Notes From the In Between
Not a memory that sits in a cell of skin on your arm which is always there crying out to you ‘remember me’ when the scent of a particular rose is enjoyed. Nor the memory of pain — which is hidden deeper in the flesh. More near the heart where the blood is cleaned and recycled. Beating a rhythm of life undetected and, often, unrecognized or acknowledged.
“Gentle, gentle” the memory whispers, and it is familiar even within its own unique, never-heard-before voice. It is quiet and, yet, so truly intimate that you know, you just know it must be yours. Yet you have no recollection of the date of its birth. Of the moment it took root and held fast among the undergrowth of your daily comings and goings.
But here it is. Like luce — like light. Gentle as a reminder of who you are. And, as unexpected, as uninvited — always present. So much so that you barely notice — until it draws attention to itself in its own glory. Until, like the dawn, like the early evening sleep come upon our day, like the bacci of luce on fiore caught at a glance as you ride through known territory — you can not deny it is here. For you. Only for you.
“Gentle, gentle” glistens like a newly polished gem placed in the only setting possibly worthy of it. Like the steps taken through cobblestone streets and alleys offering discoveries at every breath, at every click of your known heels on unknown territory so new to you it is yours entirely. It is a whisper as pure as the smile on the shopkeeper who wraps your gift with so much pride that tears leave your eyes to have witnessed it.
To have witnessed — to have shared. To have tasted and been tasted.
To have seen and been seen. Gentle and gentle more. There is no going back when doors — crafted, textured doors — are opened warmly with a smile and you are enveloped by this sensation — lost in it to be found. And you have been opened — again. And, for the very, very first time.
For the FIRST time life has a voice. It’s own, particular sound which tastes luscious in the mouth — soft and creamy with a lacing of cioccolate and liquor gently mixed and molded and placed at YOUR table on YOUR plate to lift YOUR fork this night to savor — surprisingly, giving over — to the most delisioso tiramisu ever-made-only-made-for-you.
“Gentle, gentle” is yet so quiet you don’t hear the words –not these words, not yet. But kindness has arrived and, with no desire to leave, opened its heart to you as a mirror saying “see! see!” This is what is. Quietly, of course, as revered as the hall of Santa Croce and as small as a mouse as delicate as God, she greets you there among the greatness. You find her because you do. She is going nowhere, she is ever present. And you have found her.
It is a kindness to bring her home — in so many forms. To bring her to the place you reside and sit with her among the familiars. A self-kindness which resonates and is new, like she is. And everlasting as is she. “Bella, Bella” is a good word for your heart to sing daily.
“Gentle. Gentle” I recall, I remember gentle and gentle and gentle more.
very good!