In Rome we rode a white Vespa. I thought it was so romantic. Until the cobblestones. And even with that bumpy knowledge, only the romance remains. 

I don’t know who’s in charge, but I’m sure they work together, the heart and the brain. Because it’s the same with the gravel road I grew up on. All those pebbles in knees. All that elbowed skin left behind. The ever present rock in shoe. And still, what I carry is the freedom of the breeze. The lifting from the neighborhood. The launch on foot and bicycle from all that gravel. 

Maybe once again I’m just romancing the stone. So maybe my heart is in charge after all, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. If it were different, I’m not certain I’d walk the steep gravel each day here in France. And oh, I’ve fallen here too. I have the additional scars to prove it. But my heart’s memory is so strong — remember the view it says, the two foxes yesterday, the flowers, the birds, the butterflies and sweet jasmine’s scent. The repeat of freedom’s breeze gives youth to my legs and they scoot as if the mountains were Van Dyke Road. And I am without worry. Without time. 

If I have any advice at all, whatever challenge or opportunity lies ahead, by whatever name it is called, ride the Vespa.