On Thankfulness

Contrary to rumor and sometimes-popular beliefs, I am not an evil witch with a crusty black lump of coal where a heart should anatomically be. Occasionally, the sharp-tongued, quick-witted, potentially-abrasive, edgy and cynical Viaggiatore goes on vacation and leaves the defenses unmanned. In those moments when the armor is off I am reminded that my heart is disturbingly fragile and tender; a soft, pale-skinned baby taken out into the bright island sunshine after a long dark winter indoors.

Today, that heart is lumpy and swollen with gratitude.

I spent the better part of the last few days meditating on gratitude. Yes, it’s what we Americans are supposed to be doing this holiday weekend (though we are so easily seduced by the 6-am brawls at discount superstores over limited availability electronics). So perhaps it’s just that tiny sliver of “conformist me” shining through, but today, I am dizzyingly thankful. Drunk, if you will, with appreciation for the blessings in my life.

Thankful. While “thanks” has become a bit of a throwaway word in our world, the phrase “I am thankful” is not. It is hefty with weight and meaning.

I am thankful.

Thankful for opportunity.
Thankful for this crazy storybook life on a hilltop in Italy, in all its simultaneous beauty and frustration.
For the knowledge that the true peace of ‘home’ lives not in a specific place, but in my heart.
For friends who love me unconditionally.
For the ability to make choices.
For the resources afforded me, and for the awareness and responsibility that accompanies those many resources.
For the freedom to make a complete and total ass of myself for something that matters to me.
For the ability to believe.
For the blessings – the obvious and not-so-obvious ones – in my life.
For serendipity.
For fear, alternately motivating and paralyzing.
For the ability to feel.
For the ability to trust.
For safety and health.
For a sense of compassion for those in need.
For the ability to overcome inertia and do something, anything, to help.
For the incredible gift of time and space and flexibility to consider options.
For strangers who have welcomed me.
For friends disguised as acquaintances.
For soulmates disguised as friends.
For viewpoints different from my own that expand my world view.
For the ability to say … “I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”
For hope.
For the ability to learn.
For the ability to forget.
For new horizons.
For solitude.
For quiet togetherness, when there are no words.
For that very, very, very small circle of people who truly know me, and love me anyway.
For those people who push me to be my very best self, who believe in me even when my own belief falters.
For those who pick me up when I stumble.
For the wise counsel of those who care.
For the freedom to choose.
For the ability to stifle my fear enough to follow possibility.
For messages in the music.
For warm, sunny days with blue skies when I was expecting grey and dreary and cold.
For snowflakes and leaves and everything that crunches satisfactorily under my feet.
For uncontrollable laughter.
For twinkling, mischievous eyes.
For the tenacity to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
For the ability to get up again when I’m knocked down.
For the belief that things happen exactly the way they are supposed to … even when they seem miserable or scary or overwhelming in the moment.
For the faith that there’s a plan that I just may not understand.
For the ability to say, “I just don’t know… but I believe anyway.”
For the fear of falling.
For the ability to see the horizon.
For the opportunity to fly.
For the ability to stand at the edge of the unknown, swallow hard, and whisper … ‘if not now, when?’

I am thankful.

Ssssshhhhh. We stealthily snuck this little meditative reflection on gratitude in while the cynical, cranky, crusty-exterior Viaggiatore was sleeping. She's not gone, she's just ... hibernating a bit. (Maybe it's the traditional turkey-coma.) But, ummmmmm... let's just keep this between us, shall we? I mean, we DO have a reputation to protect. ;>

On Curve Balls

Sometimes, life tosses a pitch you simply don't expect.
And no matter how it turns out, stretching to hit it throws you off balance for a while.

I'm still coming out swinging, but it feels like I've been forced to bunt one too many times in the last few weeks. Somehow, I can't read the pitcher. And hence, I haven't had the opportunity to play to my strengths and really take a swing ... rather feeling that I'm just filling space in the lineup, wearily stepping up to the plate again and again at the end of a much-too-long season. And I'm getting 'walked' ... a lot.

(All this reminds me that American sports analogies are so completely lost on Italians. Add that to the list of cultural communication gaps that create hysterically funny conversation gaffes.)

Hey, Coach: send in a pinch hitter, I need to sit out an inning or two.
(In Italian, the closest I could probably come is saying that I'm going on a really long coffee break. Va bene, tornero' forse dopo domani, o forse no ... boh ... vediamo)

All you out there in blogville - just toss the ball around on your own for a while. I'll be back when my head is in the game.

On Ch-ch-ch-changes

While fall is my very favorite of all the seasons, as the days darken and the seasons change, I must admit that so does my spirit. It's always been this way. I turn inward, beginning the hibernation process.

"Seasonal Affective Disorder", carrying the pathetic and pithy acronym SAD. Sure, I can personally bear witness that this winter malaise is real. But geez, do we have to NAME everything?!?!? And who doesn't get a little depressed when there's more cold and less sunshine? I'm not talking medicateable here, just a little more reflective.

What's the answer? How to cope? As the trees silhoutte themselves against the greyed late fall sky, I turn to my preferred methods: Snuggling up under a down comforter or in front of a fireplace with a glass of wine and endlessly debateable questions about life. (Come join me, won't you?) I move a little slower, avoid the contrite trappings of the holidays as much as possible (aaah, the benefits of living in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving!) And I pare my life down to doing only what matters; less vague socializing - more time with true friends. Changes, transitions, made easier and less complicated.

And when the waning light is just right, or the candles and fireplace shadow me in exactly the right way, then I smile that quiet, content smile - the one that most people don't see because I don't sit still or unmasked very often - and I am deeply, peacefully comforted knowing that Spring, that miraculous harbinger of new life, lurks not far around the corner.

On Good Intentions

The road to hell, and all that.
I know.

Sometimes it's what you ACTUALLY do, not what you INTEND to do that matters. Sometimes, what you ACTUALLY do reveals the true character of your heart.

Sometimes, the palpable sense of relief that comes from being honest with yourself, and sharing that true self with others is more than enough to make up for the shortcomings in the comparatively unimporant things that you had intended to do.

It was completely ridiculous to think I could do it to begin with.
It might have been completely ridiculous to even think I wanted to.

The spirit of the project, the blog-every-day, is still with me. The letter of the law doesn't seem to be all that important.

My compliant self (the one that makes a commitment and sticks to it, no matter how self-destructive it may ultimately be) wags its finger at me and says I should be blogging. And yet, My heart says I need a break for a few days. If I don't take it, I run the risk of bleeding, unprettily, all over all of you. And you wouldn't want that, you've got new carpeting.

I've realized that, if you're lucky, you reach a point in your life when you have enough confidence to listen to your heart. That point when you stop doing what all those voices in society tell you you're supposed to be doing or what they WANT you to be doing so THEY feel better about themselves, and rather start doing what makes your heart sing. What makes you feel peaceful. What makes you feel complete, critical voices be damned.

Perfect timing, then, that I'm headed into my Christmas present to myself: a two day facilitated retreat/workshop weekend with the woman I want to be when I grow up, darling Patti.

I'll lay really, really good odds that there aren't any web connections where we're going.

And I'll lay even better odds that I'll be happier, more my true self, writing the old fashioned way this weekend: with a moleskine journal and a fountain pen.

My heart is already elsewhere. My soul will be elsewhere. My words will be elsewhere.

I'll check in when I'm back.

And you know me, I'm not big on apologies ... not when I'm doing what I need to be doing: following my heart, being honest with myself, preserving my sanity.

So yes, while the best of intentions had me blogging every day this month, the reality is that I'll probably see ya next week: Tawk amongst yourselves.

From a darling young Southern gentleman

Many of you don't "comment" ... you just email me. Here's a recent example...


"Dear Ma'am,

I am writing to let you know that here in the South we use ma'am in multiple applications. It is not only a term of respect (be it one that was beaten into us from the ripe age of 2), but also a term that we use in reference to those that we feel are more intelligent, better qualified or someone that has earned our respect for reasons other than simply their age.

However the transverse (we are Southern; nothing is straight forward) is a term that is not one of endearment, respect or the sudden grasp of one's qualifications; it is a very eloquent and refined means of slandering some bitch that you would like to choke but legally are unable to escape persecution for. Here is a simple example of a use in the vernacular:

An old lady has just pulled out in front of me in traffic. She has not paid attention to the fact that there are other people on the road at all, much less directly in front of her. I slam on my brakes and avoid a collision with this genteel 70plus year old who is old enough to have given birth to not me but my father. She notices what she has caused and politely waves from the wrist up as she continues to be oblivious to what she has done. I politely wave back and say "Ma'am don't worry about it, I was going too fast and should have paid more attention to the boat pull out into traffic" The translation is a little different than what was said. What I actually said was..... " you fucking bitch I don't care how old you are; look where you are going."

But ma'am sounds so much better.

I just wanted to let you know that the southern vocabulary and understanding of respect is spreading throughout the US. So don't take offense to the little boy at the chicken shack. He simply thought you deserved respect, or thought you were a fucking bitch. Neither of which is a reference to your youth: Fear not my friend."

Bless your heart,

The Dreamer

A Rose by Any Other Name

In "ye ole day job," it's sometimes unnerving for me that everyone seems to know me. I'm a pretty public figure at work, and it doesn't surprise me to have people who I can't quite place walk up to me and know my name, three random facts about me, and probably be able to recount some story from a past interaction. Minor celebrity would be overstating it, but I'm pretty visible to a broad cross-section of people.

People who know me REALLY well know I'm NOT actually an extrovert, I just play one on TV. My inner-spirit is definitely an introvert.

Italy has fed that inner introvert. Maybe it's the remote hilltop. Maybe it's the time for reflection. Maybe it's early menopause (HAH!)

I think it's fascinating that here, so many people know OF me ... I'm still generically "the American," "the crazy woman living alone on the hilltop" or alternately, "the foreigner" ... and while are all particularly kind and patient with me, very few know (*or USE) my name. They might feel they are being respectful, but ...

... I can go weeks on end without hearing my name spoken aloud. I might be "bella" or "amica" (beautiful or friend), but very rarely my own name. It's unsettling and yet quite remarkable. I am simultaneously celebrity and completely anonymous: not a specific person, just a "presence," a representative of incongruous ideals (that I may or may not embody.)

It's amazing how much I miss it: my name, one that I never quite felt exactly suited me. And now, I crave it like caffeine.

On Little Comforts

I awoke, in the middle of the night, to a tidalwave of stress and change that threatens to overwhelm me. And yet, I am strangely at peace.

Paradox abounds.

I breathe deeply, finding comfort in the littlest of things:

The cold breeze coming through the cracked-open window

The heavy down comforter that I am nestled under, as winter creeps in, signaling the passing of another year.

The sound of the rain on the roof, prompting a knowing smile.

And when it's unbearably close and sticky in the way that only the middle-of-the-night can be; when I can't quite breathe right, I turn and stretch and yawn with that quiet dreamlike grogginess, and make a quiet, simple choice: flip the pillow over.

The cool side of the pillow: One of the world's most perfect gifts. It reminds me that we each do ultimately control our own environments.

When it all seems too damn much: it is, truly, the little things.

On Laziness

My sassy orange coat and I are feeling like this post-a-day thing is already starting to kick our proverbial ass, and it's only day five. Oh, geez. It's Sunday and even though I spent the morning daydreaming and lollygagging around in bed, I'm still feeling lazy. The cop-out post is "what I ate for dinner"... Italian food is truly SO easy to pull together, the rules being "SIMPLE" and correct proportions. So this one's going out to FieldSalad, my favorite personal chef friend:

And if you're an artichoke heart person, it's pretty darn good. Trust me.

Spaghetti con Carciofi
Two bags of frozen artichoke hearts (defrost and pat dry ... the drier the better. if all you can come by is canned, dry them off and then let them sit for a few hours to dry out.)
6 tablespoons EVOO*
12 cloves garlic, peeled and whole
A dash of peperoncino (crushed red pepper flakes) - "spice" to your taste.
6 oz. SWEET vermouth
1 pound of spaghetti
2 bunches fresh parsley / chopped to yield 1/2 cup
1/4 c cream
Grated parmeggiano: Minimum 1 C. and then more.

Drain artichokes and pat dry. In a large saute pan, heat oil and garlic cloves over medium heat and cook until the garlic is LIGHT golden brown. Add artichokes, peperoncino and vermouth and cook until tender. When the vermouth is almost cooked off, add a ladle of almost-done pasta water to your sauce, with 1/4 C cream. To the saute pan, add spaghetti, drained. Toss liberally over heat until all is well mixed. Add parsley and the cup of grated cheese, toss well. Serve with a heavy-handed drizzle of olive oil and more cheese on top.


Sugar Snap Peas with Walnuts & Basil
1 lb sugar snap peas, stems & strings removed, BLANCHED.
Salt
2 T butter
2 T walnuts, finely chopped.
2 T finely shredded basil leaves
splish of pepper

Mix butter, walnuts, salt & pepper in a skillet; cook until fragrant.
Add in already cooked and blanched peas, saute for 2-3 minutes.
Stir in basil. Squeeze the juice of 1/4 lemon for taste. Serve with a dash of sea salt.

Buon appetito!!

On New Palettes

I'm pretty well a black and white girl.

Meaning, that's mostly all I wear: Black. And a little white. Nine days out of ten, I'm pretty well head-to-toe in that palette, maybe with one of about 10 varied color scarves thrown in for effect. Even when it's "edgy," black and white is still... pretty basic.

I was emotionally scarred about 8 years ago when, upon wearing a gorgeous olivey brown suit (perfect long pencil skirt, slit up the side), The Old Soul said to me, "you look great in black." My response? "Ummmm, this is brown..." "I know; you look great in black".

Ouch! So, judge for yourself: coincidence or not when my wardrobe became basic black urban chic over time? I was perpetually ready to zip off either to a cocktail party or a funeral. Plus, with my travel schedule, it was just practical: don't mix the palettes, you'll find yourself with the brown shoes and the black belt. So, basic black it was.

Except I'm not on the road so much anymore. That was my old life, "black urban chic traveler".

This week, I turned over a new leaf.

Turns out I needed to buy a new winter coat. And yes, old habits die hard: I gravitated quickly to the black section. After trying on at least 50 options, none spoke to me.

It struck me: maybe I'm not that girl anymore.

It was on a whim that I tried it on at all. Actually, it was probably more a dare than a whim. And as I put it on, the orange 3/4 length wool coat, with flecks of purple and white, I glanced at ShoeChick for a reaction.

"Actually, that looks really good!" She marveled.

Yes, you'd have to see it to believe it, but it's damn sassy, my new orange winter coat. It goes perfectly with my new creamy-caramel colored hair.

A fuzzy chocolate brown scarf and gloves, accompaniments for my perfect mink hat, and a smashing new pair of brown CFM boots complete the outfit. Not a speck of black to be seen.

I look closely at my reflection in the mirror: If I'm not mistaken, there's a new sparkle in my eye. Maybe it's just the reflection of the orange. And then again, maybe it's the freedom of the new palette. The new me, radiating outwards.

Plus, it is hunting season, damnit. And I'm a safety girl.

On fear

What are you really scared of? What haunts you?

Tonight, I'm here with Unassuming Princess and The Sports Fan. And that's the subject of conversation.

What are you afraid of? In the quiet of a dark night,

... do you fear that you'll do something to ruin everything that you have going for you?

... do you fear what lies ahead ... the things that are different from where you are today?

... do you fear not being in control? Even when you are destined to grow, and you can appreciate that, that the growth comes at the expense of the comfort of the known?

... do you fear that you can't stop the collision course that lies ahead, even when you know what it is?

... do you fear that everyone that you love dies and you'll be alone. (That's a direct quote from the Sports Fan, and pretty much what all fear boils down to.) Fear of being alone. Looking at life and ranking in priority the "things" that matter, it's not the "things" at all, but it's the PEOPLE. Losing the people scares me the most.

... do you fear that your life can be flipped completely upside down in a blink of an eye?

... do you fear sacrificing yourself for something that turns out not to be real? Realizing that your judgement wasn't quite right?

... do you fear being paralyzed and not being willing to jump at the chance when it comes around? And that you only get that one chance?



Aaaaah, I think those are really EVERYONE's fears, aren't they?
Indeed, they are. My tiny focus group tonight confirms it.

Yup.

We're all in this shit together.

That's what fear is. Welcome to the party.

On Discipline

Hello, you.

Humbly, I realize that I've been a crappy blogger of late. And a pretty crappy friend, daughter, sister, employee. There are a thousand reasons for that, none of which matter to you in the least if you're lonely, bored, or just worried about me.

Thanks for the vibes. I'm okay; just... preoccupied. There's a word in Italian for "everything tossed up in the air": soqquadro, (which also is the only word in Italian with a double q, all ye trivia geeks out there), and my life is definitely soqquadro right at the moment.

I was going to start to apologize for that, and then decided not to. In the words of my very dear friend, Beatrice, "sometimes you've just gotta love what is." She's right. I've always been a 'play the hand you're dealt' kinda gal. And so, since the game is on, I have been WAY too self-absorbed to be of much use to you lately.

I'm sor.... (see? I try to say it and can't.) I find often that apologies are shallow and empty. The word "sorry" being one of the most-overused in the language, and therefore one of diminishing genuineness. In fact, I'm *not* sorry that I have been doing exactly what I need to do for my own sanity. It's nice to be missed, though. Sometimes, we just have to do differently and expect people to believe our actions.

And so, here goes. Yesterday was the First of November. Which was also, you may (probably!) not realize, the beginning of "National Blog Posting Month"... there's a whole cadre of my fellow bloggers out there that have pledged to post once a day for the entire month of November.

I'm not sure you can handle all that navel-gazing, nor am I remotely confident that I can be sufficiently entertaining, wise, or witty for that spectrum of time, but I'll give it a go. And if after a month, you're completely tired of me, well... that will make me sad, and perhaps I'll be sorry that I tried this. But we'll see. Come along, won't you? There are so many interesting things to talk about!

I have always wanted to be a more disciplined person; this seems like as good a time as any to get on that project. And if you like dropping by and reading things here, would you perhaps consider posting a topic starter or two in the comments section as a crutch when my distracted brain times out ...? I may be able to pull off disciplined; but disciplined AND creative? That's like beauty and brains ... they so rarely grace us simultaneously.

Of Chasms and Clarity

Do you know what amazes me? How one moment in time, one change in circumstance, one domino falling differently than you expected... how those tiniest imperceptible movements can turn around your mood, your attitude, your life.

The last few weeks has brought a cacophony of disharmony between wishes and reality; a vast and daunting chasm between people's expectations and my ability to fulfill them... and yet, it is the tiny moments of intense clarity to be cherished:

The arms of a dear friend for comfort during a teenage-esque meltdown in front of my suitcase, emotionally drained and travel-fatigued, exclaiming, "But I have nothing to wear!"

An unexpected compliment from a stranger. You stand straighter: Beautiful. Worthy. Wanted. Confident. Even bad news cannot break you in two at that moment.

The deep ache of your legs screaming at you when you walk up the stairs, a reminder that you perhaps worked them out a just little too hard. The mental note you make to yourself: if you worked out more OFTEN, they would grow accustomed. (And thinner!)

Unexpected peace of mind: the epiphany that while change is painful sometimes, you don't miss the old life, not at all: Sitting out on the sidewalk in DC last night, sipping a much-missed martini, I was at peace knowing that sometimes it is enough to appreciate what something WAS without wanting to go back to it.

A shockingly warm, sunny day when the calendar says it should be freezing: walking a mile in bare legs and bare shoulders, strappy heels dangling from your fingertips, with a generous smile to offer the strangers you pass by.

A simple tap on the shoulder, in the right place and at exactly the right moment, beckoning you through a door you didn't believe was open. That one domino, triggering the chain reaction realization that life (even when neither Plan A nor Plan B make sense) is still exactly as it was meant to be.

Yes, my friends, I have learned that clarity comes in unexpected packages. Life is unpredictable. It does not bend to your wishes. And it lives only in one direction - forward. Accepting the wisdom that there is no reverse is one of life's toughest lessons.

This moment, right now, is all any of us has.
And I pray quietly for the strength to let it be enough.