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Van

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Van

But at times that fear...that irrational fear of living todays with tomorrows while dreaming of yesterdays.

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Van

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Van

And I rejoice at the vivid dream of walking my favorite 'Villa Fiorita' on the way back home.

Such an enchanting place of my days and nights...a favorite meeting place with friends…the starting point of so many magic evenings in small groups of 'guys and girls'…living a dream.

But it is in the depth of the night that I rediscover the silence of my thoughts and golden memories - in the dark, with only a dim pearly shine _ filtering through the windows.

A silver glimmer creating ghostly figures in between the room's furniture pieces….shadows that seems to have a life, movement and emotions.

I find myself awake; sitting on the bed _ vanished sleep_ I look around … the night sharpens the sensations...my eyes are wide open.

The self analysis of the soul, the awakening, typical of the night, and maybe the unique opportunity of being totally alone with a circumspect self.

It is the deepest of the depth of the night…late enough to have forgotten yesterday's events…too early to think of those of tomorrow.

I feel in limbo, suspended on the moon rays' swing, rocked by a thousand rustlings and noises from the house and the garden outside bordering the railroad tracks.

A magical and strange sensation, all seems frozen still; I hear the deep breathing of someone dear…the slight snore of my dog and the absolute silence of my cat.

A house in the night…so noisy in the dark silence that deafens…squeakiness…sensations…

black and white flickers alternating and mixing with the galloping of my thoughts that fill with memories, hopes, and emotions.

It seems yesterday but shortly it will be a tomorrow of a life lived in the good and the bad…of an existence rich of experiences and mistakes.

In a few hours normal existence will take over, these moments of reflections shall remain only a sweet memory.

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Van

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Van

It has been some years I haven't been back to my 'old places'_ when I return- I wish it at the earliest- I will go to my ancestral home that is now so much 'alone' …but still on that charming land adjacent to the old railroad station _ a pistol shot from the Mediterranean sea, that so many times I have run to jump into the ocean.

I will remain there an indefinite time…always indefinite and insensible…who can measure it?

And maybe I'll see the leaves of the chestnut and lemon trees of the old garden _ rock in the summer wind _the ancient pomegranate tree with its red fruits.

I will hold, clenched in my hands, the acorns picked up at the foot of the oak tree _

I shall remain gazing at the sea, that aging sea of my childhood, that in living its own life…I know that, in the long wait _ is no longer the same sea of my earlier days.

I shall see in the house, the old furniture, the old things, the old rooms and their own silence that we left unattended that day we left in tears and hopes.

And _ All will lead me in a trip back in time through landscapes and people_ live remembrances of stories and sights.

My mother, a sad countenance of coastal woman, introverted and taciturn, would recount with sparse words_ her childhood's facts and happenings.

Her stories almost always had, as protagonists, female figures of her land _ relived later in our lives, having so become unforgettable creatures.

All her memories introduced her children into a universe chock full of mysteries_ a woman able of giving of herself _ and loving in silence and to put up with the worries of our future.

I always thought that, despite her fragility, she was a courageous and determined woman _ protected in the circle of the best values of life.

Every time I feel tired and discouraged, it is so sweet to have the knowledge that these memories still exist, that they live to sustain us, and to help in silence, to cancel out the weariness of the soul.

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Van

I often wonder if old ancestral homes have a life of their own as every square foot becomes totally impregnated with the feelings of their families in residence _through time.

Joy
Sadness
Fear
Anger
Disappointment
Optimism
Remorse
Love
Aggression
Envy
Jealousy
Glumness
Unhappiness
Grief
Sorrow
Woe
Misery
Melancholy

the list is too long to complete.

It is truly amazing that more homes don’t collapse under the weight of the emotions families leave imprinted on their walls.

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Van

And at times the reflections come in as rolling soft waves from the ocean mixing with the sighs of the mountains preparing to bed down for the night_ while shedding slow tears of dew.

The first 18 years of my life found me living in a tourist town kissed by the Mediterrenean sea to the west and in the lap of mountain jewels to the east... my old town...the Summer playground of the Roman Empire.

I had the the sea and the mountains in my sights, sounds _ and smells every day, with every season and every temperature, and I loved them both the same...though most of my time was spent on soccer fields and at seaside ... crewing about in competition rowing shells.



Those who had left town and came back to visit, all tell the same story as mine:

How everytime I return I am surprised at all my friends and people I knew _ I had left behind _had continued in their lives moving forward without me in their midst, my school friends having married ...now with children, and the dismay at running into familiar faces on the streets and not being able to remember their names.

My being bothered at hearing that I had lost the accent of my home town, sounding like a foreigner.

It is so strange, it seems, that most of the anticipated questions about my life in a different land from the old friends I do reconnect with...never materialize...

...almost as though we have nothing to say ...and with the 'friends of always' having become with time a mix of memories of affections...and nothing more.


So many things have changed...there are new street names, new buildings, new stores, my beloved railroad station losing a number of railbeds up close to my old house and the space having been turned into pay for parking lots...the center of town invaded by pedestrian zones encircled by cars and scooters...

So many of the people I knew having shifted their love of soccer for basket ball ???

During Summer, there had been groups of friends on the beaches at night cavorting around lit bonfires...some would play instruments and sing...while others were busy falling in love and flirting....now the beaches are almost as black as the sea in the dark of the evening.

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Van

Many other things have remained identical...the facade of my old house still with the patina of time immemorial upon it...not freshened by a paint job...as though it would be sacrilegious to erase the imprint of ancestry.

The sections of the 'antique centre' of town...still the same...old stores still remaining under the old names...the same tantalizing looks and smells of fresh baked bread and pastries....mixing with the 'aroma' of fresh whole fish for sale packed in ice cubes...and the scent of pizzerias at every block....

the milling crowds of young people in the villa along the promenade, marveling at their youthful behavior in a land of dreams.

Everytime it is strange in returning, feeling that nothing more is the same, that even I _ am different...

nevertheless...when I feel pervaded by this 'uprooting' _ I begin to recede to the first 18 years of my life, and my memories are so vivid and emotional that for an instant I delude that nothing can ever change as long as I can keep it all very bright and clear in the deepest part of me.

Beyond that, I can affirm to my old friends that I have found my place in this world that is somewhere else, far from my old beloved town.

That....It is the way it went...It was the way it had to go...my origins and my golden memories I carry inside of me forever.

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Van

There were times in my father's old house, usually in the very depth of the night, that I, as a child, would awaken by strange noises in the tenebrous confines of my bedroom, cowering in fear of non descript invaders lurking about, or maybe ghosts of generations past__ feeling a need to return to their joyous place of abode and 'checking out' the new family arrivals.

Was I dreaming those noises?

But my terror was real. I would draw the sheets and blankets over my head and lay there not moving a muscle and barely breathing.

I could swear there was someone or something in the room next to my bed staring at me. I have heard some fearful sounds just outside my bedroom…afraid to even call out to my parents for help…frozen into immobility under the sheets until sleep mercifully would come to the rescue.

But were they ghosts or real people?

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Van

In dreams past, I have seen doors that were never there before, secret passages, new rooms never explored.

And in the dreams I recall being happy because the house was then revealing itself to me in ways never before known... even as I remained disturbed by the fact that I never did discover before _ and wondering if my parents knowing of them _ kept them concealed from me, and if so, what secrets did those rooms and spaces hide behind those doors?

Yet … happy because I then knew that my returning there over and over was guaranteed either in person or in my dreams to try to find the elusive answers.

A house, in particular an ancestral house, in which we are born and raised, represents a symbol of the self and of the soul…our past identity.

As in a human being, an ancestral home hides the dark sides that cause anxieties and fears….the lights and shadows of human beings.

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Van

Then in my dreams I often wondered what was my preferred room or place of the house…we all seem to have a preference for that special place.

Often I would wonder if it wasn't my garden flanking the railway, itself a transporter of dreams and mysteries.

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Van

My 'Garden of words' _ because it was in this garden that I have shed tears and confided my youthful secrets…often screaming of my hopes, my dreams, my fears, at the great Oak tree towering in its corner.

The tree that heard and keeps locked in it's heart my childhood goodbyes as I was at the end of a 'time' of my life and closing the door to travel across the ocean in hopes of a better future.

It was in my 'Garden of words' that I had created my unique personal place where my name or social stand did not count.

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Van

My 'Garden of words' has always been the reign of my emotions and my most hidden thoughts.

I am packing my suitcases and I must leave my past at my shoulders, but with a sense of gratitude. The great Oak tree has been very critical in showing me sides of my character that I wouldn't have otherwise known.

It could have killed me once, but mercifully it had spared my life and limb.

I leave you, my great oak friend, with a smile and a hug, thank you for the lessons of life, I am not so sure where I will end up, I will stumble often during the trip, I will make more mistakes than most others, but I will believe in myself, in my visions, in my dreams_ that up until now have given me the strength to keep fighting and start over.

You will remain here for lifetimes to come, I will hear your calling, and I shall return to you again if even in my words and dreams. So long.

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Van