Montepulciano

This morning I am reminded of the saying,
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away.”
I dreamt of sickness - friends and family – and was concerned about real or perceived threats.
There was this dent in my forehead that forms when there is concern.
I hate when I see it and must acknowledge a troubled sleep.
I awaken unusually early to this bright blue sky covered in pink, infinite trees and church bells ringing.
I think of the people I know in the world, and even those I don’t.
I wonder if they will ever have the pleasure of waking up in Italy to the sound of church bells ringing,
and to the vast sky strewn with wisps of pink in those precious moments before the sun reaches over the hill stealing away the night.
It has been raining for almost a week, and the smell of the earth rises headily out of the ground.
I am reminded of the truffles, white and black, and the mushrooms that I have eaten over the last month from Northern France to Southern Italy.
We have traveled many, many miles – by car and by bike, by helicopter and airplane – transported daily from one reality to another.
Ten different hotels, locations, types of food and wine,
all in one month.
Today the birds outside my window remind me of Aspen in the springtime,
so lively and poetic with their songs on this early Sunday morning.
The ground is still wet and I am under this brilliant sky all alone with my thoughts.