La morte mi troverá vivo…
Death will find me alive…
I was one who lived in dreams. Parents, teachers, and peers on several occasions found themselves irritated with me thinking that I was intentionally ignoring their instructions, questions, or prompting. However, my daydreaming was not completely intentional.
How could I help myself? I was introduced to travel and adventure at a young age. The story of being carried on a tray throughout the kitchen of a trattoria in Rome is told at almost every birthday.
“’Bella bambina!’ They shouted and pinched your fat cheeks,” my mother or father recites. There is no physical memory since I was only a year old at the time but for me the story has become a memory. As one retreats and lives in books I lived within these stories. Even stories from before I was born! There were scenarios that held no proof of my existence, but I still dreamed in them. I imagined the memories told by my family, family friends, parents, and grandparents.
These retellings were full of adventure, laughter, sadness, and loss. First hand accounts of the experiences told by my storytellers. I was given the opportunity to live vicariously through my heritage and find pieces of myself through their stories.
I knew I needed to continue these stories. I knew that travel and adventure was something I had to have a part of my daily life. And so, death will find me alive because I am only continuing to dream, tell my stories, and live in constant search of new adventures.
My hopes lie in inspiring other people to dream and to never be afraid of where a dream might take them.
Medora Oriana Davison
The Beginning of the Adventure (July, 11th 2011)
Zorba's Caravan 
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The “memory” IS physical and embedded in your psyche (soul), even if not “mental.” (How much wiser are our souls!) “Body memory” goes deeply (as my students who are dancers, musicians, painters, and actors well know). As Yeats wrote: “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” You are the living embodiment and history of your ancestors! The dance and story carry on! (Remember the poem I wrote you when you were a little girl: “Story-Time”?) Yes, I recall strolling you down the street in Florence and Rome….those ancient Italian women dressed in black who stopped us on the streetcorners and pinched your cheek — the fat, rosy cheek of a white-blonde-haired baby — imparted their sensibility and touch to you, and you carry it to this day. Dance across the globe like Zorba!