Jeremiah's Journey - 8: "Give Me Wings"

We walked through the vineyard of generations past, Adelina’s heritage growing on the vine. Trees bursting with olives flourished. I am Jeremiah, and I am on a quest to find what I am searching.

It has been seven days and nights, and I have found no rest. The fountain of words will not stop, but I, as a writer, know that I must pen the flow of ink until it runs dry. As a painter of words, I will not stop until the portrait is complete. A burnt out cigarette dangles from my lips. I forgot it was there. The keystrokes continue, the cat scratches with its nails. Stop it! You annoy me! Yet, it is their life of preparation, who know what the next moment will bring?

“Vuoi ballare con me stasera?” Will you dance with me tonight?

Was this an invitation to draw me closer to her? Dancing is an act of love. The embrace, the steps, the movement synchronized with the music, flesh so close, only the fabric of what we wear holds us back. I dare not think of what lay beneath.

“I would love to.” That was all I could say. A flow of emotions coursed through my heart, dormant for so many years. My last dance, oh, how it has been so long.

“The musicians will play on the patio overlooking the vineyard, rolling hills of succulent grapes. They are ripe for picking. Vuoi camminare con me oggi?” Will you walk with me today?

I imagined the walk, her pulling a grape from the cluster, placing it in my mouth like she did with the hot, steamy bread. How did this happen? A rose of love invited her into my heart. I did not know Adelina, a bicycle babe that rested in the seat in the corner of the patio café. Generations of the family she knew; I did not. Yes, I have a family, and generations of it, but the cuffs of control bound the flow of the freedom of love. Why do they not give me wings?

“Follow you wherever you go.” The words I spoke struck me. My heart flowed a paragraph, but my mouth could utter only the essence. That is best, Jeremiah, keep it simple, you are a complicated one.

“Come, my father is pruning the vines. I want you to meet him.”

A sudden impasse, like a collision course into a wall, my heart stopped. Why should I meet your father? What is he like? Multitudes of thought overloaded my mind. How had I gotten this far? Meeting family meant future.

I was here to write for what I was searching, not to find it.

Jeremiah's Journey – 8: "Give Me Wings”
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

More Inspirational Reads @ Revelation7Strong.blogspot.com

The series of episodes of Jeremiah’s Journey begin with “Rose Are For Lovers” published on this blog. Follow me on Facebook @ Jeff Cambridge and join the fans of Jeremiah by subscribing to my blog.

Jeremiah's Journey - 7: "The Heart of a Writer"

What does the villa of a writer look like? I am living in the region of Tuscany, Italy for the spring season. I, Jeremiah, am on a quest to find what I am searching.

Strewn clothes on the floor of my bedroom. Weeks of the daily news, although Italian, I cannot read, but the pictures tell the story. The plate with remnants of dinner left on the table. Sink filled with dishes crying to be cleaned, crusty afterthoughts of what was left behind. Ashtray of half-burnt cigarettes, a reminder that a writer’s mind is distracted by thought and visions. Cups half-filled with cold coffee, needing a hot, fresh brew. Hats tossed about, which should I wear? My hat displays the ambiance of my mood. Am I a cowboy or an aristocratic gentleman, maybe a Harley biker or a baseball fanatic? Jams; a writer has a selection of jams, and slippers to warm the feet. Unshaven, disheveled, an author does not care. If time stopped, a writer would continue. There is no stopping the fountain of words.

Cats tussle on the porch. Are they no different than people? They live in fluffy peace, licking their fur, bathing in the sun. Cats caress each other, holding themselves together in cuddly love. Then, they tussle and scatter. Control, it’s all about encroaching on one’s space. You’re too close; get away! Come closer; I haven’t seen you in awhile. Are we not like cats?

“Buongiorno amore mio.” Good morning, my love.

Coffee. I need a strong brew of Italian coffee. Lavazza Gran Selezione is my favorite, a dark roast, intense and chocolaty. Hemmingway was like this. He danced back and forth like a pinball. I read his last work, published posthumous, The Garden of Eden. The main character married a girl who cut her hair like that of a boy. She had an affair with a woman that had an affair with him. He wrote of elephants in India or Africa, wherever elephants live. He wrote from dawn to mid-morning and then began his leisurely day with a glass of wine or a cocktail. He never read the literary critics’ reviews. She collected them and read him the good ones. A writer needs encouragement. Opening the heart for others to see what is hidden, vulnerability and honesty, the devil will slay.

What does the heart of a writer look like? Like his villa, a messy place in which to live, he opens the door for the world to see. He has no choice, he has no fences, and he has no care. Whatever hat he is wearing is who he is at the moment. As a singer or a painter, he shows his melody and colors. Words are like chords of music, a palette on which to mix with the brushstroke of a pen. How vulnerable is the musician on stage? Will the audience like her music; will the gallery lookers pause at her paintings?

“Good morning, Adelina.” I was lost in the words of her greeting. We hold closed our hearts in America. Italians freely express themselves. Maybe that’s why they live longer?

“I slept well, and you?”

I have told you, my readers, of my fitful night, waking in the twilight of the moon, no coffee to brew. Words were flowing, the dam could not hold back.

“No.” I was honest. Her heart was open to me, and I have no fences.

“Qual è il tuo cuore, il mio amore?” What is on your heart, my love?

On my heart? She didn’t say “on my mind.” In America, we are focused on the mind; here in the heartland of love and living life without prejudice of thought, Italians are concerned with the heart.

“You.” One word from my heart distilled a paragraph of words.

“I like that.”

Web of love, I am captured within,

Why the hold of your grasp?

When we are without,

Freedom to move,

Now I find a soothing embrace

That will comfort

All that was lost.

Jeremiah's Journey – 7: "The Heart of a Writer”
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

More Inspirational Reads @ Revelation7Strong.blogspot.com

The series of episodes of Jeremiah’s Journey begin with “Rose Are For Lovers” published on this blog. Follow me on Facebook @ Jeff Cambridge and join the fans of Jeremiah by subscribing to my blog.

Jeremiah's Journey - 6: "There Are No Fences"

I traced the thread of thoughts sewn into the fabric of my mind − Jeremiah’s. Dendrites and synapses, reservoirs of neurotransmitters release in synchronous melody adrenaline, noradrenaline, dopamine, and serotonin, GABA, acetylcholine, glutamate, and endorphins. A symphony is playing, one hundred musicians and vocalists performing a ballad composed forty-five years ago in tribute to four rock musicians that defined a stairway to heaven, not in a spiritual sense, but of the world.

In the silvery solitude of night, I found my way to the kitchen of the villa rented for the spring in Tuscany to write the story of finding what I was searching. I will steep some tea, or is the brew of coffee? No, bedtime tea, I should sleep; it is night, and I am to bed at night. No, the aroma of the soils in which the beans received their sustenance, that will be the aphrodisiac of my senses, not the refined leaves of aristocratic political correctness. The creative right hemisphere of my brain was taking over and elbowed the logical left out of the way. I have a balanced mind, yet there can be only one cook in the kitchen.

Pouring the filtered water in the cup, I timed the microwave for the precise time to heat to 80 degrees centigrade. I am in Europe, and they think differently here. Fahrenheit and feet, pounds and inches, why so complicated? Kilos and meters and centigrade degrees, there is the logic. Left was trying to gain a foothold but right would have none of it. The thread of yesterday, a blend of afternoon, evening, and night, what do I call it? Yesterfield? Yes, yesterfield is a field of dreams that defy time. It’s not a word, left says. Right intervenes and cuts in the line of my thoughts. I make of my mind what makes sense, forbidding all rules.

The seconds counted down. Thank God there are not two means of computing time. Left and right agree on this one, there is only one way to calculate time. The microwave shuts down; the digital clock goes dark, and the fish tank pump is silent. What time is it? Does it matter? Blackout. I thought of World War II, but no sirens are screaming. How was I to know what that must have felt like? I am Generation X, and Vietnam was on the other side of the world with its jungles, snakes, Agent Orange, and guerilla warfare. No power, no coffee − that was my dilemma. What does a writer do? Candlelight and pen and paper, a glass of wine to open the damn of words that filled the lake of thoughts throughout my dreams.

Writers have no rules. There are no fences. I express feelings and thoughts like a spigot of water. There are no barriers for water. It finds its way and breaks down boundaries, seeping in the crevices, flowing over the dam, water will find its way out; there’s no stopping it. And so, the creative right of my mind takes over, and logical left remains to sulk in the corner, pouting.

Adelina is on my mind and poetic timber dances. We were on the bridge − Ponte Vecchio − Oh, how I love Italian names! She caressed the padlocks of love, the symbol that love will never end. I saw it as bondage. Love should flow freely as the river beneath us, no dam of circumstances to halt it. Love is like water; it will find its way.

Window of soul what do you show?

Stone or tenderness, I will know.

Steely eyes or a tunnel to explore?

One is a wall, the other a door,

Open to your heart of love.

Her eyes drew me into her soul. I had just met her, the rose the key to the lock of her heart that opened to the meadow of tall grasses that sway in the wind, two chasing butterflies fluttering without worry. Here there, there here, wherever the scent of attraction.

Should hearts flutter such as this?

Jeremiah's Journey – 6: "There Are No Fences”
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

More Inspirational Reads @ Revelation7Strong.blogspot.com

Jeremiah's Journey - 5: "Legend of Lovers"

The sweet smell of rain, the bouquet of tree blossoms that shaded the patio of the outdoor café burst with floral fragrance as the downpour that burst upon the clinking of our wine glasses ended just as suddenly. It was like applause from heaven, the roar of raindrop patter upon the metal roof. Adelina’s smile captivated my thoughts. Why am I, Jeremiah, blessed with this young, Italian lady who befriended me?

I questioned not the why any longer and wondered about how encounters with people are so precise. Then, I remembered. I was on a quest to find, that which is not mine to discover. What is buried in my heart is companionship. For what am I searching, and what do I immediately find? God has a sovereign way of moving us from where we are to where He wants us to be without us realizing it. I ask for one thing and get another, yet both are on my list of desires. Could it be that having both is not His will, not in His plan for my calling?

The bottle of Montecarlo Red was empty.

“Let’s walk upon the piazza, down the cobblestone alleys to the waters edge.”

“Water’s edge? We are far from the Mediterranean.”

“Sciocco americano . Lasci che io le faccia da guida. Silly American. Let me be your guide. The river Arno. We will walk to Ponte Vecchio, the Medieval Bridge where the legend of Ponte Vecchio and its padlock of love continues today. We missed the sunset there today, but chissà cosa accadrà domani?

“Ahh, domani…tomorrow.”

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Non rimandare a domani quello che puoi fare oggi. Do not put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

“Let’s go, but first I must pay for our dinner and wine.”

“Per favore, se me lo permette , ho preso cura di lui. Please, if you will allow me, I have taken care of it. Our vineyard supplies the wine and olive oil at this café. We are welcome anytime to bring our family and friends.”

Stunned, I recalled the girl laying the rose on her table. How could such a small gesture lead to this growing friendship? She took my hand as we walked the piazza. The moon lifted off the horizon, full and majestic, its silvery glow lighting the way. I was in Neverland. Is this what it is like to surrender completely to God’s will? I began the New Year with fasting and praying for His cup filled with His will for my life. I encountered a vicious battle for my soul, tumbling me into my past. The web, its sticky strands of bondage encased me like a cocoon. “Move on. Move on. Move on.” These words woke me at the dawn of each day. I had to break from the dark side of the moon to be reborn with the Morning Star. And here I am in Tuscany, no longer searching for someone else’s lost father. I have found the Father to whom I belong. I asked for one thing; He gave me another.

Hand in hand we approached Ponte Vecchio, it’s amber light reflecting from the placid water that flowed below. We were at the Legend of Lovers.

“Legend has it that if you and your loved one attach a padlock to any surface of the famous bridge and then throw away the key into the Arno River below, your love will last forever,” Adelina offered as we crossed the ancient bridge.

Am I dreaming? Will I wake from this surreal friendship and find myself alone again? I paused at the apex of the bridge and looked out upon the glowing water. She nestled her head in the crook of my shoulder.

“Peace be with you Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah's Journey – 5: "Legend of Lovers” 

Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

Jeremiah's Journey - 4: "Rising From The Ashes"

Eyes dazzling with my new encounter, her eyes, yet mine reflected the same. What is the connection? She rode across the piazza on her bicycle. I offered a rose. She’s at my café table, sipping wine from a bottle of Montecarlo Red from her family’s vineyard. Tuscan bread drizzled with olive oil from the grove that her great-great-grandfather planted two centuries ago. The grapes and olives encapsulated time as I absorbed her essence of Italian heritage, a family rooted and prosperous. Where had my life gone wrong? Or was the passage to this moment meant to start a seed that would flourish in my life. I did not know. My dear friend Christina was in search of her father, and I was on a quest to find a father that was not my own. I questioned this. Pondered it over and over. Why am I searching for someone else’s father? Why not my own?

“Would you like the Tuscan tomato bread soup with steamed mussels? There are many versions of bread soup. This one, based on traditional peasant fare, is as thick as a bread pudding. The soup is delicious on its own, but we think the steamed mussels with their broth make a wonderful addition.”

“Peasant? You appear as no peasant.”

“Ha! We live simple, but we are rich. It is in the heart that we are blessed. My family has endured hard times. The grove lost to the blight, yet a root saved, the heartiest of them all. Life can seem to destroy us, but if we have faith, we will rise from the ashes.”

I sat back in my chair. I wanted a cigarette. Her words pulled a thread from my heart. I was deep in the ashes of my life. I fled, and my excuse was to find a friends father, but for what was I searching?

“I want whatever you desire.” I was already acquiescing to her lead. She had a spell on me. What do I mean by that? She mesmerized me. She looked into my eyes, and my heart melted. Gone were the chains of my past, and I was free to venture wherever she would take me.

“Then let’s add piadina with fontina and prosciutto, to start our evening. There is no rush. Lo amerai! You will love it! "Piadini is a lot like a pizza, except that the crust doesn't rise and it's typically cooked on a grill to give it a nice, smoky flavor and crunchy crust. You can top a piadina with anything you like. This sauce is very typical of northern Italy, where piadini are especially popular. We have the night to explore. Tell me more, why are you here. You said you write, but why and about what?”

Lost for words. I stumbled to express myself like walking on a path strewn with loose stones. My confidence diminished with the sun setting on the horizon. It would be dark soon, and the night would begin. Oh, how the lowering of light changes the ambiance. The heat of the day turned cool as a breeze from the surrounding mountains layered the valley.

“A toast to your new writing in Italy. Quali parole sono nel tuo cuore, in questo momento? What words are in your heart now?”

Then, like a scepter anointing a knight, I found myself.

The rose of my calling,

Who should receive?

You that broke the day into light?

Hither I tinge, at the thought of you.

Yet, you exude the prominence of a queen,

Bubbly excitement, I cannot withhold,

I write about that which is before me.”

She raised her glass of wine for a toast. The crystal touched, the wine shimmered, the night had begun, the moonlight glimmered.

"Jeremiah's Journey - 4: Rising From The Ashes"

Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge