Writing, for me, is the key to everything. For the past year and a half, this key has been missing. Every now and then, over the past few months, I have picked the lock and entered the secret room in my soul where creativity resides, but I have felt more like an intruder than a welcome guest. There is so much I want to say and so much I want to do to make a difference in this world. My refusal to even try to find the missing key has blocked me. But there are stories to be told and experiences to be shared, so once again I have picked the lock and let myself in. I'm still feeling like an intruder, but I'm hoping that if I share some stories, with no other motive than to create a connection, perhaps I'll find that the key has been waiting for me, all along, inside the locked door.
If you follow me on Facebook, some of the stories I'll share over the next few weeks may already be familiar to you, especially this one, but maybe in the re-telling I will add something new. Today for some reason, I am being asked -- no, urged -- to re-tell this story. I know it's the one I am supposed to share because there are a lot of tears coming with it. I'm going to just go with the flow and not try to figure out why it's this one and not another, but I have an inkling that it might have something to do with passion, a feeling that has been severely lacking in my life for quite awhile, with one notable exception. So here we go. Let's see where this leads.
It was my first night alone in Florence, a beautiful September evening. The front desk clerk at my hotel had recommended a restaurant and had made a reservation for me at 9:00 p.m., a very Italian time to dine. When I arrived, I noticed there were several tables on the patio, so when I checked in for my reservation, I asked if I could sit outside.
"Signora, we do not have a table available outside at this time, but if you will wait a few minutes, we will seat you on the patio."
I didn't mind waiting for the perfect table, so I agreed and stepped off to the side, out of the way.
"Signora, please come, you must sit at this table inside. We will serve you wine and appetizers until your table outside is ready."
I sat down at the table, feeling a little guilty because it was a fine table, with a view through the open patio doors to the piazza beyond. When the very handsome, very young, waiter came to take my wine order, I told him that I was happy to eat dinner where I was. It was almost what I wanted, and it was good enough. I didn't need to be moved outside.
"No, signora, you will sit outside as soon as your table is ready."
I tend to try to make things easier on others, even if it means compromising my own desires, so I'm not sure if I had ever before experienced having someone insist that I have exactly what I wanted. He wouldn't allow me to settle for just good enough. It felt nice. A few minutes after my first glass of wine had been poured, the handsome waiter came by, scooped up my wine bottle and escorted me to the best table on the patio.
I ordered pasta filled with finely chopped pears and gorgonzola cheese, topped with a parmesan sauce and pine nuts. As I sat there with the slight breeze blowing through my hair, the sights and smells of Florence all around me, and the taste of the most unbelievable pasta in my mouth, I felt a couple of teardrops slip down my face. For once, I didn't feel the need to wipe them away. They simply added to the sheer perfection of that moment. The waiter arrived at my table, and I turned to him with tears in my eyes.
"Signora, why do you cry?"
"Because I have never experienced anything more perfect in my life!"
I left the restaurant that night with the phone number of that incredibly handsome, incredibly young, waiter in my hand, a huge smile on my face, and the beginning of a love affair with the city of Florence in my heart. I returned in May to continue that love affair for another nine days. Florence is passion. For the first time in my life, I consciously know what that feels like and I want more. I no longer want to compromise my true desires to almost get what I want, or to settle for something that is only good enough.
Whenever I think back on that moment at a table in Florence on a beautiful September evening, it immediately opens the door to that secret room in my soul where perfection resides. Come to think of it, that's probably the same secret room where creativity resides as well, isn't it? Well, damn. There's that key.
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