Friday, April 27, 2007

Taking a Break From Blowing

Ah, Roma. Home of the tomato, and by tomato I mean home to some of the world's oldest treasures. Ripened to perfection, the art and buildings of Rome melt together to form wonderful blend of a modern city built atop centuries of people's dreams. My favorites, the Trevi Fountain, St. Peter in Chains and St. Peter's Basilica are just highlights of the weekend trip.

The Trevi Fountain can be found tucked away on the east side of the city. Legend says you stand back towards the massive statue, make a wish and throw a penny into the pool of clear water. Perhaps this offering pleases the giant gods glaring at you with their stony eyes.

Entering St. Peter in Chains, by breath was taken away. i buttoned my coat up to the neck and anxiously peered down the darkened pathway. the white stone seemed to glow at the end of the church. Walking quickly, I reached my destination, Michelangelo's Moses. At first I wondered why the revered prophet sported horns. My fears subsided as I read a plaque explaining the confusion. The Hebrew for ray and horns had been misinterpreted.

The artistic side of me found pure bliss at St. Peter's Basilica. The ground floor itself was amazing. So many statues of such detail and emotion. The real treat lay inside the doom. The pictures depicted were mosaics, pieced together with tiny painted tiles. Such genius.

Like any ripened fruit, the time must come to an end. I find my trip to Rome over for now. With too much gelato and blistered feet, my content heart beats quietly. Ok, maybe it's beating for one more amaretto gelato.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Stretching the Balloon

An athlete acheives greatness by pushing body limits. Runners increase the distance a little at a time. At first it's a jog around the neighborhood. Then, maybe a run through the city park. Finally, a 10k race with a good 800 sprint across the finish line. My run began the opposite way. No sprint to finish. When we reached the beach I charged off, leaving him behind with his soccer ball. Every step stomped out the hurt, the uncertainity he brought. Unfortunately, the purge of emotional refuse was quickly replace by his ipod. My ears tunneled in associations that only lead back to him. This wasn't my music, the artists weren't my artists. The beach, the waters and the salty air belonged to neither. We both longed for home and tried hopelessly to find it deep inside the other. I had no room to let him. In a days time, he boarded a plane leaving whispered promises, kept so soft and low I feel they may drown in the Irish Sea.