves working in the shop because of the conversations with strangers. We agreed that our encounter was a perfect combination of community and solitude for us both. Then off I went.

It’s time to return to the cottage. The good news is that there is no snow to shovel. The bad news? Well, there isn’t any. It’s all win-win, with solitude at the cottage and community at home. Very grateful.

    This weekend my daughter and her husband were visiting. One evening we went to the Wayside Inn. The lore has it that George Washington stopped by there for a dram. A century later Henry Wadsworth Longfellow told and wrote ‘Tales of a Wayside Inn’ in the room across from the pub where we had a glass of wine. Over the years the inn experienced several fires, but Henry Ford came along, had it rebuilt and kept it going. These  days it is a full-fledged, not-for-profit organization, with an inn keeper, trustees and volunteer Minutemen from Sudbury and surrounding towns greeting visitors at the door.

First a disappointment; then a marvelous discovery. Il Museo di Firenze com’era (The Museum of Florence As It Was) has been moved to the Palazzo Vecchio. I know there are sensible reasons for all this upgrading of museum logistics (combination tickets, relocation of ticket offices, etc) but it feels like the heart of Florence as it was has been attacked. The quiet, simple museum, once situated in an ancient cloister, is now located in the middle of the political ethos of the busy Piazzale Signorina

      My friend Karen had mentioned the wonderful public library, Biblioteca delle Oblate in the heart of Florence on her American in Italy blog but I had forgotten about it until I came upon it right next door to the desecrated museum spot. Newly renovated, spectacular views of the Duomo, and a welcoming sign inviting us into open stacks, internet access, quiet rooms for reading and writing, a children’s section, a museum, a café, and the International Tribune.

    So here I am, living my life in Florence, enjoying my library. To paraphrase Thich Nhat Hahn, Wherever I go here I am; or Horace, Carpe Diem, or Eckhart Tolle, the present moment is all you ever have.

      P.S. I just read that the library was inaugurated in March 2007. I wouldn’t be surprised if it is planning to take over space of the Museo di Firenze com’era. All part of the same convent. I feel less disappointed already. 

This Sunday morning I visited my favorite cathedral and favorite monastery church and all before 11 o’clock. Up early to Santa Maria dei Fiori for Mass. I’ve learned through the years that one way to enter these huge cathedrals before they become crowded with tourists is to go to early mass. And so I did. Outside a side entrance I encountered a friendly, optimistic old priest, cane-in-hand,  waiting for security to open the doors for 7:30 Mass. “I’m a priest here….Oh, I love Boston… I’ve been to Worcester. And New York…Poughkeepsie.

    I decided that I would try Mass again under this magnificent dome. It would be my third time. The other two were rather upsetting; I must have exuded guilt that I was a non-Roman Catholic taking Communion. The first time, easily more than fifteen years, I was reprimanded by the priest. I came forward with open hands, only to have him shake a finger in my face and with a loud “NO” place the wafer in my mouth. I figured he was speaking out against Vatican II, but it sure shook me up—I’m not accustomed to being yelled at by men (or women). A few years later I tried again, but this time the priest called me back, and then said, “Va bene,” and I returned to my seat. It seems that he hadn’t see me eat the wafer and was concerned that I was saving it. (To sell? To save? To give to someone?) I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but clearly I didn’t know the rules.
    So, with trepidation I decided to try again, and this time all went well. There was my friendly priest who loves Boston helping me on my way.

Next on to the Church of St. Francis, a hefty climb from the piazza in Fiesole where Bus 7 from the Piazza San Marco in Florence had left me at the central square. A twenty minute ride through the suburbs of Florence and then up the winding ‘Fiesole hills’ with magnificent views of Florence and the Duomo below. A magical spot.

     The Franciscan complex, situated on the top of a hill, is a simple, working monastery. The section open to the public includes a small church with some minor early Renaissance paintings, two miniscule cloisters, and a winding staircase leading to six cells of the early monks.

        Ah, if I were a privileged monk I’d have two cells; one here in Fiesole, and another in Florence at the Convent of San Marco. What arrogance; I have a long way to go!!!!

I live in a country-like suburb about twenty-five miles from Boston: farm land during colonial times. Word has it that Sudbury encompasses the largest landmass in the Commonwealth. As I’ve shown on previous blogs, the walks I take from my house are quite idyllic, so you might conclude that they are also quiet. I don’t want to exaggerate the noise but suffice to say, I’ve given up counting the number of lawn-care and garbage (excuse me, waste-removal) trucks that chug past me. Thank goodness, at least for the safety of walkways.

     A quiet walking spot, however, is the expansive cemetery just beyond the Unitarian Church at the town center. I go there with a friend whose husband is buried close to a tree that the family planted. It is a peaceful place for both of us. While my friend sits and remembers, I walk and remember—friends, spouses of friends, a dear teaching colleague, and a second grade student. Sad for me but seemingly peaceful for those buried there. Strange how that is!

My twelve year old granddaughter is visiting for what she calls her ‘grandcation’, which is a vacation just for her with her grandparents. This year she is into photography and has chosen graveyards for subject matter. Actually, around here the old ones are called burial grounds. Today I have brought a chair, book, computer and snacks. While she is off with her camera and tripod, I am sitting in the silence and solitude.

     There’s something especially peaceful about cemeteries, peaceful but not desolate, offering a deeply relaxing combination of solitude and community. People drive in and out to visit graves of loved ones; others wander about reading the stones, which is what I often do.

      Gravestones from the Revolutionary War period tell of infant deaths, of young adults, of beloved husbands and wives, of friends. Along with dates and age, there is often a phrase that captures the essence of the person. Of course the story is never offered in fullness, but the meager but meaningful information is enough to make me feel that I am part of the extended family, perhaps visiting for those who have joined their loved ones in the common burial ground.