​Spend time with positive people is one of the ‘nuggets of truth’ I wrote about in The Teacher Book: Finding Personal and Professional Balance, a book I published in 2000. That nugget is still with me twenty years later. It is not that I avoid all negativity. We all have difficult things going on in our lives, and at times we need to pour them out to someone. I can listen to that, and I am very grateful that I have friends who do the same for me. By positive people, however, I mean those who desire to get out of despair, not those who seem to want to remain in a ‘poor me’ state.
     I believe that good conquers bad, that every human being has a beautiful soul, and that we each have a choice to go high. Those who are profoundly stuck in negativity need a listener who will remain with them through to the other side. I know when I am not that person. I know my limitations. That’s what I mean by my choice to spend time positive people. 

​During these contentious political times the words Richard Rohr posted last week prompted me to reflect on the tone of this blog and the underlying message I want to convey.
 
My hope, whenever I speak or write, is to help clear away the impediments to receiving, allowing, trusting, and participating in a foundational Love. 
 
     Yes, Richard Rohr, my hope and your hope are similar, but sometimes I think my posts are rather boring and self-involved. The two go together; boring because I don’t tell stories about other people, and self-involved because I only tell stories about myself.
        Thus I don’t let you know about the many friends I see in person, talk with on the phone, and keep up with over the internet. On this blog they are pretty much invisible, although their lives, with both joys and concerns, are blessings in helping me lead my life and write about silence, solitude, simplicity.
     It would be much easier to share my friends’ stories, and it would be much more interesting for you readers to hear a good story. But as you know, I work hard/struggle not to judge, gossip or speak at another’s expense-- impediments to Love.  
       Consequently, I’m left with one main character—me. My word choice is  self-involvement, but hopefully not self-promotion. I want to share my thoughts as I strive to receive, allow, trust, and participate in love. 
​

​When once in a while on my travels I see someone (usually a woman) writing in a journal. I am intrigued. I want to strike up a conversation with her. I want ask her what she writing, I want to read what she written. Of course, these are against all my rules of privacy, ethics, moral values, confidentiality, solitude, secrecy (my computer thesaurus just gave me those). Never, never, never read anyone else’s journal/diary!
    The other day at one of my go-to-writing cafes, a women sat down at a nearby table, took her journal our of her purse, wrote for a bit, put the journal back, and sat pensively; she repeated the procedure two more times. She purchased no coffee.
     This journal writer wore a print frock with a matching bow in her graying hair. She appeared to be in her sixties, but trying to look younger. When she left I was tempted to follow her, but alas, I didn’t because of all those rules that extend past reading someone’s journal to include prying into her life.   
     Sometimes I just hate my rules because I want to discover secrets that are not mine to know.
      (I’ve thought long and hard about breaking my rules by posting her photo, but have concluded she will remain anonymous. You may agree, you may not. It’s a decision up for grabs.) 

Whew, finally I finished a travel article entitled “Free in Florence,” about the free things you can do in Florence for a week. I posted it on Thorn Tree, the travel bloggers section of Lonely Planet, where they have a monthly contest of what they consider the best blogs. Entering gives me impetus to get something written and the chance to see what other bloggers do.
      Very like all of the bloggers are younger than me. Many are young people who hope to write and travel for a living. They post from around the world, many from exotic place. They take physical risks and travel on a shoestring. 
      I blog about Europe—Italy and Scotland; and closer to home—Boston. I’m not interested in making a living out of travel writing, nor do I want to visit exotic places or take any kind of physical risks. I don’t travel on a shoestring, but I do keep an eye my budget.
    To read my latest entry, go to “A Solitary Traveler” to this blog.
 www.lonelyplanet.com/thorntree/welcome

     I’m again inspired by Ralph Waldo Emerson and the many artists that gathered together in his parlor at Emerson House in Concord. This weekend we saw the writing desks of Louisa May Alcott at Orchard House and Ralph Waldo Emerson at Emerson House just down the road. Here’s how the stories were told by the engaging tour guides.
      Louisa wrote at a desk built for her by her father. It circled the window and there she sat writing throughout the light hours of the day.
      Emerson wrote all morning at the desk in his study. In the afternoon he walked to Walden; in the evening he chatted with friends in the parlor.
       We were told that Louisa’s mother worked extremely hard both inside and outside the home, cooking, cleaning, and sewing, thus giving her daughter time to write. Thankfully the family reaped the benefits of their hard work, for with the publication of Little Women, Louisa was able to support the family financially.
    The Emersons were not poor, nor were the rich. Waldo (as Emerson requested to be called) supported the family with lyceum talks he gave in New England and beyond. He had time to develop his thoughts and plan his talks, time to read, write, think, and discuss with others because, in part, his wife Lydian cared for the children and managed those hired to help in the household. That was the family social structure in the mid-nineteenth century.
       My point is that these two writers had TIME and permission to write without the burden of many of the distractions we have today. It’s a different world, so we have to manage our time in different ways. Now is now, then was then.
      I wrote about this October 2017 here.
www.acottagebythesea.net/a-solitary-traveler

     What is enough? A friend told me that every January 1st she chooses a word or phrase to live with for the year. Here in Florence I’ve been thinking about ‘enough’ as my word to embrace. How many cappuccini, views of the Duomo, walks along the Arno, or visits to San Miniato del Monte are enough? Can I be satisfied with these moments and give up planning my next trip? Can I be in the present, right NOW, and know that it is enough? Is it possible that whatever I have right NOW is enough?
    I started writing this in the cemetery surrounding San Miniato. Thousands of mausoleums, statues, and grave stones are there for those living now to remember, although memories are never static, and often not enough. And then, there is a mysterious NOW of the dead person.
    Every morning I give a euro to a man standing outside the café where I come to write. Today I notice that he came in and bought a coffee. Was it enough? I don’t know other than to believe that for him, as with any morning coffee lover, one coffee is better than none.
    What is enough? There is no definitive answer to my question, but in asking it, I become more present to this moment, and that feels like enough. Regardless, enough is enough of a word to live with for the rest of the year.

     Most mornings I write what Julia Cameron has named ‘morning pages.’ I open my journal, pick up my pen, record the date and begin writing until I have nothing more I want to say. I then close the journal, never rereading.
      Today, however, I did glance up at two words I had underlined: know and now, noticing their similarity—just one added letter. I had been thinking of knowing as being certain of something deep in my heart more than in my brain--truth, not a fact. Now, as I had written it, referred to being present to the moment I was in.
    For now, here’s my new knowing. It is when we live in the NOW that we KNOW.

       I’m finishing up an article about my fieldtrip to Concord the other day--hope to post in on “A Solitary Traveler” on this blog tomorrow. Julia Cameron’s ‘morning pages’ and her suggestion that we enhance our artist’s way when we take solo fieldtrips once a week, has given me new energy. Bottom line: it’s all about meaning and purpose in life, and these are two ways to do it.
      So, whoever you are, wherever you are, you are an artist. Take time to do what you need to express yourself and feed your creative soul. Write every morning, go off by yourself, even you extroverts.

     Remember Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way published in 2002? Remember the ‘morning pages’?
Julia recently published It’s Never Too Late to Begin Again: Discovering Creativity and Meaning at Midlife and Beyond. In glancing through (not reading) this latest publication I was inspired once again by her brilliant, and yet simple practice of ‘morning pages.’ I ‘did’ them years ago, I’m doing them again.
      First thing in the morning pick up your journal and start writing. Don’t think, don’t plan, just write. Let that stream of consciousness pour out of your pen. Don’t edit; in fact, don’t reread. When you’ve written three pages, close the journal, and go on with your life.
     I’m amazed at what has come to me since beginning this practice five days ago. Amazed at topics: I may be on my way to figuring out how Florence has shaped my life and why I keep returning. Amazed at insights: I meditate with less distraction when I write all about me first.

        The inviting, spacious park of the Art Institute of Florence is my favorite outdoor place to write: cross the Ponte Vecchio, walk by the Pitti Palace and along Via Roma to Porta Roma, and I am there. I’ve blogged about this park before, and posted pictures of people enjoying themselves. Here it all is again: people picnicking, lounging, reading, playing games, biking, walking dogs, napping, chatting, discussing…—the young and old and everyone in between.
      I come to this same city again and again; I visit the same parks, museums and churches again and again; and I eat at the same food at the same restaurants again and again. Yes, I use the word same, but each time, each visit it is different. Sometimes things look different—a building is restored, the menu has changed, the weather varies. And of course, I am different (at least, older). And yet, three longings and satisfactions remain the same: traveling alone; walking around with God; writing.