Writing is a way to salvage life, to give it form and meaning. It exposes what we have hidden, unearths what we have neglected, misremembered, denied. It is a method of capturing, of pinning down, but it is also a form of truth, of liberation.~Jhumpa Lahiri (From Ties)

When I come to Italy, I pull back the curtain once again and examine my relationship with this culture. I long to find a sense of myself here, piece myself together in way that doesn't feel so awkward. But maybe I've just become so good at playacting in my own culture that all is well with me that I'm disabled in another culture. I can't do that here in this lovely country.

We're here living in a stone house with rose-colored walls. Purple oleanders bloom in pots outside our door. Dappled light saturates the path where my husband and I ride our bikes to buy bread and vegetables. We travel to free concerts held in the town square, listening to classical music under a blue moon. Once in a blue moon, I think. Literally. That moon that caused the tides to swell and flood the streets while we've been away from Charleston.

I write to discover some balance in this culture too--finding my way by "capturing, pinning down a form of truth of liberation." 

Today I wear no make up and sit under an umbrella, soaking up this location that I am blessed to explore. The people here seem to be drained of the anxiety that permeates my American culture. Often times the anxiety that depletes me as well. Here the pace is more relaxed. Even the language unfurls with melodic vowels.  I'm letting go, too, unfolding. Happy, grateful to know bits of the language. Partial communication is an unlatching. 

On my lips, too, are prayers of thanksgiving for God's mercy. His peace, His provision. No matter where I am. 

The Lord watches over the alien. (Psalm 146:9, NIV)