I'm back!

Even though you may not have missed me, I have every intention to blog on a regular basis. So, what happened during the year and a half that I disappeared? A lot. Was it noteworthy? Hard for me to say. If I Iook back at at the months of silence, it may seem like not much really happened. At a closer look, minor and yet very significant events emerge in my memory. Actually, there are so many of them that I will only be able to separate them into short blogs. Today, I will only deal with one event which stretched over a period of a year. I will use the title, “Heavenly walks”—you will see why.

Shortly after my beloved Border Collie, Bianca, passed away to her heavenly home, I kept on taking the walks, which I used to take with her. I did it to keep healthy and also to keep my memory of her alive in my mind and heart. Within a week, I had to acknowledge that something extraordinary was happening. Every afternoon, whether I expected it or not, Bianca orchestrated a surprise for me. Every time I took a walk, unknown dogs would approach me and place their paws on me and kiss me. They did it in a forceful way that suggested much more than a simple liking for me. I reached the conclusion that someone, unseen to me, instructed them to come and greet me, letting me know that I was not alone. I’ve believed for a long time that the veil between life and death is tenuous and that death is not the end of life. My sweet dog reinforced that belief and I’m grateful to her for that. Exactly one year after Bianca’s passing, the dogs’ visitations stopped. In my next bloc, you will see what happened next.

Life and Writing

One of the questions that often comes up when a podcaster interviews me s is: where did this story come from? what inspired you? Sometimes, I hesitate in responding. I don’t know what to say. More often, though, my answer is: life. Where did the character of Giuliano Materassi come from? From the heroic life of the young Italian journalist Roberto Saviano, author of Gomorrah—an expose’ of the Neapolitan Camorra—which also became a film by the same title.

The backbone of a short story is emerging in my mind. I’ve been visiting a close friend in the hospital. She’s receiving care for a life threatening disease. She’s also receiving daily verbal abuse from her daughter. She does nothing to block her daughter from abusing her. The daughter has stripped her from all her belongings, her modest financial savings, her car, her power to decide for her own life. There is nothing that we, friends, can do. At least, so far we’ve been unable to help her. In any case, my friend will not let us do anything. She is terrified. She is afraid that her daughter will refuse to ever see her again. I’m heartbroken and frustrated. That’s the backbone of the short story. That’s what feeds fiction. Life.

Upcoming publication

One new thing has happened. After attending marketing school for self-published authors, I have finally learned how to follow a protocol, which is meant to attract readers. Hopefully. So, the tentative date for the publication of The Etruscan Princess in e-book format is December 1. A few days later, Amazon will have a promotion for a couple of days. The novel will be offered for free through the promotion. If the idea of being part of a launch team appeals to you, then go ahead, download and read the book for free (as soon as I announce the discount) and then leave a review ( a favorable one, please). If you don’t own a kindle, you can download the book on your computer or any other e-book. I understand that asking anyone to read and review a book they have not had a chance to look at beforehand, is not fair. So, here is link to the Foreword to The Etruscan Princess by my old friend and former colleague, professor Bernadette Luciano. It will give you a pretty good idea of the book. Enjoy.

https://www.mariamarotti-author.com/upcoming-books

Bianca's Transition

Bianca our beautiful and super bright border collie passed away two days ago on October 9. She had been rescued from a terrible owner by a generous neighbor, who then brought her over to our house for us to adopt her. She lived with us for almost four years. She suffered from kidney disease. We gave her plenty of care and very deep love. She reciprocated our love with depth, loyalty and joy.

A week before her passing she told an animal communicator that, even though she was not afraid of dying, she would have liked to pass to the afterlife while I was holding her in my arms. A month before, she had told the animal communicator that, even though at the time she was not quite ready to transition, she would want to go once she became incontinent. She explained that she was still working on her spiritual life. She had learnt a lot during the past few years because she had received unconditional love. The day before she passed I asked her to please let me know when she was ready to go to the afterlife. “I don’t want you to be in pain,” I told her. She looked at me with her deep brown eyes. “I’m concerned about you and Daddy,” her eyes said.

The answer came right before dawn. Thomas, my partner and her Dad, heard her cry in pain. He tried to help her get up and walk to the bathroom to pee. Her legs couldn’t hold her anymore. She peed on the bedroom floor and on Thomas. “The time has come,” he said. “Yes,” I said. We covered our bed with pads. We cleaned the floor. He lifted her and put her on the bed between us. We slept for a few hours. I had the most delightful dreams while holding her.

Once we got up, Bianca showed me that she couldn’t eat anymore. Thomas made an appointment with the vet. I talked to my late husband, as I often do. He reassured me that the time had come and the tribe of our animals was waiting for her. A friend came over to say goodbye. Bianca knew and kissed her. More friends—her favorite neighbors—came over afterwards to comfort us.

She was put to sleep in my arms, as she had requested. Minutes after her passing, her body felt heavy while an incredible energy and light invaded the room. They had all come to get her.

I still feel her presence in the house and I’m starting to see her even for just a quick second. We miss her physical presence, her joyful tail wagging, her beautiful snout, and her deep deep eyes searching ours.

My cat got booted out--sort of

Rosso is his name. It used to be Rosella. My late husband, Jack, told me that the cat, who had been sleeping on our porch, was female. That was almost 10 years ago. 5 years ago, a friend declared that the cat was male. “Look how he brushes against your boobs!” he pointed out. “It’s a male!” a vet concurred after I showed her a photo of my cat. The name had to be changed. It went from Rosella to Rosello and finally to Rosso for the sake of shortness.

Rosso is feral, which in his definition of feral, means that he can do whatever he feels like. He comes in twice a day requesting food and love. The love thing is recent but very sweet. He then leaves through his cat door. The problem is Rosso doesn’t come in alone. Ever since flea season started, Rosso has been donating us fleas. Every effort from my part to free him and us from the unwanted entourage has proven to be a failure. No vet can prescribe an oral med, which I could possibly hide in his food, without seeing him first. Rosso refuses to meet vets. He also refuses the anti-flea cream which I tried to put behind his head. He’s so much faster than me. He jumps out of his window and disappears for a while. When he comes back, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

Our only choice seems to be to dismantle his cat door and let him spend the night outside. After all, he said he’s feral, right? A simple solution? Not really. Do I want to starve him? Absolutely not. After dismantling his cat door, I put his food outside, only to find out that it attracted ants. I managed to solve that problem by placing his bowls in a dish full of water. However, wild animals—squirrels, opossums and the super cute young neighbors’ cat—enjoy his food and are faster than Rosso.

Meanwhile, Rosso’s evening love visits continue. I sit on the couch with the anti-flea cream ready at hand. He’s smart and he knows what I’m up to. He stretches on a throw rug and enjoys the best of two worlds.

The houses we live in

Eight years ago, when my husband of 33 years transitioned to another and better life, I didn’t know if I could stay in my house. We had bought it together 26 years before. Unfortunately, a poorly designed and written trust left the ownership of the house and of our savings unclear. Even after a lawyer worked on it, the trust could not work well for me. The upshot was: I could live in the house, but I could not sell it. Over the years, I resented the limitations to my life. Yet, now I know that most likely, even if things had been different, I would not have sold the house.

Most of us need a nest. My old house in Santa Barbara is my nest. I never saw it completely that way until recently when Covid-19 locked us in our homes. It is full—too full—of books and objects that I don’t need. It’s big—too big—for me. It’s hard to keep it clean, especially now that I don’t have any domestic help. It has taken discipline to establish a rhythm that allows me to make the house more livable. Everyday I clean and eliminate unwanted objects. I do it for at least an hour and then I tell myself that I need to stop. Then, I look around and notice how much better it feels—cleaner and a bit emptier. I ask for encouragement from Thomas and he agrees that it looks much better. Is he being truthful or just supportive? Never mind. My nest feels better to me.

Goodbye

This morning my dog looked into my eyes and said:

“Beloved and precious Mamma,” this is how she talks to me. “I want you to know that I will soon make my transition to another life.”

My eyes filled with tears, even though I was not surprised. I had known for a while that death would come and take her away from me.

I looked at her beautiful old face and said: “Beloved and precious Bianca,” this is the way I talk to her. “I know that you will soon transition to another life. If you prefer you can stay with us in spirit until we transition, too.”

Even though Thomas and I have had other beloved and precious pets, none has ever touched our hearts as deeply as Bianca has.

This afternoon, I told Thomas that maybe I shouldn’t take Bianca to the park. She looked so tired.

“No,” he said. “She lives for that. Take her. You will both enjoy it.”

What he didn’t say but, maybe, meant to say was: “ This is what you live for. Every second with her is precious and beloved.”

Goodbye, dear Sara!

Today, Sara’s lovely daughters wrote an e-mail announcing their mother’s departure for her heavenly home. I did not expect it and maybe I should have. I never thought of Sara as older than me, and yet I knew her age, 89. Sixteen years older than me and, yet, 3 years younger than my mother when she died 21 years ago at age 92.

In their e-mail, Sara’s daughters mention their mother’s love for foreign cultures and languages. Sara had a prodigious mind and an indomitable spirit. Yet, I remember also her suffering consciousness, her grief that took her to the brink of suicide. That one time she re-emerged thanks to her interest in the suffering of others. She joined a group of dissident Catholics who did social work with the people living at the margins of society. She understood their suffering, which mirrored her own.

For years, I lost touch with her. I had to survive my own loss and learn how to live alone, far from Rome. California had become my home. I had lost her e-mail address, but she had not lost mine. I’m grateful to her daughters for using their mother’s e-mail to let all her friends know of Sara’s relocation.

Where did this come from?

I’m always surprised (and I shouldn’t be) when a character knocks at the door of my mind, or when a writing project claims my attention. I’m even more surprised when a project that I had put to sleep long time ago seems to be quite awake and ready to talk to me and evolve into a different form.

Let me tell you what happened. Many years ago, I wrote a biographical screenplay on Mark Twain’s life. It was based on sound research. Needless to say, I did numberless rewrites over a period of several years. I also attended groups, classes and pitched at a few events. I got suggestions from experts. Nothing really helped in making my project more commercially viable. And that’s the problem. Some projects—mainly cinematic projects—don’t get produced. There are many reasons for that. One of those reasons is the monetary cost involved in producing such projects. That is particularly true for biographies. Another reason might be my inability to cut out entire parts of the project and make it marketable. That one project ended up in a corner of my office and in another corner of my computer.

Suddenly, with no good reason, one of the characters presented itself to my mind. It was not a main character in the script and, yet, it had a powerful voice—a deeply tragic voice. She was a witness to the most painful and deep events in Mark Twain’s life. She was a servant to the Clemens family. I heard her voice and transcribed what she was telling me. It was like a spirit talking to me from the other side. I realized that the entire project had to change its audience. From script to novel. Stay tuned.

The Final Silver Lining

So, what did we get out of this lockdown? An obvious gift is the spirit of cooperation many among us have felt and expressed. That is important but it’s not the only gift. Many among us have gone back to life long activities, which we had neglected because we were so taken by an extremely fast life style—too fast to allow any time for our gifts to develop. I’ve always known that any writing project requires dedication. However, writing never came first in my list of priorities. I have an innate propensity for procrastination. Because writing was not my first priority, it always got pushed toward the end of the day. Big mistake, because it had to compete with many other activities—walking the dog, stretching, chi gong, meditation and getting dinner on the table. I had pushed it back to an earlier time in the afternoon, thus allowing me some time. To get there, I had to be honest with myself and acknowledge the resistance. I also had to look at my schedule and book some time for writing. Once I did that, something surprising happened. Inspiration found its way in my consciousness and characters started to show up with their voices and their stories. Writing became a totally enjoyable activity as it used to be. Once I gave up a number of gigs that crowded my schedule and only kept the strictly necessary ones, a space opened. My hope is that I will be able to keep my priorities straight, when the lockdown is removed. That is and will be my most important silver lining.

Silver Linings--part three

What did I get out of the lockdown? Some sudden inspiration which made me realize that everything made sense? I wish! The first few weeks I met a feeling known as resistance, except that it did not introduce itself as such. I accepted the governor’s decision to shelter at home. I didn’t see any other option. I supported it. However, all of a sudden I had to change everything. The activities I was used to were taken away from me: the rehearsal of the play we had been working on, my twenty years of involvement with the homeless community, many spiritual activities connected with the Spiritualist church—classes and workshops—and my thirty years of women’s book club. When everything was done and said, what was left for me? The first thing that I needed to do was to temporarily let go of my cleaning lady. And then what? The horror. I needed to clean my house myself. Nothing wrong with that, except that I had not done it for decades. Meanwhile my house had grown, not so much in size as in clutter. I spent two weeks giving myself a discipline, a timetable. Everything had to go, everything had to be cleaned. It didn’t happen. I suddenly felt exhausted and paralyzed. I made myself exhausted. It took me a while to realize it. The pressure I was putting on myself exhausted me. I met a new being who had been living inside of my psyche unbeknown to me. I met the monster, the disciplinarian who was driving me, making impossible requests. It dawned on me that I needed to take back her authority, her power over me or else. Yes, the house had to be cleaned, reorganized and simplified, but it had to happen at my own pace. I needed to recognize my priorities and honor them. What was coming first? Writing? Publishing? Taking care of my health? Yes, all of the above. And what about the house? Sure, that too, but at a slower and more comfortable pace. And no guilt feelings. To be continued.

Silver Linings, part 2

Now I volunteer on line, or to be more precise, on Zoom. I’ve been teaching previous versions of this meditation and chi gong class at the Breast Cancer Center for almost 15 years. In person, I showed up every week, every Monday. Some clients showed up rather regularly. For others it was an occasional commitment. More often than not there were 4 or 5 students. Everybody seemed to enjoy the class. Yet, a committed presence was not always there. Life is though, especially if you suffer from a chronic disease—tests, medications, doctors, down time. To make time when there are so many possibilities, so many things to do it’s hard. For some, there was also the uncertainty of how much time was left for them to enjoy their existence on earth. With Covid-19 and the consequent lockdown things changed. Here come the silver linings.

On Zoom, the attendance not only escalated, but it doubled and tripled. The enthusiasm of the participants expanded. My enthusiasm and vibration expanded, too. That’s not the only silver lining we all noticed. It was also the way, the participants described the healthy changes in their lives. Some went for daily hikes with their partners, others got into artistic activities they had previously neglected, others still got into making masks for the healthcare providers. What about my silver linings? To be continued.

The Silver Lining

So, here is the silver lining from the lockdown. 1 I established a more intimate rapport with distant family and friends who are in an even stricter lockdown that we are facing here. The almost daily jokes I receive from family and friends are hilarious. One of my cousins had a brush with death from Covid-19 at the University hospital in Rome. He’s alive and healing now, after weeks of incessant battles. His priorities have shifted. From successful and focused businessman he’s evolved into a grateful writer who is writing about his experience in the hospital. He’s deeply grateful for his doctors and nurses and their open hearted generosity. I’m touched by his transformation and look forward to reading his book.

More to say about silver linings. I will be back soon.

Coronavirus and Writing

Hello blog, after a long time! Did the Covid-19 inspire me to write a short blog? In theory, yes. I hear many friends and former clients declare that the silver lining in the lockdown has been for them the free time. After a few days, maybe a couple of weeks of painful adjustment, they are now appreciating the free time, which allows them to explore new activities. I admire them for what they are saying. I firmly believe in the silver lining. I have faith in it. Unfortunately, I don’t have much faith in my ability to find it. Not always. In this case, I spent the first few weeks figuring out how to keep my house somewhat clean. I didn’t manage to do that and I began a battle with myself which exhausted me and yielded no concrete results. My inner turmoil caused me to feel dissatisfied with myself, my inability to adjust to the lockdown and that, in turn, affected my relationship. Back to the silver lining. It’s there. My cat and dog are still communicating with me. The blog is there. If nobody reads it or communicates with me, so be it. So, I’m back. And there is more to come.

Interpreting life

Many years ago—twenty years, give and take— I was invited into a community of local people with good intentions. The founder was a philosopher, a lawyer, a pacifist and a self-proclaimed humanitarian. The community, which he had created, was intended as a small cell from which peace, love, justice, and harmony would develop and spread throughout the city and from there to the world. As ambitious and lofty these ideas sounded, in the end, they produced very few results. At first, the community attracted idealists, like my husband and me and a few others, and people in various forms and levels of financial distress. In those years, another similar enterprise had grown and spread as wildfire throughout our city. This latter one had a more hierarchical structure and a very vague plan. Both projects eventually failed.

Years later, I’m trying to interpret that experience. I attended the meetings for at least three years. I went from enthusiastic supporter to disillusioned antagonist. I paid a high price for the experience. I was cheated into a disastrous living trust by the founder—the philosopher, lawyer, humanitarian and guru. What did I get from the experience? Was I just a victim of a narcissistic clown? No. I met people from different walks of life from my own, people in financial distress. Some vied for the guru’s favors and fought each other. Not a pretty sight. Yet, my understanding of society and of the intricacies of human behavior opened up. I made friends where I never even dreamt of finding them. They were there for me when tragedy struck and I was there for them. I never look at anybody as different and separate. We are truly all one.

Animal communication

I’m preparing for a new adventure—a class on animal communication. I will attend a class, which will provide me with tools to better communicate with animals.

I have been communicating with domestic animals all my life and sometimes I have established a deep rapport also with non- domestic ones. I remember a beautiful blue jay one spring many years ago. He used to appear at our window every morning and chirp at us (my husband and I) to greet us. He would push his head inside, even though we had a cat (a very peaceful one) sleeping with us in our bed. One day, he even ventured inside and flew around.

My house pets—dogs and cats—always have a special rapport with me, and so do I with them. My dog, Kieko—a rascal if I ever met one— communicated with me from the afterlife and demanded that I illustrated his “memoirs”. He also blocked anyone else from working on the drawings. Animals can be powerful.

Why am I, only now, accepting my gift? Why am I only now, seeking to expand my abilities? The answer could be: fear. More to follow.

Acting and writing

Having established that writing is an emotional necessity for writers, I’m now faced with another question. How different is writing from acting? The question came to mind because I recently joined a theatre group. The playwright asked me to play a role that, she felt, had some similarities with me. Even though I didn’t see the similarities, I felt there was a common ground—belief systems, mostly—between the character and me. I felt I could portray her. By doing that I gave my character her own autonomous voice.

When we write—be it fiction or non-fiction— we create a persona. Something similar happens when we act. Neither the writer nor the actor disappear inside or behind the persona or character. However, even though they share some commonalities with their persona/character, they are also very different. It is the voice of characters and personas that determines their most intimate and powerful expressions.