Random Act Of Kindness

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11
Sometimes while I am outdoors painting, my activity arouses people’s curiosity. In the old quarter of Rutigliano, in a neighborhood of stone streets so small cars cannot enter, I set up my easel and painted. A dozen or so curious people at various times arrived at my side to look. Youngsters especially were unafraid to approach. An old, slow moving, toothless fellow came along and took a pleasurable interest. He spoke but I could not understand, so I said in Italian, “I am an American artist, and can speak a little Italian, but not very well.” Turning to go, he halted and speaking in Italian, asked if I wanted a cigarette. After he was gone, I returned to my painting, and a few moments later he re-appeared and asked if I would like it if he brought some coffee. I said, “yes,” then he disappeared around the corner and five minutes later brought me espresso. For his random act of kindness, I thanked him profusely. He vanished again and I painted in earnest because the sun was moving across the afternoon sky causing the light and shadows to rapidly change so that my subject looked different with each passing moment. Twenty minutes later the fellow came again and strolled up, holding a plastic bag in his wrinkled hand. He opened and held it out, and I saw a pair of used, but nice, Italian leather shoes. Momentarily confused, I wondered what he was doing. The shoes looked about my size, and he pointed to my feet and then put the bag in my hand. Looking up into my face with a smile, he said something. I leaned over and kissed his whiskered cheek, then he shuffled away.

Artist Eyes

This morning before dawn a rooster crowed, setting off a cacophony of barks, howls, chirps and more crowing. Usually I fall back asleep, but this morning I dressed and walked out into the dawning day to watch the sunrise over the sea. The old woman next door was already sweeping the street in front of her house, and a rooster crowed loud and hearty from behind her backyard fence. A dazzling red orb hung over the sea horizon as I arrived, and in the opposite direction, Mt. Etna’s snow covered peaks were turning pink; awash in supernal rose-color hues of dawn light. A few men were already fishing out on the black lava flow, waves crashing in white foam at their feet.

In the afternoon I walked around the old quarter of Acireale. It must be strange for local people to see me in their streets looking so intently at everything. I stop and take pictures of sights that they are accustomed to and barely notice anymore. Like the centuries old, graffiti marked, crumbling, cracking walls. To my artist eyes, the aging walls, color and textures are fascinating and like a big abstract expressionist canvas. Nothing man-made in the United States has this kind of age to it.

An Old Vine

THURSDAY, APRIL 5
This morning I walked along the sea wall to the coffee bar by the tiny harbor. Cappucino is served in a little ceramic cup with a froth of white milk on top. Standing at the counter, I finished it in five minutes. Working men came to the bar, usually ordering espresso’s that are served in even smaller cups. A drink of water is offered first, to wet the mouth, then the espresso goes down in two satisfying sips.

Arriving back at the apartment, the produce man was sitting in his truck out front. I picked out a zuccini squash, but did not need anything more. As I began to pay, he put the squash in my hand, spread his feet, faced me squarely and touched both my shoulders. Then, with a look that said, “ this grand acquisition of your's is not going to make me rich,” he waved me off, touching his fingers to his lips and kissing off, as if to say, “ it is yours, and bon apetito.” It was a bit of a joke for both of us, and I laughed, saying grazie as he climbed back in his truck.
Yesterday I went to Messina in search of the Museo Regionale where a couple of Caravaggio paintings are on exhibit. The drive took 45 minutes to the city limit, then, I had to squirm in traffic snarl. Arriving at the museum, it was chiuso, closed for the day. I thought, this is part of the 15% chaos to be expected along the way. Nonetheless, I did not like having come so far to be denied. Furthermore, the sky was cloudy and occasionally spitting raindrops. Traffic was bad, the streets noisy and not particularly interesting, and I felt I was not accomplishing anything. Frustration grew, and then, serendipitously, I felt a spirit touch me. In the next moment, fresh air flowed into my lungs and with each drink of breath I felt more relaxed and rejuvenated. Grace had come. Standing near a busy market, with the wet, rubbish-strewn street at my feet, an old vine tied to a fence caught my eye. A wisteria was blooming, with pale purple flowers in delicate masses spreading along the railing. The moment I leaned forward to look more closely, I found an incredible fragrance permeated the air. Just the contrast of circumstances was wonderful in itself. In the midst of feeling denied, a reminder of renewal and beautiful life. Grace works without effort.

Struck With Awe

SUNDAY, APRIL 1
At unexpected times, I am struck with awe by the sublime beauty of people. At the Villa Del Casale, several times I was swept into a crush of ebullient teenagers, a high school group on an educational outing. Packed together in the narrow passages, I observed their facial expressions, conversation, dress, manners, etc., but most of all, the incredible uniqueness which made each individual special to the group. The miracle of this!
The other day Giuseppe was in Rome, so he arranged for his younger brother, Mario, to meet me at a park in central Acireale, then take me to their apartment where I could connect my computer to the Internet. As I sat in the car, he arrived on his scooter, and hopping off, he came to my window with a warm, open smile. “Hello, I am Mario, brother of Giuseppe. I take you to our apartment. Follow me.” All in a moment, I could see something quite beautiful and suddenly felt touched by the youthful vigor of the youngster arriving in the midst of the crowded streets, handsome face grinning from under his helmet as he pressed forward to greet me. Without effort, the lightness of being, élan, and beauty infused my consciousness. Silently, I was dumbstruck that an ordinary scene could impress me as so special, and that nobody else noticed.

Letting Go

FRIDAY, MARCH 30
The moments when I am conscious of the presence of grace are mysterious and powerful. Before it happens, ego control must be abandoned, a difficult matter when control is greatly desired. The other day, I took up the task of a 2-hour journey to the center of Sicily, to visit Villa de Casale, a Roman estate of grand proportions built in 3-4 AD. It is famous for its extensive mosaics, well preserved because the place was flooded and encased in mud until only recently when excavations revealed the splendor.
The drive to Catania is a bit hectic, and the city is even more so. The chaotic streets had me desperate to find the highway towards Caltagirone, an inland city which is on the way. I let go of trying. Instead, Spirit would do it—a higher power to make the crooked way straight. I pulled into a busy gas station, then went inside, map in hand. The girl behind the register spoke no English and could not help, so I turned to the young fellow next to me. He said, “I am going there. Please follow me.” The trip out of town was convoluted, and I followed him for about 45 minutes until we came to Caltagirone.
It has happened before, that the first person I approach, a complete stranger, has offered to guide me exactly where I want. Furthermore, it seems a larger hand is at play. When ego is not involved, angels can direct the drama.

Lost and Now Found

MARCH 27
Sometimes my plans collapse as conditions dictate, then other forces come to play and bring possibilities. Today, I anticipated painting early. As I drove with my supplies on the narrow roads through tiny towns, it seemed I was not finding what I wanted, so I kept driving. Soon I was at a town called Zafferana, written about in a travel guide, and stopped at a nice plaza with a baroque styled church as the centerpiece. Going into the church, I was surprised to be the only one within the soaring and ornately decorated interior. Sitting down in a pew, I meditated in the silence, and said prayers. The weather had become colder and grayer going inland into the mountains, making me unsettled and frustrated about painting. The time alone praying refreshed me. Still not knowing exactly where I was going, I drove in the direction of a sign marked Etna. At this point, I gave up my plans so that a bigger force could operate—which took me up into the snow packed south base station of Mt. Etna, the volcano. Driving, I felt a bit doomed to be in cold, drifting layers of fog that obscured the views. Something kept pulling me forward and eventually the road broke through the clouds near the top, into dazzling light. The snow, brilliant white, made an incredible contrast with black lava rock, exposed in places by wind and sun. As I started walking upward, I thought, “how did I get here, and now that I am lost in this foreign landscape, how is it that I am now found?”

The Place In My Heart

FRIDAY, MARCH 23
The weather has been blustery, tempestuous at times. Nonetheless, I venture out, seeking adventure. The Riserva dello Zingaro is about 1/2 hour drive from Bonagia. It is a nature reserve along the northern coast, near the city of Castellmare del Golfo. Despite some rain, I visited and had the blessings of sparkling light and sun as I walked. Along the way was a small path leading to a tiny sand beach among the cliffs. A grotto offered a nice place to sit and watch the waves crash upon rocks. I realized, that whatever the conditions externally, the place in my heart is always safe and secure.
At the end of the day, sitting on the fortress walls of Erice, gazing at the sunset, I realized how impossible it would have been for a companion to have journeyed along. I drove through rain and hail, walked in mud, and never had a convenient toilet so used nature, meandered aimlessly, got lost in unfamiliar towns and often detoured off course to just have a look. Then, at the end of the day, in a silent reverie, I kept going, up to Erice where the cold wind chilled the rocks. But, it was the light that called. The light that I had to see—glistening upon the wet stones of empty labyrynthal ancient streets.
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Segesta

MONDAY, MARCH 19
I almost cried when I found the temple at Segesta after being lost, despairing it was not easier to find. After driving over flat land, the terrain became mountainous, and the hillsides, covered with vineyards, orchards, and masses of flowers was totally distracting. Signs indicated it was not far, then, making a curve on a tree lined drive, suddenly it loomed straight ahead above me. It was if I had found the mystical ship, an ancient vessel set to give me passage into a misty past. Nothing in my American existence could have prepared me for stepping so far back in human civilization. Part of the potency of the immediate impression is the size and beauty of proportion of the temple. It seems a miracle.
The theater, built two centuries later in 3 BC atop a nearby mountain, looks out above the temple site. The row of seats form a steeply inclined semi-circle, viewing the central stage area, with an incredible view over the far reaching landscape behind. It is as if sitting at the throne of the Gods.
In places like Erice and Segesta, it occurs that the ancients, chose not to build in places merely from convenience, but more importantly, for power.

As The Days Unfold

SUNDAY, MARCH 18
As the days unfold, my life follows like a blank empty tablet, being writ upon by an invisible hand. There are no set plans, and decisions come from momentary inclinations.
This morning, Erice beckoned so I returned, driving the long winding road up to the mountaintop. To build a town on this setting was a brilliant consideration. It overlooks every direction so as to dominate the region. The views are breathtaking. Pieced together with stone and mortar like a giant jig-saw puzzle, Erice has been painstakingly woven together—a mosaic tapestry of pure medieval poetry.
Often, I had the streets to myself. Oddly, even the homes lining either side of the narrow passages seemed empty. This Sunday morning, I walked slowly, going inside churches scattered about along the way. At times, it was only Jesus and myself inside. The walls held the prayers of all those before me. I threw mine in with the rest.

Initiation

FRIDAY, MARCH 17 One way to quickly become initiated into Italian life is to drive anywhere. The streets for the most part are narrow, sometimes with barely room for cars to pass. This is why motorcycles and smaller vehicles are the norm (some with only three wheels.) Traffic signals are few and far between, perhaps because they would only make people mad, interrupting the vital flow containing its own irrepressible logic. Most people want to get where they are going as fast as possible. Quickly passing others is a serious game. If you are the least bit slow, forget it. In Palermo, sometimes the streets are entirely clogged with cars and cycles, all within inches of each other. Miraculously, there are no collisions, but then, this is the only rule. Palermo sprawls from the Tyrrhenian Sea upwards into the steep hills and valleys inland. It is the fifth largest city in Italy. When I arrived I had only a faint idea how to get to Monreale, a locale adjacent to Palermo with a famous cathedral. Lost, I parked on a corner and got out to ask directions. Spotting the first person, a swarthy man with stubbly beard and rotted teeth, dressed in work clothes, I asked, “dove Monreale?” He smiled and said, “O di qua, Monreale.” Amazed at my luck that he was going there, I watched him get in his midget car and followed closely behind for a memorable chase through twisting streets, up steep hills and around hairpin turns until my little Fiat, giving all it had up a vertical incline of cobbled stones, spilled out onto a Piazza, where my guide pointed to a grand old cathedral. I waved thanks as he disappeared. From the cathedral are breathtaking views out over Palermo. It is amazing that the soaringwalls were built on a mountain ledge 800 years ago. Inside are stupendous 12th – 13th century mosaics occupying the nave and aisles, choir and transepts. They illustrate scenes from the old and new testament.

Initiation Into The Rhythm

TUESDAY, MARCH 13
Having arrived in Sicily, I am getting quickly acquainted. For initiation into the rythym, every morning, bright and early, a singing sheepherder with his dogs and flock pass by my little house on a hillside. As sun floods in the windows and I step out on the shaded veranda, I look below and see the little town of Bonagia hugging the mountainous coast.
My first painting is at the shipyard, among rotting hulks of old boats lined up on the shore. The view I choose is out across the harbor to a spectacular promontory called Monte Cofano, a mountain that looks like a colossal castle rising from a point jutting into the sea.
Although I finish my painting late in the day, excitement gets the better of me and so I get in my midget car, and race up the winding hills to find Erice. As the road climbs, and the sun sinks, the scenery becomes eerie. With each kilometer, it seems I go further back in time. Wisps of cool fog envelope the rocky slopes dotted with spindly blackened pine trees standing in sparse clusters.
At the top, I park near massive stone walls, older than Christ, that surround the town. It is eerily quiet, except for the occasional laughter of groups of Italian teens on visits from schools. The narrow streets hold the same polished stones from centuries ago, painstakingly placed in attractive patterns between neat rows of stone buildings. No cars are allowed. With my first steps, immediately I want more time to explore, but the sun is now almost set, and I know if I go further into the maze of labyrinthal passages I will be in danger of getting lost—like Alice falling into a rabbit hole of time, and might not get out.