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Packing

So many things, moments, snapshots I want to pack in my suitcase, burrow deep in my pockets, drill into memory, which seems to become a hazy mist the older I get, and try as I might reach for it, the present pushes me forward with such vehemence that any clinging behind only tends to sever me into pieces. Perhaps this is life with children. There is nothing but now, nothing but this minute, until the day collides hard with your pillow and you fall into something deeper than sleep until you are pulled, yanked, ripped awake again.

But I want to catch something, hook some things. That is what this blog is, has been. A place to record this crazy adventure; a different kind of album to flip through when the years turn grey.

Italy.

Rome.

Bella.

I have learned that you must not drink espresso too slowly.

I have learned that it is never too early to inhale chocolate.

I have learned how to cook the perfect pasta and how blue cheese is sometimes all you need.

I have learned that no matter how many times I try the shops will not be open at siesta.

I have learned that life can be perfect with just enough and needing more is not essential.

I have learned that clothes on the line come with a freshness that no dryer can ever give.

I have learned that eating is an art and wine a simple brushstroke.

I have learned that potato pizza is just about the best you can get.

I have learned that you don’t need to speak a language well if you just pretend you are in a silent movie and act everything out.

But most importantly, I  have learned that you only have one passion and you must take it with you, always.

 

U-turn

I am still here. Needing to look up, look out, widen my eyes and take in a periphery.

It’s been thirteen months since the birth of my son.

It has been glorious, mesmerizing, intoxicating to be filled with nothing but the smell and taste of your children.

I feel drugged.

I feel full.

Now it is time to look up, look out, widen my eyes and take in a periphery.

I don’t have much, as I stumble out, weak and logy, but one glance at something out and up to share, to see Rome again before we leave, to remember this place that gave me a boy and helped to grow my girl.

My Rome.

For we are turning around. We are moving again. Back to the red dirt of Uganda.

Brother

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Clovers

I have a friend who perches on top of a mountain in glorious Vermont. Her yard is carpeted in clover and there have been many times I have bathed myself in green among them, rolling like a lizard in wonderland. Stooped over, I would search endlessly for that 4 leaf luck, only to come up empty handed again and again. Then one day my dear friend said, “You know, the four leaf clover is a common mutation.” I looked back down at the ground and saw not one, but two, then three. Four. I found six that day, one after the other and then actually found a five leaf clover, as if the leaves themselves were multiplying in front of me. I have them still; I look at them often. My friend laminated them for me, to remind me of the day when luck wasn’t so hard to find, when I simply shifted my perspective and instead of expecting difficulty, I said to myself over and over, “It’s a common mutation.”

I think of those clovers now as we plot our next move. I’ve been silent here, quiet while growing and birthing an amazing new addition to our family. The world seems so big now, too big, dangerous with such a small treasure in my hand. Nairobi, Kenya seems a great possibility for us. Africa is calling us back. But I feel my breath get caught in my throat now and my knees fall weak at the unknown. I still ache for the red dirt, the warm sun, the stunning smiles. So I have to shift my perspective. If I expect to find difficulty, I will. If I expect it to be hard, it will. Perhaps instead I should just trust that there are clovers hidden in all that dust and that if I just look the right way that is all I will see.

Winter

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I keep thinking of Hilary Mantel, winner of the Booker Prize, twice. The New Yorker did a wonderful article on her in which she referenced an old belief that one must return to one’s own country within 10 years of leaving or risk never fitting in again (she lived abroad for 9 years before returning to England). We’ve been out five years now but I already feel that old adage wrapping me up in string. I feel a part of Rome; I am becoming etched in its stone. Perhaps it is in my blood, my grandmother being Sicilian, or perhaps I have simply fallen in love with the Italian way of life; I have.

Halloween just passed. I think of the holiday back home, the costumes, candy, fright. To what end? Halloween is All Saints Day here in Italy. It is a day to remember those who have passed, to be with family, feast in honor of the dead. Everything has weight here; everything rests here.

When I returned to the States earlier this year it was like walking into an old closet and putting on your favorite sweater. I felt warm, at ease, comfortable. But then I started to notice how some buttons were missing, a tear where I had not known there to be one, fabric scratching my skin. When I caught my reflection in a mirror I realized the sweater no longer fit me.

I’ve met many ex-pats here, there, around who move like currents over the earth or find new shells to grow old in far away from where they were born and raised. When you no longer see through your culture’s eyes can it still be called home?

More bits

I want to catch time, bottle it, take it out when I need it, inhale it slowly, sip it, devour it, but it runs from me, and although I sometimes see it just within my reach, it quickly disappears behind a tree, or I lose it in shadows. I haven’t forgotten about this space, place, to share and record. I just need to catch that time.

The nice thing about waiting is I’ve been collecting some more facts, observations about Rome, the Romans, life here in Italy:

If you have to park your car, you cannot slow down to try and find a spot. Nothing will annoy a Roman more. You must slam on your breaks and turn sharply, never missing a beat in your speed.

You cannot get blood taken at a doctor’s office. You must go to an official lab, which will then contact you with the results, which you must come and pick up yourself, and then deliver them back to your doctor.

Old Italians (or at least my friend’s grandmother) believe(s) that baring your stomach is why you get sick. You must protect the belly with wool at all times.

Italians are terrified of breezes. You will be on a bus, melting, but do not even think of opening a window or you will be scolded.

The mosquitoes are worse here than in Africa. It’s October and they are still swarming, eating.

Restaurants do not cut your pizza for you. If you order a pie, you must carve it up yourself.

Oranges ripen in winter, so as the city falls into a deep chill, the grey skies are dotted with orange balls.

Garbage is not picked up at your residence. You must take it to the communal trash cans scattered about the neighborhood.

The electricity is fragile. You must pick one appliance to use at a time or risk blowing a circuit.

Romans like their red meat raw. And I mean raw, not rare, raw.

Sometimes, after it rains, there will be a slight red dusting on everything. This is from the winds that come from Africa, dropping red dirt from the Sahara desert that it’s picked up along its way.

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