Hi Everyone,
I'm sorry it has taken so long for me to post again - the pictures still await in my iphoto file, I've saved the drafts of new posts, but mostly my life has been so good that I haven't stopped to think about it. For some reason, these days I am better, but it is also a little scary to feel good again. It's almost like I can't give myself permission to enjoy the fact of my freedom. On the other hand, for the first time in many years, I feel so bathed in love it's hard to understand why I shouldn't be happy. Here's a story to illustrate:
Last Saturday I went with a friend to Volterra (yes, Twilight fans who know how much I hate the books, THAT Volterra, even though they filmed the movie in Montepulciano). The plan was to have coffee, but we decided to go see the city because the day was free and I'd never been there before. When I left home, Pino was working in the bathroom, Veronica - who comes in every Saturday to clean - was cleaning the kitchen, my wonderful roommate Tabata was listening to music in her room, and my friend Benedicte was on her way to visit from Paris. For the sake of background and a further illustration of how loved I am here, I'll admit I was a little frantic when I left because my friend is a sweet and interesting Italian man who has taken me to dinner a few times (in fact, we had dinner plans that night, which is important to the story) and I was my normal Saturday morning self: sleepy-eyed with lines on my face, unbrushed hair, 20-year-old Appalachian State sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks of questionable origin. When he called, I had less than an hour to get ready and the whole house jumped in with suggestions. Veronica approved my shirt and scarf, Pino approved the shoes, and Tabata made sure nothing was on inside out. Yes friends, I know I am a professor of women's studies who specializes in body image issues, but let's just chalk this new dating thing up to "lived experience."
In any case, you have to imagine this determinedly "casual" me arriving for coffee, calmly conversing (while wishing I had a digital translator in my ear), and deciding to head out to Volterra. Off we went, stopping here and there at a church for a history or architecture lesson. As we drove, the weather started getting cloudier and by the time we arrived, it had started to rain. No worries, though, there's plenty to do in Volterra: this cheery day we visited a prison and then the Museum of Torture (a bad idea just before lunch). I reached for my phone to call Tabata and let her know I was out, but it wasn't in my pocket, so I didn't worry about it. After lunch we walked back to the car...and there was my phone. Next to the car. Dead. With rain falling on it. I didn't want to mess up a day of prison and torture with a broken phone, so I stuck it in my pocket and went on.
Driving back to Siena and singing along to whatever music I could - and receiving translations when I couldn't - I was perfectly content. Our sojourn in Volterra took longer than we had planned, so we decided to run by my friend's apartment then go to dinner (thank goodness I had on pre-approved jeans and shirt). We were sitting in the kitchen talking at the table when my phone came back to life. It rang. And rang. And rang. Then messages started coming in; even with the sound off I could hear the vibrations. I excused myself and checked messages: eight. All of my house, tutto la mia famiglia d'Italia, had been talking all afternoon. They were worried, and boy was I in trouble. I had texts and phone messages and texts saying the others had sent texts and texts saying that they were together at home worrying, and a call saying that they thought I had been murdered...um, yeah, a little bit over the top. Hopping in the car to go to dinner, I started typing my responses.
And that's when it hit me: for the first time in as long as I can remember, I have people in my life who care about me enough to chase me down if they need to. Sure, sometimes it feels like too much for me as an adult, but it also shows me something really important, something I may have forgotten: there are people who care enough to put up with my obsessiveness, my overwhelming insecurity, my clumsiness, my forgetfulness, my kookiness, my incessant questioning, and my need to shut the door and be alone for hours at a time. In fact, for the most part they find my faults endearing, not intolerable. And when things are going well, they are all there to cheer. In other words, I am, for the first time in at least ten years, in the midst of a community who accepts me completely, warts and all. What a revelation. I am acceptable. I am lovable. I am loved. And not just by my family.
Speeding through the dark Tuscan fields on the way to the dinner with a family of wine makers, I looked up from my phone, got a smile from my friend, and started to cry. Not heaving sobs, not tears anyone would notice, but happy tears streaming from a part of me I thought was empty forever. These bones I've been cradling are growing some flesh, flesh that is made of every kind of love. As the vineyards flashed by in the headlights and the moon rose over the fields, my friend turned up the radio. Cradling these sighing bones, I started to sing again.
Buona seratta, my friends, here's a toast to community.
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