How Easily We forget the Miracles

   It was a steamy June in 2005 when my husband and I went to Italy for ten days. We did Rome, Assisi,  Florence and Cortona, staying in convents along the way. I am sure the side trip to Cortona was inspired by the book, "Under The Tuscan Sun." A wonderful book that created an undeniable urge in me to travel .

 Cortona was as lovely as we had hoped. Cobble stone streets, colorful flags here and there, a Stations of the Cross that went uphill with each new step a station. Living the dream, we had  lunch of cheese, baguette and red wine on the convent patio which overlooked the rolling valley below. Waving Poplars made rows along the empty roads in the valley. Perfect. 

 Somehow, we had learned that there was a 13 th century Franciscan monastery outside of Cortona but in walking distance. Even though the streets of Cortona were very hilly and we were tired, we ventured out looking for Le Celle, which means the cell.

The road was a steep downward path and each step made me anxious thinking about the walk back. When we finally arrived, feet screaming and bodies wasted I declared this: "John, you will just have to get us a taxi for the way back." When did I become a princess? He turned around, jaw clenched and eyes blazing and said: "Exactly how do you propose I do that when there isn't a phone in sight nor do I speak Italian ?." "Well, I said "you will have to figure it out, I can't walk back." He stormed off in one direction, I headed another way and found a church where I could find some peace.

 It was a small chapel , dark and cool and I knelt down and in seconds I heard this: "Walk back." "What, are you kidding,?" I answered to the Voice. Again: "Walk back". Never have I gotten a message that was so opposed to what I wanted. I gave up, murmured: " yes",  left the church and after John and I rambled a bit, said, " let's go back", and headed for the road. With relaxed shoulders and a small smile, he joined me.

We hadn't gone 10 feet when a car pulled up beside us and a gracious grey haired lady asked if we would like a ride back to Cortona. Yes.

 

We Writers Begin Again..

 
Next Wednesday,  the writing group will start another 8 week session. I never am sure who will come but some of the writers that started 6 years ago will be there plus two new people I have heard from who are bravely starting something new. 

 I recall the first meeting : who will come? Will I be sitting here alone in the room? Who am I to do this?

Some snippets from the first 5 years:

... a smiling woman I had never met walks through the door. She glows. She exudes God's love. She will be there this time again and she will help me. 

...our website blog keeps us connected through the sessions. I learned how to put it together because my daughter gave me a birthday gift of a day long session with a website guru. It felt like first grade again. Will they like an old lady? My daughter and my husband walked me to my class downtown and we had lunch after. I remember feeling so happy to have done this and to be with them.

...we have a volunteer who sends out caring notes to absent members just to let them knowing we are missing them. She will soon start a book exchange in the group. A brand new idea !

...we have four distant writers from as far away as South Africa, India and Texas who will read the assignment, send their story by e-mail , have it shared in the group and get feedback. They are part of us. Amazing.

These are the gifts we offer to each other: uninterrupted listening, only positive feedback, total acceptance with no judgement. Those words warm my heart.

Not everything offered as a writing assignment is greeted with wide open arms. The day we began writing haiku, the groans were heard in Atlanta." I can't write poetry." "What, only 15 syllables?" "We're going outside?" Now, some of those same resistors think in haiku and offer them as gifts to friends. Wonderful.

 I could write forever about this experience, this writing group,  given as a gift from God's hands to a person who was not a published author but who loved writing. Who saw the value of gaining clarity by putting it on paper. Soon, I will sit again with people who will write about a miniature orchestra at the beach  led by a crab with a baton. Or a grandma who made biscuits and saved a life. Or a whistle that reminds one of a Papa who played music through his fingers. Who can put a price on this ?