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Today Chuck and I went ashore at Livorno, Italy. It is a port town. Very busy and too big for our tastes, but I did find a few churches. I decided I would let Mary guide me this trip and go into churches, first look for the Blessed Sacrament usually well-lighted with red candles, then find Mary in her many roles. My friend Fiora promised to take me on a little pilgrimage in Panzano. In the month of May, Mary’s month, the priest takes women down the hill to a local shrine built in thanks for ending the great plague that wracked Italy many years ago. When I go there, I’ll write about it. I’m looking forward to many "personal" tributes to Mary. Meanwhile… I’ve watched Under the Tuscan Sun at least 3 times and finished the book on this cruise. Both the movie and the book refer many times to Mary, sister, mother, aunt. Gentle mother, tower of strength. So, I’ll do little pilgrimages of course Assisi (tomorrow!) and Padua for the Saints, and Mary, in every little church. God bless us all! Love Susie

Three things inspired this musing… Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth, Michelangelo’s love of Florence, and my visit to the Cathedral in Milaga, Spain. I visited several churches in Malaga where Mary is highlighted in silver robes as the Madre Dolorosa (Mother of Sorrows). I touched the walls of the great Cathedral and I remembered Michelangelo loved to touch the stone walls of the Cathedral (Duomo) in Florence. Walls made of hand-carved and hand-placed stone. Looking at the beautiful paintings and statues of Mary, and touching the 1200 year old stone used to build Medieval and Renaissance churches leads me to musings… and Mother’s Day is coming so I must pay tribute to my Mom! Not to say that Mary and Mother’s Day should be thought of in the same way as 1200 year old stone, but… close your eyes for a moment and think about this:  A mother has to be tough doesn’t she? A woman is invaded by a life giving force. She is literally "taken" as it were to be a vessel as no man can be taken. She is made to be a slave to give life. But God has given a mother a special grace. For he gives her the strength to accept the load that will indeed load her down for 9 months and then that will remain with her, a load on her heart for all the years of her life. Her child, God’s child, is given to her to carry first in her womb, then at her breast and on her knee, and finally when the child grows the wings he needs to go "out," Mother carries him in her heart. As Mary did, and as our Mothers did and do! They carry our lives in their hearts. God chooses each mother for the work she will do just as the builder chooses the stone he will use to build a great church. First he carefully designs the foundation he will dig to be the "foot" for the temple. Then he begins to select from the stone he has selected from the quarry. One by one, carefully ensuring balance, he lays the stone. "Make it right… make it right." If he misplaces any stone he will cause the great ediface to fall. Our lives are like this — God carefully chooses our traits, our talents, our being, and he chooses our mother, the foundation. I am sure God watches with great love as we take the first tentative steps. "Take the right way," He whispers. "Your mother knows – I built her, your mother. She is strong and full of wisdom and love. Follow your mother! Follow Mary, my mother."

I’m not sure I ever paid much attention to the Straits of Gibraltar. In fact, I wonder just how many of us know exactly where they are. If you look at a map of the Atlantic, notice how BIG the Atlantic Ocean is. I tried to get some numbers from the Purser last night, but he said the bridge was very busy last night. We passed through the Straits of Gibraltar between midnight and 2am in high waves, winds, mist and darkness. The sea had been perfectly calm the entire 11 days of our crossing… But it really kicked up as we entered the straits. The distance we "drove" to get from Miami to "inside the Mediterranean" is 4400 nautical miles [it’s 4450 miles from Susie’s house on Westwood Lake (25° 43′ 43" N; 80° 22′ 16" W) to Málaga, Spain (36° 44′ 34" N; 4° 25′ 33" W) mp]. Chuck says that a nautical mile is a little more than a "land" or statute mile. It took 11 days to make the sail to "steam" from Miami to Malaga Spain (with a stop in Saint Maarten and Funchal Portugal)… Suppose you make it across the Atlantic. Take a look at the map. If you run due east or maybe north east you will run full tilt into Africa or Spain or other land mass…. and you have a very tiny chance of hitting the 20 mile wide opening into the Mediterranean!!!!! It is no wonder so many ships have been lost in the past. As we passed into the straits, I went up to the 10th deck in my jammies and robe (Chuck was just coming in from the piano bar so he was in tux) I could see very clearly despite the dark and fog last night both sides (Africa and Spain.) The English controlled the opening to the Mediterranean (the Strait of Gibraltar) during WWII to keep German U boats out. I know the American subs were in the Med patrolling in case a German U boat slipped through. What amazing history this body of water (the Med) has. Our room steward knocked at 9am this morning and we roused ourselves to go ashore at Malaga. Great churches!!!!! Chuck lost his sail and sign card but they let him on board the ship with his passport. All is well and we look forward to beginning our "Tuscan Adventure" on Saturday morning. Cheers!!! Love Susie

Good day My dear readers. We’re on a transatlantic crossing with plans to stay for a while in Italy (Tuscany), Croatia (Istria), Venice, Greece (just the highlights) and then to England. I recommend this kind of travel only for the hardy as one can easily eat too much, drink too much, sleep too much. Excess is never good!  We are learning Italian. For example… "Dove il trattoria… Ho fame!" "Where is the restaurant… I’m hungry!" One should not ever get hungry on a cruise like this!  We scan the buffets and find amazing appetisers: calimari, oysters, salads, lamb, and salmon…. I’m trying to skip dessert. For breakfast there are eggs over easy, grits and bacon. … Just like home. I remember to write a journal for it is easy to lose track of days. We awake at 6am, watch the sun rise and think of home. What day is it? Does it really matter? The Atlantic looks the same from both sides and the sun always rises in the East.  We are headed out of the Atlantic, through the straits of Gibraltar, into the Mediterranean tonight and my thoughts go to Ulysses who first thought he might try to sail out of the pond that is the Mediterranean, but wondered if he would then fall off the earth for the earth at that time was thought to be flat. … May God bless my friends and family. Please think kindly of us, the wandering travelers. Health and peace. Susie

This is an update on the invitation to nourishing talks and readings from Alphabet Soup for Christian Living.  I’ll be at the Little Flower Women’s Emmaus meeting on November 14 at 7:30 PM. The discussion topic will be Mother Teresa’s Letters, Come Be My Light. I’ll be back at Paulinas Book and Media Center on January 12 for a discussion of Pope Benedict’s work on Jesus of Nazareth.  Both books are available at Paulinas Books and Media Center at 107 Ave and Flagler. I will be selling and signing Alphabet Soup and it is a great Christmas present! iAlso mark February 16 for another talk at Paulinas. The Emmaus talk is reserved for those who have been to an Emmaus retreat, but the Paulina’s talks are an open buffet!  

Mom rolled over this morning and asked, "what time is it?" "I don’t know," I replied somewhat impishly. It’s true, I can’t see the clock without my glasses, but also, my answer had a somewhat naughty insouciance as I really meant, "who cares? … You go back to sleep; I’m going to read for a while." And so our day began. This day is much like previous days after my step father’s death as I share my mother’s quiet grieving and her nights. I certainly do not need "quiet time" here with Mom to read! The hush of falling snow is broken only by the swish of a DVD slipped into the player at the television, the quick trip to church, the market, and the video store, or the swoosh of the treadmill in the guest room. It’s been really cold this my first "real winter" with temperatures ranging from -16 to 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Mother pointed today to the bushes and trees covered with snow. Lovely and best viewed from under a blanket! The squirrels here are fat with winter coats. I lounge in one of Mom’s twin recliner chairs to read and I look up occasionally at the double picture of my sister Annette, my sister in heaven. The clock ticks, but time does not matter here. Annette is a beautiful child of seven. I cannot imagine a woman of 65 years of age that she would be if she were not in heaven. I am Mother’s child, and I’m learning to do her will. Slowly I’ve swung around, like the inexorable, slow hands on a clock, slowly moving, I’ve arrived at obedience. Rarely do I argue with Mom. Yesterday I tried to convince Mom to come South to Florida for a few good years, but Mom has cast her own insouciance at time, arrogantly turning time around. Bed time is in what many call the wee small hours around 2am. Long after the sun is past mid day, Mom emerges from the bedrooom like a small ruffled chicken, her hair all on end, eyes blinking against the light of day! She will get her chance to shake her fist at time when I leave here to return home. My sisters and I pray that soon Mother will shake off this winter coat and come to live with us in the land of shorts and tee shirts rather than stay in this quiet place. Alone, in the quiet.

Bittersweet is good and bad mixed together. It is chili that makes us say "mmmmmmm….. oh!" when the "kick" of the hot peppers hits. It is creamy chocolate that makes us wrinkle our lips with its bitterness and soothes us with the mellow softness of its milk. Bittersweet was listening to my step-dad Jack, as he declined in his 90s, come down the hallway of his apartment, and listening for a loud thump and the loud yell for my mom, "Grace!" Bitter were the calls to 911 to ask the Euclid fire department to come help pick him up. Sweet was the sight of the strong young men and women of the fire department and their assurances that "they didn’t mind!" as they leaned over Jack with gentle hands. After a lingering illness, my step-dad Jack Harlan died on February 1, 2007 at 4:20 am at the age of 96 years. Bitter was a series of strokes that led him to hospitals and finally nursing homes. Bitter was watching Jack lay in a bed with the indiginity of all his bodily fluids draining into bags to be emptied by a series of young aids. But sweet was the two years Jack’s grand children and great-grand children gained as they grew to know the wonderful stories and jokes of a man who was born in and loved one of the greatest of old American cities, Cleveland, Ohio. Bitter was the pain and anguish of watching him suffer, but sweet was the knowledge that we all were accepting "God’s time." Sweet was the knowledge I gained from watching my Mother love and care for a man unconditionally. Sweet was the big family I gained from the union of this big bear of a man and my little Mom. Bittersweet is a snow fall that covers a multitude of evils like rocks, dirt, trash, and a coffin with shining white softness. Bittersweet are the faces of the young soldiers who fold flags over coffins while honoring those who served America. Serious military faces, fresh, young, and dying too soon. Sweet is the blaze of glory of a sunset signalling the coming of darkness and the sunrise that returns every morning as if to fulfill a promise. Sweet is the face of God that we will see when we finally shed the pain of the bitter darkness and accept the sweet promise, "I will be with you always."

Before I plant a crop, first I dig in the dirt of my garden and then I water the little plot and give it over to the birds for a day or two. The birds like to eat all the grubs and beatles I unearthed with my digging. Once the birds think they have eaten everything there is to eat in my little plot, I plant tiny seeds and sit back to wait. Sometimes it takes two weeks or more for anything to come up, but soon I get green sprigs that grow into tomatoes, onions, carrots, parsley, lettuce, flowers, and weeds. We don’t get enough to survive out of this garden but it does make a salad for us. I think of the people of ancient days who learned that seeds planted in the ground yield food, and enough cultivated ground can support a family or a clan. The clan could then stop wandering to find fields of grain and wild animals to eat. Eventually clans settled and built permanent houses and cultivated the ground permanently. But then man’s greed took over, didn’t it? This is where the swords and spears were used. No longer were crops planted, but weapons were forged instead. Big powerful people took the land of little weak people and either killed the weak with swords or enslaved them to cultivate the land and feed the powerful ones who bacame "rich". The rich could then lie back on luxurious couches and be fed. But then other powerful people saw the lands and wanted them. The powerful peoples wanted each others’ lands and crops. In the dark of the night, plans were made and swords and spears were forged. In the daylight the armies met and fought wars. The weak people, the "spoils of war," were passed with the ownership of the property to the victors. The prophet Micah wrote about this as he looked out over the enslaved people of Israel. He promised them that the faithful few would be saved and eventually would own their land again. It might be in another time, but freedom would come. Then in that better, future time, Micah wrote, the "strong and distant nations… shall beat their swords into plow shares, and their spears into pruning hooks…Every man shall sit under his own vine or under his own fig tree, undisturbed" (Micah 4: 3-4). To have land and a fig tree meant prosperity to the people of Israel. The promise of land and a fig tree meant once again the people could protect themselves, set up boundaries, and grow food for themselves. Greed and darkness have not been overcome yet. We forge bigger swords and spears every day when what each man should be doing is planting his own field.

My sister Donna sent my Mom a basket of fresh Florida fruit (grapefruits and naval oranges). Actually the gift didn’t come in a basket but a humble box. We put the fruit out on the porch and it comes in cold as if we had put it in the ‘fridge. So this morning Mom got this distant look on her face and she said, "I remember how Aunt Louise used to cut the grapefruit and separate all the sections then broil it for us." "Oh I can do that for you!" I chortled gleefully, and set off to relive a distant memory. First you find the little crooked serated knife in the back of the knife drawer, then and you begin to dig down on every side of the little "units" of the fruit… cutting on each side of the membrane. By the beginning of the second half, I began to remember … "I remember when I learned how to do this… being cautioned by my Mom, ‘be sure to get on each side of the membrane or it won’t come out right,’" and indeed when attacked with a spoon, if it wasn’t "done right" the grapefruit section didn’t come out… So then I began to wonder if mothers today are teaching their children this humble art of "sectioning a grapefruit." Into the broiler went the halves. But Mom said, "Not the broiler, use the microwave!" … What? we didn’t have microwaves when I was little…. dissonance… dissonance… Enter the twenty-first century to jar my memory. When the grapefruit halves were warm I sprinkled sugar on the halves. My first bite made me shiver – whew! My puckering lips quivered! "Not enough sugar," I sputtered. So maybe today’s juice boxes full of sugary liquids have spoiled me… Is this another tradition that will fall victim to progress? Do you have a little crooked serated knife in your knife drawer?

I am at my Mom’s in Cleveland and what an unusual Advent this is. I advised the women I talked to in Miami to try to light candles, go to Mass, and pray in "waiting" and instead of following my own advice, I’ve 7-day cruised and not gone to Mass yet! Nor do we have an Advent wreath here at Mom’s. Well that box hasn’t been unpacked yet… What I’ve done so far is read Mom to sleep (the galleys from my book arrived here in Cleveland and I have to read, correct, and return them within a week). I’ve emptied the contents of Mom’s kitchen on to the counter tops and redistributed stuff to make it friendlier. Like I took plant food, lightbulbs, electric cords, tape and string, and batteries out of the kitchen pantry and replaced them with flour and sugar. Every surface was cluttered and there were lots of duplicates… We are still tossing some "old stuff" that Jack loved… Don’t tell him but we threw away the cream of wheat and barley… The rusty cookie tins were thrown out and some empty bottles went into the closet "for Donna." Now we need to collect all the tupperware into one place and pare it down as well as find all the pots and pans that are sprinkled around the kitchen. Meanwhile…. I’ve got Mom busy at the dining room table writing Christmas cards (she said she wanted to do it…) I put the address, return address, stamp on and we’re doing a good thing. Christmas music plays on the CD player. Now if we can find the flour next time we bake bread all will really be well! Love to all and a happy, peaceful, and productive Advent!