attention

The Dolce Soul of Basil

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The other day, I had an especially strong need for some peace after an “interesting” day and knew right where to go: the garden.  The basil pots, to be precise.  And so I plucked and snipped the leaves and stems, immersing myself fully into a feast for the senses:  the vibrant smell, the radiant shades of green, the delicate beauty of the central leaves unfurling from those below, like a fountain. 

Even the nibbled (albeit discarded) leaves were somewhat appealing: a reminder of the abundance of life within the garden.  And all the while, I was anticipating its miraculous metamorphosis into pesto – and the fulfillment that comes with an act as primal and pure as planting and cultivating one’s own food, even if that food is a few leaves or sprigs. 

And oh what a plant it is.  Basil (a.k.a. ocimum basilicum) is a colorful character in the herb family.  Known as the “king of herbs” – from the ancient Greek word basilikon (kingly/royal) – it has an illustrious history.  From embalmer of the dead in ancient Egypt, to a traditional sign of engagement in Romania, it is also associated with the basilisk dragon.  In Italy, basil signifies love, yet in ancient Greece and Rome – and for the Victorians – basil meant hate.  Nicholas Culpeper explains in The English Physitian (1652) that, were a person to take even one whiff of basil, scorpions would grow in their brain.  Perhaps most memorable is basil’s reputation as a poison – one that would prompt “’venomous beasts’ to appear in horse-dung, and would not grow near rue – apparently a danger sign” (Oxford Plants 400).

Arguably the most artistic and vivid vision of basil belongs to Boccaccio, whose tale in the Decameron (1353), “Lisabetta and the Pot of Basil,” features the herb as a vessel of passionate love.  Boccaccio weaves together love and hatred, as Lisabetta’s malicious brothers murder her beloved, leaving Lisabetta only one thing to do: unearth her lover’s body, secretly plant his head in the bottom of a pot of basil, and water it with her tears.  Boccaccio inspired John Keats to write the narrative poem “Isabella, or the Pot of Basil” (1818), which, in turn, inspired John Everett Millais (1849), William Holman Hunt (1868), and John William Waterhouse (1907), among others, to paint their own versions of the story.  While the gruesome nature of the crime may have sparked such replication, I’d like to believe it was basil’s intoxicating nature that served as the muse. 

Isabella and the Pot of Basil, W. H. Hunt (San Francisco’s Legion of Honor Museum) 

Basil even signifies a sense of home: legend has it that Genovese sailors, yearning for and returning to their home port, could smell basil growing in window boxes from miles away.  I wonder if its aroma will remind my own children of home someday – of those days in our first house, blow-up baby pool and slip n’ slide in the backyard on a sweltering summer day, and those two packed wine-barrels overflowing with basil, its intense scent steaming off the hose-doused leaves. 

Fruits of the basil harvest: Joy in a bouquet of basil (2016)

Ok, time to snap back to the present! If you are not currently growing any basil, get yourself to your favorite nursery, Trader Joe’s, or even a home improvement store (less romantic than a nursery, but it does the trick).  You might not have enough to make pesto yet, but there’s always a caprese salad – or simply add one pungent leaf to a sandwich ~ or use a sprig  to garnish your next Negroni!  

And if you already grow it, immerse yourself.  When you pick a bouquet for your next batch of pesto (pesto post coming soon, btw), first plunge your head into the glorious greenery, close your eyes, inhale deeply, and let yourself waft in a restorative, aromatic bath of basil.

Dolce Far Niente…Ciao!

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When I consider what has happened between my first post on Kgioia in 2013 and this inaugural post of Dolce Far Niente in 2026, it is both unfathomable and perfectly logical. I now have 3 teenage boys, where they used to be ages 1, 3, and 5. They are (almost) all now taller than my husband and I. We now have a dog instead of a cat. We exchanged one house for another.  

But in that time, too, my beloved father passed away (3 years ago on this very day), and the void he has left remains endlessly deep. This blog is a bridge to him and our Italian heritage, as well as a reminder of how to live as fully as possible through our ever-evolving, ever-quickening lives. To live just as he did, to “take care of the little things, and the big things will take care of themselves.”

Dolce Far Niente – the sweetness of doing nothing – is a philosophy that resonates with me in its gentle encouragement to pay attention to, and thus find the value in, the existence of those “little things” that make up a good life.  For instance, that fig I referenced in Kgioia’s first post in 2013 inspired me to pay attention to its beautiful color, texture, striping, miraculous inner threads, its status as the first cultivated plant, originating in the Jordan Valley, which people have been eating for over 11,000 years.  In short, I felt awe at this compact fruit that spans time and space. Although a life where “doing nothing” is really not possible for me (nor would I find it appealing after about 2 days), it is in mindfully doing and being and noticing and living that we discover dolce far niente.  It is in paying attention to life as an aesthetic experience. 

Which is where the Italian spirit comes into play.  The Italians – the ultimate aesthetes – are known for their appreciation of the high quality of life found in simple soulful moments: a long meal, a fresh caprese salad, a well-loved (even chipped) ceramic bowl used over and over again, spindly sprigs of rosemary plucked from the garden and tossed into a tomato sauce simmering on the stove.  Food, wine, art, culture, geographical beauty, what pleasure for the senses!  And then there is the high value placed on connection to family and community, from multigenerational households, to the nightly passeggiata, to the piazzas still popular with the locals. Dolce Far Niente provides an opportunity to refine the senses to appreciate what is there – no new “stuff” required.  It is a sanctuary for the aesthetic experience, a space to center our attention on beauty of all forms, an anchor amidst the upheaval of our world.

Our attention is naturally in short supply, and for good reason: if we paid attention to every single sound, sight, smell around us, we would be overwhelmed by cognitive overload.  Thanks to survival instincts, too, we tend to pay attention to the threats around us, which too often limit our ability to see the beauty and goodness that ARE there.  Add to that the fact that our attention is being relentlessly courted by many entities, thanks to the growing influence of tech in our everyday lives. So it is crucial to pay attention to what we pay attention to, to tend to – and to care for – our attention in a way that we may not have needed to even in the recent past. (What was doomscrolling in 2013?)  And in tending to our attention, we will find that we tend more to our relationships, being more present not just in our own lives, but for others. This echoes French philosopher Simone Weil when she says that, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”

Shifting away from Kgioia does not mean the joy is gone.  Al contrario, gioia is inherent within the philosophy of Dolce Far Niente, whose gentle encouragement to pay attention can help us find those little joyous moments that make up a meaningful life.  But meaningfulness and joy are not always one and the same.  We might notice the flavor of the madeleine or a few bars from a song and let them take us back to a moment or people we miss, and this nostalgia does not bring me (a hopeless nostalgic) any joy. But it does add depth and richness to my existence, re-living those experiences with people who have helped make life precious.  

And so, as our family evolves and our eldest prepares for his final year at home, I am trading productivity for presence. This year, my focus shifts toward the ‘sweetness of doing nothing’—finding gratitude and awe in the luminous moments of the ordinary, whether in a shared meal, the quiet wisdom of a poem, or the simple vibrancy of a basil plant in the sun.