Seven years ago I wrote my first poem, prompted by an assignment at a retreat. The only instruction was to reference the five life elements of Ayurveda. And so I wrote a tribute to my favorite place: the mountains I grew up in and still visit once or twice a year. I’m here now and in the quiet of a morning on the lake, the poem found its way to the surface of my memory.

Nothing is sacred, he said
Not even this place.
A sad ache seeps from my heart on into my bones
My experience of the world so different
And I wait days for words to form some sort of reply.

We live separate lives
But here is where we gather.
We set aside our differences and play
Here is where the dirt has soaked up ourselves
Year after year after year
And pulses with our memories, sustains us.

Summers spent one with the water (winters with snow)
No need for shoes, our feet crave the bare earth.
Fireworks enjoyed from the boat
Thin mountain air hot, then suddenly cool with thunderstorms
Backs against the dock, lake calm
Stars burst from the dark ether.

This place is nothing but sacred, she finally said
Knowing words would never convince him.
And so she released it all
Earth, water, fire, air and ether
Trusting the sacred to find her own way to him.

-RDP

Cheering for Italy yesterday in a shoot out for the Euro Cup took me back to 2006 and that glorious summer I once spent in Italy…

My American visitors all find their way home by the middle of June. Temperatures soar and I am continually thankful to live above the city, in the Florentine hills. A steady breeze swirls up from the valley, keeping us sane as the intense heat brings our daily pace to a crawl. The air turns to molasses, and we surrender to summer, letting it carry us along.

I play hide and seek with the sun every day. My windows never close but shutters are latched up by the time the morning church bells ring out at nine, plunging the apartment into mid-day darkness in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay. I open them again at twilight to welcome the cooling air that brings relief and watch as the village revives. By trading a few hours of nighttime sleep for siesta naps, I can savor the glorious evenings with late dinners in my neighbor’s garden, then head to Bar Cinque down on the piazza. Even at midnight there is no need for a sweater. My friend admires the best grappa on the shelf, endearing her to the grizzled owner; she sips contentedly while I barely get the fiery liquid down.

It's too muggy not to get wet somehow. The town pool is full, but we remember the invitation from a friend to stop by anytime, grab beach chairs, and sunbathe by the river. The reality is less inviting: a rundown cottage, overgrown weeds, and a little dribble of a creek. Only the sketchy boyfriend is home. He offers to show us a hidden swimming hole just a five-minute drive and short hike away. I'm skeptical, yet surprisingly carefree about the afternoon and so we're off again. Out into the countryside, down a dirt road, we nearly tumble into the ravine. We park with no idea how we'll eventually turn around. Down, down, down the little dirt path we go, laughing as we fairly skip along, our flimsy sandals kicking up dust. Finally, we reach the creek. We wade through it up to the swimming hole. It's deep and ice cold and we're happy. Even in our bikinis and bare feet we could take the boyfriend down if he tries anything funny. We feel safe enough. No need for towels we don't have; we're sweaty and dusty again before we've climbed even halfway to the old vineyard truck. We briefly wonder if it was worth the effort but we know it was. To splash in the water just for a few minutes, to forget the searing heat, we'd do it tomorrow if we could ever find the trail again.

By July the World Cup is approaching its climax and our anticipation grows as the Azzurri advance. Walking home during the semi-final match, the streets are strangely empty and silent, save for the sounds of the game from TVs and radios. We pick up on the changing score as we stroll. Just as I enter my apartment the village erupts in a roar as Italy advances. We make plans for the Final: a table at Pizzeria Etrusca. They’re putting a TV in the bar window so we can all sit on the patio and watch. The big day arrives and the neighbor boys get out their face paint to wear the green, red and white with pride. We troupe down to the piazza, find our table, and nervously pick at pizza slices.

We hold our breath. My cheeks get decorated with Italian flags, yet France strikes first.

The boys decides on more paint for my nose and chin, as though we can will a goal with our enthusiasm. Italy answers! Into overtime we go, on the edge of our seats. Zidane gets thrown out—our lucky break! Still tied, we move to penalty kicks. Italy starts 1-0, France ties it up.

We cross our fingers. Italy is perfect again, but France isn’t ready to concede.

Italy goes ahead 3-2, then 4-3. The seconds creep by as we can't bear to watch yet cannot look away. And then it happens, off the crossbar, France misses and it's over! It takes only a moment for the triumph to sink in as we finally exhale. We’ve won, vive Italie! Prosecco and kisses all around as madness erupts. Cars and motorbikes stream past, an endless parade of honking and shouting. We must join them. We race back to the house and grab keys. Down, down, down the hill to join the masses in the city below. Round and round Piazza della Beccaria as we yell, honking and waving the flag out the window. We’re crazy, but so is everyone else. We’re all pazza that night. If we ever get to sleep we’ll be dreaming only of victory.