The weeds at San Giovenale’s garden have been mowed into a lawn. I have mixed feelings about that. On one hand, the field couldn’t be allowed to turn into a forest. On the other hand, it was beautiful all shaggy and loose, and wildflowers would have soon followed. But one of the garden’s functions is a dog park, and foxtails don’t go well with dog fur. If I’m allowed three hands – on the third hand, there is something reassuring about a mowed meadow. The civilized world may look like it’s falling apart, but someone still cares enough to mow the weeds.
And my neighbors still care enough to line the lane with flowers.
And my friend Pat in Pennsylvania cares enough to practice the piano.
And Roy cared enough to list of series of apartments that may be worth looking into, while waiting in line to enter the supermarket.
And friend Catherine checked online for ground floor rentals in Orvieto, maybe for herself and incidentally for me, but that’s irrelevant, she has the courage to exhibit hope.
Sam works on videos on Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Frank writes his own loopy sonnets, and copies his friends.
Lynne snaps astounding photos from her wheelchair.
Jeff, working at home in his family’s Astoria apartment, barely large enough for him, Megan, and their kids Josie and Tucker, washes his keys when he comes in from errands.
Ida called, concerned when she heard I wanted to move.
Claudia called to let me know that she continues to seek appointments for both of us with la dotteressa, who promises to see us as soon as her own back pain releases her attention.
Alessandro scheduled to give me a haircut a week from Monday and Michele a shiatsu, next Wednesday — both after too long a pause.
Rachel will show me an apartment I can take on a weekend trial, a bit early so that Lucky can clean my house, so the Massimo can show it next week to prospective renters.
All these casual connections and hopeful actions – and that I have so taken for granted for all of my life, really – suddenly represent the real world, the thing that despite markets and crazy politicians and personal ambitions, will keep the human experiment going long enough for it to recover.
Erika writes me almost daily notes, recording her thoughts and appreciations.
Maria, who because she lives in the country I have begun to call “The Lady of the Woods” sends regular greetings by WhatsApp from just beyond the cliffside vista.
Dan, who suffers from the effects of a brain injury, emails with updates on his brain, but also on his Long Island community, and reminds me what real courage is.
Chuck doesn’t often write, but we’ve known each other for fifty-five years, so he doesn’t need to.
Ed and I keep the characters of Lord Chem and his ridiculous cousin Dizzy alive in sequential letters about the difficulties of maintaining a good household staff in his three-room apartment in Elmhurst Queens, as red zones rage around him.
David calls and we discuss life in rural Pennsylvania.
Greg and Denise call and we discuss our longings for each other’s company, not yet satisfied after forty years friendship.
Gianna calls and we discuss everything.
And backstage, as it were, tens of thousands of others support these little acts of hope, and charity, and faith, with their own little acts of similar design, and it is that infinite network that allows me to list some (just some) of the people who are dear to me, and the things that make them so. It also allows – that network – for others dear to read my scribblings.
Giancarlo makes me a strudel for old times’ sake, and Renzo and Patrizia enjoy half of it for dinner.
Marilyn in Italy wants to organize a lunch party in Lubriano, someday.
So does Victoria, but in Montecchio.
Marilyn in Clarks Summit wants to organize a virtual book club.
From beyond the Great Divide, all my relatives who have leapt that chasm send me dreams and daydreams wrapped in hope.
So the field is mown, and a bit of rain may perk up a few of the municipal flowers. But what I really hope is that someone goes out with a pitcher and a fork and puts some life into those flowers, deliberately.