I came across this poem on FB today. I’ll try to find the author, but until I do, here is the first verse.
Letters You Will Never Read
One lifetime isn’t enough
how am I to open a cafe´in Paris
to make art in Berlin
to surf on the coast of California
to write books in a Scottish cottage
to pick wild flowers in the Crimean mountains
to eat pizza in Tuscany
and to ride my bike through the streets of Amsterdam?
I’m assuming that the poet is young, under forty perhaps. I can understand the angst and I am twice her age. I also tried to do the things that were in my heart at an earlier age. Fortunately I was married to a man who shared many of my interests and I, his. I was able in my one lifetime to start and maintain a needlecraft business for thirty years. I follow on-line, and have met in person, a man who moved to Paris, taking his needlework followers with him. He lives his art in a magical place, writes about it daily and makes me very envious. I didn’t open a cafe´and my business wasn’t in Paris, but I ordered supplies regularly from Holland. I guess there are trade-offs.
Somehow, I missed the art references to Berlin. I thought all great art was made in France especially Paris. But that wouldn’t work for the poem. So I didn’t make art in Germany even though my maternal grandparents were from Germany. In fact my grandfather was born in Berlin. His family owned a delicatessen. (There’s that cafe´connection again) and I do like to cook.
I visited the surfing paradises in California, but I have only surfed briefly in South Carolina; it was memorable. My late husband always found holidays by the sea. We walked for a week in Cinque Terre overlooking the sea. We lived for five Februarys in Spain, four in Malaga by the sea and we went to the North Sea in Scotland often.
Wild Daylilies in Ontario
I have stayed in cottages in Scotland. My husband was born in a farm cottage north of Edinburgh and a friend from university dreamed of writing books in Stornoway. I dream of writing books in Ireland. In fact I have written (unpublished) a romance novel set in Galway. I wrote it in my living room in Toronto – another trade off.
I have eaten pizza in Florence (Firenza) Tuscany. The best pizza I have ever eaten was in Bari, Puglia. However I love cooking pizza on my Bar-B-Que at home. The recipe came from needlework friend. As an aside, when our family of four (short one son who doesn’t travel well) ate out in Florence, we had a memorable dinner at a restaurant called Zaza. One starter had ten items. I shared. We speak of it often.
I haven’t ridden a bike in Amsterdam, but I have biked for a week in Holland. The experience was wonderful. Yes, it rained and yes we rode precariously along narrow dikes, however there were no significant hills. What I do remember, though, is the wind, close to gale force at times. In a country that builds windmills you have to know there will be wind. I didn’t.
I left the wild flowers for last. The world is covered in wildflowers, however, I share a belief with the poet that the most enchanting of them must be in the eastern hills of eastern Europe, in Transylvania, the Carpathian mountains perhaps or, as the poet suggests, the Crimean. These are the hills of fairy tales. If you can spin straw into gold, you can bejewel the earth with precious flowers.
I have only a faint memory of wildflowers in Bulgaria when I travelled with the strangest tour company ever from London to Istanbul. However, I have seen wild primroses, alpine poppies and purple wisteria, on my Camino walks in Spain.
Do I have a dream that will never be realized in my lifetime? One of my few regrets is never having taken a double-decker bus from London to Katmandu. However, if I ever do, I will write about it here on this weblog. Maybe the title of the poem should read “Posts You Will Never Read.” Well, never say never. There are many poems left to live. I enjoyed this one.