Hi. It’s been a while!
When I came home from Sabbatical in October, once the fog of jetlag lifted and as I recovered from the inevitable bug acquired on my long flights home, I had my real life to contend with. I was reminded reentry is a lot of heavy lifting.
My month in Italy was incredible. That can’t be overstated. But since I’ve been home, I’ve had to shift focus to what is able to persist after I forgot the taste of expertly aged Modena balsamic vinegar on my tongue. After the trip high wore off, I was left with the job of unpacking what I brought home, finding places in my life to store the lessons only Sabbatical and solo travel and a creativity retreat can teach me.
I’ve had relationships to reinvest in. I’ve had new relationships and connections to nurture. I have gone back to work and have already traveled there and back for the holidays and to witness and celebrate my sister’s beautiful wedding. I’m initiating new creative projects and making plans for 2023. I’m honoring the winter solstice and counting on the coming light, but not before a short while of going into the cave to finish the year soft and creative.
That brings me to today: the shortest day of the year, which is the longest night of the year. I lost some momentum publishing on Wandering Home when I paused to go on Sabbatical. While the start of winter is the least likely time to find momentum in the long nights and the deep freezes, it feels significant on this occasion to acknowledge that I've been writing a lot but publishing little. I’ve never showed up as well as a writer as I have learned to in the last few months. I can’t wait to share more when I’m ready. Good things are happening in the quiet, like more writing and daylight that gives way to Spring.
But first, a look back. I shared a few quick recaps on my Instagram and Facebook if you’d like to read about my adventures in Italy, but here and now, I want to write about how the experience continues to shape me.
Here’s a poem which is a little about risotto and a lot about communion.
Something I learned in Italy
Something I learned in Italy is that
there can be a meal meant to never get over.
I’m still savoring that hot pumpkin risotto,
bright and steamy, topped with curls of parmesan
and crispy amaretto sage biscuit pieces
paired with a wouldn’t-dare-not-be-local wine,
as if it's my last supper.
Something I learned in Italy is that
a sincere invitation to create
shouldn’t be disregarded.
Say yes to dicing potatoes
and words into poetry,
and also say yes to making art in a wine cellar
with bare skin and silk and a Sony so that
exposing our truest selves can
remind us of our beauty and power.
Something I learned in Italy is that
I could build new community again,
or, rather, that it was time to.
That the last few years stole far too much
but I did find a way in Tuscany to lay some of
the baggage and badges down and remember
that my belonging at the table does matter.
Something I learned in Italy is that
the Roman prophets I could hear best –
from the Vatican churches
to the famous coffee bar
across the square from the Pantheon –
were the painters, the sculptors,
the baristas and sommeliers,
the chefs, and the architects
reminding me that the core
can be about craft and beauty.
Something I learned in Italy is that
the ritual of sharing a table is
as sacramental as I've found and that
connection begins where you make it.
Taste for certain tables can evolve over time
but something I learned in Italy is
that's the meal I may never get over.
Something I learned in Italy is
I'm still savoring the last meal last winter
of Bread from a bakery truck
and a chapel that felt like
I'd wandered home to my own Body
when I was still caged inside the one
I couldn’t seem to free myself from.
But trapped is a perspective.
Since then, ten thousand sips or more
have reminded me that
I can set or join a table anywhere,
we can bless the elements, and
toast to beauty, take and eat.
Lambrusco with Hannah,
White Rascal with Gabe,
Cappuccino with Sarah,
Moonbuggy with Chris,
Balsamic with Mykah,
Prosecco with Carol,
Gelato with Melissa,
Amarone with Stan,
Tea with Meghann,
Spritz with Jenny,
Water with Faith,
Coffee with Jen.
One whiff of Kirbee’s cardamom
and I leave the Locanda veranda
for the warm hospitality of a coffee shop
in a Palestinian refugee camp where
connection is really all we can do and
it’s all communion anyhow.
It was Darwish who wrote how
coffee is the sister of time,
a meditation and a plunge
into memories and the soul.
And I ask, can anyone comprehend
the taste of memory
or the memory of taste?
They smell the same to me,
both reconcile me to me.
Something I learned in Italy is
somewhere among the rolling hills
and tiny alleys and ancient roads,
somehow between all the
creativity and community and craft,
sometime between the foodie tours
and solo strolls and writing workshops,
I understood, finally, that
maybe none of these were
a mere dining experience
but an exercise in hunger and fullness.
It’s settling in me in some way,
like the grounds left to linger at the bottom:
the Cup can be any mug of coffee.
I’m glad you’re here. I’ll be publishing new posts sparingly through the holidays because I want to balance rest and build momentum on a new writing project I’ve begun. I won’t apologize because I’m doing exactly what I need and want to do, writing where I need and want to write. When I’ve got more to say, you’ll be the first to know.
And in the coming weeks, happy whatever-you’re-celebrating, as long as it’s love!
Cin cin,