Beth Cassini: In My Monet: The art of doing nothing

One year ago, I was sipping a delicate cappucino and toasting Lake Como. I was sitting on an iron cafe chair with my husband beside me, having just loudly drained every ounce of elegance from the Italian language by trying to roll my Rs (that instead skidded into the back of my teeth), and together we took a long moment to appreciate our surroundings. The lake was mysteriously foggy, the air was moist, birds and waterfalls and waiters filled our ears with carefree melody, soothing rhythms, and the romanticism of a well spoken word. "Are you finished, Miss?" sounded like "Let me tell you about passion." to me. To Nick, it sounded like "Let me take your plate." Luckily for me, Nick answered for the group the majority of the time and therefore my imagination could go wild, equating his Italian words to my English wishes, leaving me pretty satisfied and freshly in love.

Today, I am sipping ridiculously strong coffee whisked with French Vanilla Soy Creamer in a mug the size of a crater. Its side kick is a 1.5 liter bottle of water. My view is of tree tops outside of shutters. Being indoors is a sweet escape from the sweltering heat and humidity. I don't mind it right now, but I succumb to the fact that every inch of my body will be dripping with sweat and my lungs will feel as though the breath isn't bringing air- 100 degree and humid air often makes me feel that I've just walked into a steamed wet wash cloth and tried to inhale. As unpleasant as that sounds, that is my upbringing. South Georgia is hot; it's humid; it's buggy; and it is where I was born and raised. Atlanta is easier. I hear children yelling and playing outside in the neighborhood pool and a narrarator on television is telling me about Indian elephants and their habitat- the Secrets of Wild India.

The difference in a moment a year's distance apart is no small thing.

I am happy just the same. :)

My mom's dad supplied her with a valuable currency in life. Decision. "You're as happy as you want to be." It is the saying I most remember from childhood. The next, "Everything happens for a reason." The latter, I find, depends on the one before. A happy person can find a positive meaning in anything.

So, the next best thing to having known a grandfather is having the words they choose to leave behind. And the few pieces he brought back from his time in WW2 aren't so shabby either. Somehow he supplied my mom, Paige and me with pearl necklaces that are as different as our personalities. He never knew his grandchildren, so this feels supernatural. Mine, for instance, is a shorter length necklace with a larger, dynamic pearl in the center, with the rest only gradually tapering in size to the back of my neck. My sister's is a beautifully traditional strand, longer and showcasing an obvious gradient to the center and back. The difference between the two fits us. My grandfather had elegant taste in artistic matters. He possessed creative skills like playing the violin, banjo and guitar. He carved and welded, and he appreciated wilderness. When his family tells my mom they see him in me, I like that. Because aside from favoring him physically in this way or that, I appreciate knowing he was an individual and did things the way he wanted instead of conforming. A Michigan man stuck in Mississippi- he didn't implode. Withstanding the sort of pressure that can come in regional displacement, especially in that era, oooohweee! He must have had a strong sense of his spiritual self and the confidence to follow through. "Give me some of that!"... and the pearl necklace. Thank you, sir!

My Nicholas must feel that displacement sometimes. When I sit here and think back to a year ago, wandering the stone paths in Como and breathing in the Renaissance air of Florence, imagining my view of the moon in the midnight sky being similiar to the view of those who are now likened in the statues towering above the city streets. I can understand why he would miss that authenticity. I miss it and I only glimpse it for slivers of time. It is weaved into his character like cotton fields are weaved into mine. Italy has this culture that is so favored and so natural that its essence is man's essence and it never leaves. That could all be bullshit too. I'm going with it tonight, though. Considering my life revolves around garlic, tomatoes, and olive oil it resonates with me. Olive oil, for goodness sake, is consumed as quickly as water in this home. Basil- well, basil is my love affair. I'm the one sprinkling a basil leaf on everything.

My mom is super pissed that I haven't posted my photos from last year's trip after all this time. I think that it's time I do that. She has been wanting to savor them. I could use a refresher too. Can one see David too many times? Can one really tire of the Tuscan country side, ancient stone villages, or an Italian dish? Probably not. Not this Georgia girl.

l'arte di non fare niente. The art of doing nothing.

Does this have to be practiced? Yes. I think so. Because it is an art, indeed. It isn't about doing, it is about being. Take an action away from a person and see what happens. Discomfort. Fidgeting. It looks like people are trying to escape something or avoid something- and we probably are. We are trying to escape ourselves, trying to avoid life. Just being is something Italy allows and it feels so light. I think maybe this is why enlightenment landed in Italy's lap. To just be feels like discovery of the infinite. When I plopped back into The Land of Doing, the energy felt encapsulating. In a way it invigorates and in a way it feels like regression. It actually feels like a waste of energy because what we are searching for in doing is what is found by just being.

yada yada.

That should be my blog's name- yada yada, blab blab.

The art of blabbing.

Here are some pictures:
Our first day in Como~