Lancelot and Guinevere: Reunited

At the recommendation of my daughter, Erica, I went to see a movie she promised me I would love.  I did.  It is one of the most charming movies I have ever seen.  It is refreshingly chaste, focussing on delightful characters and their sweet relationships with one another.  It successfully sells Italy as the most lovely, romantic place in the world.  It is Letters to Juliet.

Years ago I began the hobby of paying attention to movie credits.  I found that there were often stories within stories that could be discovered by a little extra consideration to detail.  Imagine my surprise and delight as I read in the opening credits that starring in the movie was not only Vanessa Redgrave, whom I already was aware of, but also Franco Nero.  I was thrilled!  How profound.  How ironic.  How exciting. 

Why, doesn't everyone know that Franco Nero played Lancelot du Lac to Redgrave's Guinevere in the 1968 movie version of the musical Camelot?  I knew it, and had tucked that little tidbit away as a souvenir of arguably the most stirring portrayal of star-crossed lovers ever on film.  I cannot condone their adultery, but I can swoon over their chemistry, their beautiful music, and their contagious agony and heartache.  What I didn't know was that there was even more to the real-life story that I had yet to discover.

The movie stars Redgrave as a woman whose letter expressing regret at leaving her Italian love to return to Britain is found behind a loose brick at Juliet's Verona house, a famous tourist spot and romantic pilgrimage. Redgrave's character seeks out her left-behind love, named Lorenzo, with the help of a young tourist who stumbles on the long-lost letter and decides to respond to it, 50 years after it was tucked behind the bricks.

Lorenzo is played by Franco Nero, and the movie's tale of young love abandoned and then rediscovered after decades echoes his real life love story with Vanessa. The pair met on the set of "Camelot" in 1967, had a son Carlo, and went their separate ways until finding each other again years later,  and marrying in 2006.  As years before, their chemistry is still undeniable, and suggests that time and space are inconsequential as they relate to the connection of two souls; that when heart speaks to heart, little else matters including 50 years worth of wrinkles and gray hair. 

In an interview with Nero about the movie and his rekindled relationship with Redgrave, he recounts some dialogue from Letters:  "She says a wonderful line, 'Sorry I'm late,' and I answer, 'When we speak about love, it's never too late.'"

Treat yourself to a sweet gift.  See this movie with someone that won't mind if you have trouble holding in the joy or the tears.  You're welcome.

In Memory of Murl

One of the delightful surprises of my marriage to Brian (and there have been many) was the relationship I was able to have with my mother-in-law.  Murl Haws was sweet, sassy, and devoted to her children and grandchildren.  It was an honor to share the title "Sister Haws" with her.

Murl absolutely loved the ocean and treasured whatever opportunity she could find to go there.  We would always try to fit in a trip to the coast whenever she came to visit, at whatever dumpy motel we could find, or afford, so she could sit, ponder, marvel, and drink in the magic of the waves. We made great effort to find a room with an oceanview and relatively easy access down to the beach. 

This weekend in her honor, Brian is gathering his sisters and their husbands for a reunion at the Oregon Coast.  You see, we have finally found a place to gather with lots of big, glorious windows facing the ocean; a place with easy access to the beach; and a big kitchen with plenty of dining space.

Sadly, it came too late for Murl to have experienced.  She passed away nearly two years ago and yet every time I go to the beach house I think of her.  I imagine her sitting next to the fireplace, cozy in a blanket, a good book nearby, enjoying the view. 

Murl, we love you, and wish you were joining us tomorrow.

Confidence: Given, earned, or merely fleeting?

We spend our lives pursuing elusive confidence. It is the key to facing life's challenges with hope, with faith, with courage, with head held high.  And yet, as soon as we obtain confidence, it slips away and the quest begins again.

Recently I spent a troubled night of restless sleep mourning the loss of the confidence of my youth.  Some of you may not have any idea what I'm talking about.  Others will.  It is undeniable.  There is something extraordinarily debilitating about the discovery of one's lost youth.  I appreciate the wisdom that comes with old age and maturity, but I don't welcome the decline in physical appearance, strength, and stamina.  How much confidence is derived from our outward appearance?  What happens when time takes its toll and the freshness of youth is replaced by weariness of body and soul?

My objective has been to age gracefully, but sadly I admit that age is winning the pursuit, and no amount of special creams will keep it at bay.  I have never believed in artificial methods for maintaining youth.  I am a grandmother, and I am content with looking like a grandmother.  But I would like to be a lovely grandmother.  Is that too much to ask?

My sun worshipping days of the past are catching up with me.  Frustrating age spots are popping up in uninvited places.  Gray hair hasn't been much of a nuisance yet, just a few random strands, easily plucked into submission.  My slowing metabolism is creeping up on me.  Morning stiffness makes me move like an old woman, despite generally not feeling like one.

I can't seem to shake the feeling of being overlooked, not getting the attention I used to in my younger days.  The older woman becomes invisible, ignored, disregarded.  I've never been one for flashy clothes with an abundance of accessories.  Is this what an older woman resorts to in order to be noticed?  Some attention I don't want!

I'm certain there must be a way to tap into other reservoirs of confidence.  I stumbled upon a quote by the extraordinary beauty, Sophia Loren, who if she has aged, no one cares because she is so fascinating:  “There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age.”

That's the key, isn't it?  There are so many other things we can bring to the table that have nothing to do with outward appearance.  My desire is to spend my days in quiet service, as the invisible old lady who loses her life hopefully in order to find it.  So what if I have to give up some pride and refocus my priorities.  My family will always love me, I think, as I mellow into the graying matriarch who is the endless source of good meals, fun surprises, and unconditional love.  I may lose my teeth, my figure, my pride, but hopefully I will never lose the twinkle in my eye, the warmth of my wrinkly smile, and the faith in my heart.  These are the priceless assets that draw people toward you, no matter what your age, or your size, or your stature.

What do you remember most about your grandmother?  Did her wrinkly, twinkly smile make you love her less, or more?  Was she fashionably dressed, or simply clean, and sweet smelling with a warm, soft, enveloping embrace?  Did the aromas of her cooking fill her home, making it inviting and welcoming?

The transition is the difficult part.  Watching the decline is frustrating and painful.  I don't care about the aging process in others.  Why can't I cut myself some slack, too?  Why can't I be more accepting of my own youth slipping away?  Because the pace has quickened.  The decline is more noticeable.  The deterioration has become steadier and more blatant.  Perhaps it is time to start wearing red and purple, and saying to heck with it.

No.  I'm not quite there yet.

Legends of Sleepy Hollow

Last Friday I took a step backwards in time.  At least that is what it felt like.  And I found a circle of friends which I would have wanted to be apart of.  I would have hung around their perimeter until they would have had to invite me to join them.  I saw where they lived; where they read, studied, and wrote.  I saw where they pondered and communed with nature.  And finally, I saw where they were laid to rest; all within yards of each other, in a peaceful spot on one of the hills of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

You see, I was in Transcendental Central, to borrow a term coined by my daughter, Miranda.  I was in Concord, Massachusetts, the lovely little tranquil spot outside the bustle of Boston; the place where the Revolutionary War began, where first rang the shot heard round the world.  Historians delight in the significance of this important place.  Literaries delight in its significance as the birthplace of the Trancendentalist Movement.

I went to Walden Pond.  I really did.  And it was as peaceful and beautiful and inspiring as Thoreau said it was.  I walked the pathway he regularly took from the pond to his little shack.  I saw the replica shack that has been built in the spot of the original.  I sat on his doorstep, and looked out to see the things he saw.

I'm pretty sure he would not have looked favorably upon the extensive parking lot, the gift shop, or the bikini-clad swimmers in his pond.  But they didn't really detract too much from the spirit of the place.

The real monuments to their greatness don't reside on the shady hill of Sleepy Hollow.  They rest on the bookshelves of homes and libraries all over the world.  Their lasting impact can be felt as one explores their revolutionary thought.  They believed religion can be a personal thing, with spirit touching spirit.  They were missing a few critical pieces of truth which their contemporary, Joseph Smith, just a state away in New York, was restoring to the world.  I believe they were ready to hear and would have been receptive to the restored Truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and would have welcomed Joseph into their circle too. 

New Territory

My parents used to own a big, fancy motor home that they set out to explore the country in. I was always fascinated by the adhesive map posted on its side that showed all the different states they had visited.  It was truly remarkable the miles they had covered, especially considering the method they chose to cover those miles.  I am not that patient.  I find a day spent traversing the country in an airplane to be painful and challenging; I can't imagine a road trip which requires exponentially more time sitting in a cramped position. That doesn't mean I don't share their desire to explore and discover.  And I, too, love "coloring in" the places I have seen.

This past week I was able to cover some new territory, which is always a thrill.  We spent a couple days in Atlanta, Georgia at a textiles industry trade show.  In the past, the extent of our Atlanta experience had been reserved to time spent in the airport, which I think doesn't really count, so it was nice to get out and really put our feet on some Georgia soil.  We had a great time.  One of the highlights for me was seeing the stunning Georgia Aquarium.

This may be the best aquarium I have ever seen.  I would love to go there again someday, sharing it with my children and grandchildren.

After our time in Atlanta, we flew north to Boston, Massachusetts, again having the opportunity to see new country for both of us.  Boston held back none of its charms.  It was beautiful, and the weather couldn't have been more delightful.

Our lovely hotel, The Lenox, on the corner of Exeter and Boylston, was the perfect location to explore the city on foot, within easy walking distance to Fenway Park where we saw the Red Sox play, Symphony Hall where we saw the Boston Pops play, and the Boston Common, where we saw the rest of Boston play.  I could easily spend a week in the Boston area and never run out of interesting and spectacular attractions.  So not only is Boston now checked off my list of places to see, it is now on a new list:  the Places to which I must return.

Oh, Ardy! Come look.

I love it when I hear those words.  It means my husband has seen something he thinks is beautiful, or remarkable, or for whatever reason, something that will thrill me.  And I always know that he will be right, whatever it is.  I know this because of our  history together.  He delights in discovery, and he delights in sharing it with me.

Last night when we checked into our room in downtown Atlanta, we were told that they had run out of standard rooms, so they were bumping us up to a premium room with a corner view.  Okay.  No argument here.  As I followed Brian into the room, I heard those familiar words, "Oh, Ardy!  Come look."  Of course he was right; it was absolutely worth my time to look at the breathtaking view of the beautiful skyline in the background, and in the foreground the Centennial Olympic Park, the Georgia Aquarium, the World of Coca-Cola, the CNN Center and Phillips Arena.  Right there.  Here were some of the premiere attractions of Atlanta spread out in panorama before me, to drink in at my leisure.

There is power in those words:  Come Look.  Are we always attentive enough to look when someone bids us to? And should we always obediently look?  Of course, we must use caution.  Awhile back on facebook, my seminary teacher from years past seemed to be beckoning one of his former students to "look at this sexy video".  That seemed a little out of character I thought.  Sure enough.  He had been the victim of foul play and a virus.  Those with evil intentions know how trusting the collective "we" can be, and they know the power of suggestion.

There is another admonition to "look" given by the prophet Alma, to his son Helaman, in the Book of Mormon.  He loved the idea of being able to look to the Savior, Jesus Christ, for healing, for redemption, for salvation, and was frustrated that so many would perish because of doubting the easiness of the commandment to just look. He cautions his son:  "Do not let us be slothful because of the easiness of the way...the way is prepared, and if we will look we may live forever...yea, see that ye look to God and live."

I am so thankful for those in my life that have pointed the way for me to look, to follow, to live.  I have had some remarkable examples in my life.  I hope that there are those in your life that you trust enough to follow their admonitions to "Come Look!"

Rest of the Story...

So I know a few of you are wondering the fate of the Big Blue Van.  Just as Brian suspected, it had been stolen.  I can just picture those idiots, laughing all the way, after they hot-wired it, riding down the road in its bouncy seats.  They must have thought they were pretty smart.  Then, they must have thought themselves pretty smart to use it for their other outlaw activities over the weekend.  They must have loved that the back is so spacious, with plenty of room to fill with hot merchandise from their escapades.  Then, they must have thought themselves pretty smart to have abandoned it by the side of the road, still full of their bounty, after they had let it run out of gas...  Yea, pretty smart.