Today the librarians locked me in the Locarno Library.  At 12:28 p.m. the librarian motioned for me to end my Internet session.  I shut down, thanked him and heard the 12:30 bells ring.  There are always some church or city hall bells ringing here to make you constantly aware of time.  I walked down two flights of stairs and when I got to the inner glass doors, they were locked.  The downstairs librarians had left.  Shops, libraries, city offices - shut down here from 12:30 until 2:30.  It's a tradition in much of Europe.  I immediately ran up the two flights of stairs to catch the other librarian, but by the time I arrived he was gone too!

 

I searched for another exit.  None.  I looked around, called out in a loud voice among the books familiar only with subdued whispers.  It was no later than 12:32, but the place was deserted.  I took the elevator down to the first floor (as the librarian must have done) and found myself inside a locked conference room.  The first floor in Europe is usually the second floor in the U.S.  They call the first floor 0 and in my panic I had forgotten.  By the time I raced back, the elevator had sped off.  I banged on the door and called out to see if anyone left inside the sacred halls of institutional quiet might save me from a lunchtime alone among the stacks staring at mouthwatering cookbooks and dreaming of risotto ai porcini or pizza quattro staggione.

 

My heart sped up.  My voice echoed down the elevator shaft.  Don't panic, I repeated to myself.  There's no reason to panic.  But I'd had claustrophbia as a child and my nightmares consisted of being locked in department stores, stuffed in closets, tucked away in a trunk where no one would find me.  From below I heard voices, keys rattling.  Noises that stirred hope of release from this intellectual prison.  I yelled with desperation.  "C'e qualcuno?"  Is someone there?  "Aiuto." Help.  "Sono sul primo piano."  I'm on the first floor.  But still no response.  Finally a voice echoed up.  "Arriviamo."  We're coming.

 

Mike was waiting on the sidewalk outside.  He had caught the last librarians locking the thick medieval doors on their way out and asked if they had seen me.  They sheepishly returned and set me free.

 

Time demands respect.  In Switzerland a minute late means being locked in or missing the train.  In writing too, minutes count.  One editor I write for adds a 9:00 a.m.

time deadline to the date and threatens to pay 20 percent less if I'm late (which I haven't been).  In the morning I sit down to write untiil noon and I sometimes feel more motivated to meet the deadlines of immediate demands rather than focus on the long term writing work that requires reflection, experimentation and is somewhere in an unknown publication time.  It's harder to respect my own individual deadlines than those imposed from outside.  But a few minutes a day can make a huge difference.  Minutes add up to hours and one thousand words a day during two months means 60,000 words - a good basis for a novel or a non-fiction book.  All it requires is discipline and commitment.  Staying on time may also keep you out of locked places - especially in Svizzera (Switzerland), the home of wrist-watch precision, where trains run and offices close at punctual intervals and the coo coos sing their wall-clock song in the distance.  Coo coo.   

Copyright, Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

 

The rental house "per turisti" here at Sonogno wears windows from floor to ceiling across the front and along part of both sides.  Monte Zucchero's (Mt. Sugar) snow-covered peak, a waterfall, the river, and pine forests shelter the house and give spectacular scenes.  This morning I watched the first rays of sun strike the pyramid-shaped granite cliffs, glow brilliant white and light up the stone.  The line of light spread down the mountain as the earth turned.  Pedestrians can see into the dining/sitting/writing room when the curtains are up, and I can see out.  We watch them watch us as we lunch.  The thin white veil of curtains comes down at night.   

 

Sometimes I awaken with dreams that I'm living in a greenhouse - a house with glass walls where I can see out and others can see in.  I have nothing to hide and feel perfectly at ease.  Writing in this Swiss village is the closest I've come to realizing that dream feeling.  The writer's life is like living in a glass-walled house.  When we write from the heart, we achieve a certain level of transparency that allows others a view into our innermost self.  Recently I wrote to fellow author, Anthony Lawlor, that I longed to write from this deep place, but found it scary.  Intimacy with one person is tough enough, but when you may potentially reveal your heart to many it intimidates even more. 

 

As a writer, fears of rejection, ridicule and cutting criticism lurk in the background.  Tony's words of wisdom encouraged me to continue.  "...mysteriously, the intimately personal is the portal to the universal," he wrote.  "Keep going.  Have courage.  Others want to hear your story as you have delighted in the stories of others."  I recall how from childhood great books have given me strength, inspiration and a sense of connection.  There is comfort in sharing.  And at our best, as writers, we have insights into human nature.  With love, we see into the hearts of others, understand their subtleties and inner workings and may even help others to understand themselves. 

 Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008     www.debramoffitt.com

   

I said goodbye to the great blue herons today.  Chicks perch on the edge of the high nests lodged on dead tree trunks high above the swamp.  A few weeks ago I watched anxious parents hover over their eggs and tend their brood, not daring to fly away until their mate arrived.  Today the babies stand on the edges of the nests crowded with two or three siblings.  Five fluffy headed chicks bobbed up and down in one.  When a parent arrived, its babes chattered wildly for food - and perhaps for freedom.  Their nests grow more and more crowded as they grow to nearly adult size.  But not one can fly.  Not yet.  They stand up, flap their wings to strengthen their muscles, stumble about awkwardly on the stick-nests and look down thirty five or forty feet to the wet swamp below.  Their parents venture out to forage for fish or frogs from the creek to feed them.

 

A beautiful adolescent heron who had lost most of his downy feathers stood on tall thin legs at the edge looking out, looking down.  He flapped his wings, lifted up on one leg and, oh, oh, oh so close, he nearly lifted off. But one leg continued to grasp tight to the twigs.  Oh, the yearning to take flight!  I could taste, smell, see and feel his yearning to step off the branch and drift into the breeze, but something – was it instinct or fear or lack of gentle parental guidance – kept him there holding on.  He dared not try to fly, not yet.  But the longing remained there in his demeanor, pencil-thin legs and neck extended, peering over the edge, trying to imagine the joy of flight, envying the small sparrows and other birds zipping past.

 

Writing into the unknown, is like learning to fly.  There is an inner instinct that guides us about what is possible and what is dangerous.  We know when to go and when to hold back.  But do we listen?  The great blue heron knows all these things inherently about flying.  Flying is its nature.  It feels naturally at ease in the breeze.  So it is with us.  We know when to fly and when to stay.  When to write and send it out - and when to wait.          

 

We pick up a pen, stand on the edge of our despair or joy or suffering, and fear what it means to put it on paper, fear that facing it will make us weak or weep or fly into the unknown.  But the sky is waiting to embrace our efforts and courage.  Our inner guiding instinct, like a wise parent leads us gently along the way. 

 

With pen in hand, lean into the air, chest forward like the great blue heron.  Trust that you’re strong enough to take flight.  Trust the divine hand that operates from the inside out and eases you to let go of the safety of the limb and venture into new territory, soar to new heights.  Trust that your wings will carry you to the stars and guide you out of the darkness and into the light.

 

I say goodbye and take flight before the adolescent herons do but hope to rendez vous with them when they return home, on strong wings, to love and nest here in Charlotte in the spring again. 

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

 

At It's a Grind in Ballantyne Village, a woman stood with her ten year old son in front of a case of sumptuous pastries - lemon meringue frosted pies, decadent chocolate truffle cakes, black forest cakes oozing with cream and cherries, pain au chocolate, thick muffins with blueberries bursting out of the top and sides.  "Would you like a food item?" the mother said.  The son hovered blandly in front of the case.  My mouth dropped.  "Did she just say 'food item?'" I thought and stared bewildered at the luscious, desirable deserts worthy of being named in a more affectionate way. 

 

What an insult to those sweet, gooey, gorgeous goodies waiting behind the glass!  The dullness of her word choice stunned me.  She sounded like a word zombie, someone who has not taken the time and had the presence of mind to fully appreciate the vibrant, lovely qualities of the life in front of her and describe it with appropriate zeal.  She had lost her poetry.  The words "food items" simply did not evoke the buttery, creamy, sugar filled, calorie laden pastries.  It seemed this woman had listened to one too many commercials and viewed life through a veil of dull expressions. 

 

The words we use paint a frame of mind.  Do you feel the pull of those chocolaty tarts and strawberry delights?  Do you express it in speech and in writing?  Or do you resort to common, meaningless language out of unconscious, comfortable habit? 

 

Try breaking out of the word zombie mold.  Embrace your words and choose them carefully.  Find your inner poetry.  Dare to ask your friends, “Do you yearn for a bubbly brown soda with a drug history?” instead of “Would you like a Coke?”  Or, “How about a glass of processed rain?” instead of just “Another glass of water?”  Let your verbs really express your looming sense of giddiness about summer vacation or an anticipated kiss.  Pick your adjectives to deeply describe your feelings about that chilly pool of glacial water tinted turquoise from rock-flour at your feet.  Look into the eyes of your words.  Become aware of your word choices when you speak and write.  These words shape our attitudes and sharpen or dull our minds.  Changing words will change us, make us feel more vibrant and alive.  Different words will bring you into the present moment and also open others to it.  Let your words express your love and enthusiasm for people, places and things.  Using better, more lively words will make you better and more lively.  Break out of the word zombie mold.   Express vibrant life in your words.    

 Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

 

                    

In five days I need to be packed and ready to go.  It's been seven and a half months since I left my beloved Europa and I'm yearning to put on my hiking boots and head back into the Swiss Alps.  Traveling light is a wonderful feeling.  I used to have nightmares about journeys with too much baggage.  Baggage was a metaphor for all of the mental preoccupations I was carrying around.  In the Alps I pare everything down to the bare minimum and live very simply.  The house has no Internet connection and probably will not have a TV.  My cell phone will work according to the fickle reception in the mountains.   At the end of the Val Verzasca in a little village called Sonogno; our rental house sits near the river.  During the middle ages at the time of the plague this Swiss-Italian valley was closed off to visitors from the rest of the world to protect inhabitants.  Even today it remains remote.  With its pristine blue rivers, crashing waterfalls, bare granite cliffs and clear skies it feels like a little protected refuge to nurture my soul.  I'm looking forward to seeing the gentle Swiss milk cows, the mountain fields dotted with orchids and blueberries, and to feeling the silence.  The silence is what I yearn for most of all.  God is present in the silence and the beauty.  

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com