Sometimes your life changes in big, dramatic ways, as though you've been cast in a play you don't remember auditioning for.~Jess Walter (From The Angel of Rome)

I didn't expect to like Italy so much. Some people might ask, "Priscilla what could you not possibly like about that country...I mean the food, the wine, the ornate cathedrals, the architecture? The castles, the cerulean lakes, the people? Are you crazy?" There is nothing more vivid than the country's beauty, its houses painted deep salmon and pink, ochre and yellow, lavender mountain ranges outlined in the distance. Everywhere one looks, there is all of that. My experience in past years when I'd visit was to survive--family gatherings and packed schedules, the beauty as fleeting in my memory as a locomotive rushing past. There was no way to count all the train cars. I came home exhausted and headed back to work. 

This time, I still spoke the language with less skill than a four-year-old. But I couldn't remember audititioning for this play. This theater production was slower. I sat at the train tracks and had time to count the cars. The pace was slow enough to allow a savoring of the beauty, to practice speaking, to receive the love of my husband and his family. Each day while there I would write in my journal and ask myself, "How do I keep it simple today? What are my lines for the day's script? What am I grateful for?" Somehow, the day would fall into place, the landscape of the country a stage. I felt sad to leave. I wanted more time in the boot.

I finally looked hard through the window of memory, a neat square cut into the years.~Darin Strauss (From Half A Life)

I step back and look into the window of memories I've carved out while in Italy. Days spent with my husband exploring small villages by motorcycle have created new intimacies with him. I'm grateful for our dreamscape adventures in his beautiful country. 

Too, I'm reminded as I've spent time in a new culture, how much more alike people are than different.

The nextdoor neighbor patiently cares for her husband who is cognitively impaired after a stroke. The young, virile son of a loved one suffers a random accident while playing soccer. How will this change his life? His viewpoint?

People gather in outdoor cafes, earbuds in place, connected to their phones and screens. 

I stand in an elevator with an immigrant family. The mother wears an ankle-length, black and white print dress. My eyes are drawn to her worn sandals, her swollen feet. The father holds his toddler's hand. The little boy looks up at me and I smile at him. He waves shyly and says, "ciao." I meet the mother's gaze; her soulful brown eyes say with no words that she is strong. I wonder if my eyes communicate admiration. When she and her husband step out of the elevator, I notice an infant swaddled on her back. I wonder about her story.

Thanksgiving is our dialect.~From Ephesians 5:4 (The Message)

I fell off my bicycle. Right before I fell, my mind moved into that weird space of slow motion where I realized I couldn't stop, yet knew I'd fall. Then boom. I toppled over and landed with a thud mercifully on a mound of grass. I wasn't hurt, but shaken up. I haven't been back on the bike. I want to get back on. I will get back on.

Then there's another kind of metaphorical bike riding with the Italian language. Yesterday, I went shopping alone in Italy. The experience was like getting back on the bike after a fall. I've made many mistakes while attempting to speak Italian--so many, in fact, that it feels hard to keep trying.

I found a pathway in Italy, a ribbon of blacktop cut through the countryside where I enjoy walking. One day I spied a sign while on the trail, "Zona di Rifugio." In Italian this means "Refuge Zone." The field is an immense space where birds and other animals can feed and roam freely, protected from hunters.

Light fills this pathway. Perhaps the light is what I love most about my time in this region. Dappled light accents ancient stone floors in the cathedrals; streaming golden rays cast light on massive columns. The glory of stained glass, deep hues of orchid and red, cerulean and amber glow from circular windows. Frescoes and paintings reflect the beauty of both shadow and brilliance. Bougainvillea spills gleaming and purple from balconies.

We make our way, and effort and time give us cushion and dignity. And as we age, we're riding higher in the saddle, seeing more terrain.~Darin Strauss (From Half A Life)

I wasn't sure I'd be back to the page before October. Didn't know if I'd have bandwidth to write after making it to Italy. All the trips across the ocean beforehand add up to this one.

Previous trips have found me here in the boot feeling anxious, fretting, embarrassed and ashamed regarding my poor Italian. I haven't been able to shake off the shame. Unable to relax and enjoy the beauty. This time around, I have more margin, the pace gentler. I don't have to cram everything into a two-week time period and then get back on the job. My language skills are somewhat improved. I've begun to open my mouth and try to form the syllables of this melodic language. 

And there is the succulent light of the Italian countryside, the mix of sun and shadows that creates a benediction. In the house, there is a view from every room. Plowed fields, homes painted ochre and gold. Coral.  Purple Crepe Myrtle blooms stand contrasted against lemon-colored walls. The moon is full now, and a few nights ago Giovanni and I drove on a black-topped road that wound through cornfields. The breeze like cashmere on our skin, that glowing orb of moonlight like God's face lighting up the night sky.