Carpe Diem (Blame it on Dead Poets Society)

Three years ago, when I was here on a hiking trip (con la bella Beatrice) and first stumbled onto the possibility of moving here, I sent myself a postcard as encouragement, as a "placeholder".

It is a photo of a doorway.
Today, it is still stuck to my refrigerator (by a magnet that says, "do one thing every day that scares you"). Upon the card, I wrote:

“I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately. To front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not – when it came time to die, to discover that I had not lived. Si può fare”

Si può fare: “this can be done” in Italian.

My dear friend, the leader of the Waterford White Robe Club (who I want to be when I grow up), has a sign in her cabin that says simply, “I Can Do This.” It is her spirit that I summon when I need strength.

Today, after another mostly sleepless night – where I woke constantly, unable to breathe, my mind and heart elsewhere, the air clammy and close, my feet trapped in the sheets - I hold that card like a talisman over coffee.

I sit. And breathe deeply.
And, in this quiet moment, I know.

I know why I am here.
I have learned to be still.
Discovered the real me amidst the noise.
I have healed.
I understand now not just what I want,
but what I need out of this life.

And I ask simply for the grace and wisdom
to be patient.
To recognize it when it comes along.
That I will have the strength to hold tightly to the things worth fighting for,
and discard the insignificant.

I know. I can do this.

Si può fare.

Walk through the doorways that open to you.
In the right place at the right time.
Only those not truly listening mistake synchronicity for coincidence.

Ascolta. Si può fare.
(Listen. This can be done.)