Mia Mamma...

Il 19 novembre

Assisi

Two weeks ago marked the two year anniversary of my mother's death. As this blog is about my travels, I chose not to mention the day-Nov. 4th, but just wrote about mom in my private journal. Sitting at the table in my Assisi apartment this morning and drinking my very strong caffe, I started thinking about my parents and how losing both of them (my father passed away 21 years ago) changed my life. It doesn't matter how old you are when you lose a parent; it is a loss that stays with you and that you learn to live with. When I was fifteen, mom and dad made their first trip to Europe. I smile as I think about their departure; I can see them so vividly now as they left the house, full of excitement and anticipation. Travel was a lot different in those days; not only were the flights longer, but the manner of dress was markedly different from today. My father was dressed in a business suit and my mother had bought a tweed mohair wool suit with a light green satin blouse that blended with the colors of her outfit. She wore high heels, a hat, and gloves, and, because my parents were very good-looking people, they made quite the striking couple. I am much older now than my mother was when she had her first European adventure, and often when I get dressed before a flight-jeans, a t-shirt, and anything else that speaks of comfort, I see mom and dad in their formal attire and their youth and I am happy at the memory...and maybe feel like I should change my clothes.

My mother was my best friend, my greatest supporter, my soul-mate, and when she died, I was lost. There were days when I didn't know how I would be able to live without her and the grief of that first year was an abyss into which I had fallen. I came to Italy to escape the pain and the memories, knowing that in order to heal, I needed to go far away and begin again. I chose Italy because I wanted to learn Italian and, having the good fortune of meeting the Tonti family through a former work colleague, Umbria (and Assisi) became a safe starting-point. When I initially came here for three months last fall, I hadn't planned on return trips. I didn't know then how much the kindness and support of the people I was to meet would be a magnet pulling me back; I only knew that I needed to come.

Communicating in a foreign language, at least in the beginning, is a humbling experience. Finding the words to express myself, especially when first meeting people, has forced me to draw upon all my strengths so that I am understood as just the person I am. There is no hiding behind past professional success, there are no lofty intellectual conversations, no verbal repartee (which I love), and the only humor comes from laughing at my mistakes. There was a time when I was hesitant to speak, afraid that my lack of perfection in mastering the Italian language after a few months would reflect negatively on me...but that was the past and the people here, with their patience, encouragement, and friendship have helped me to grow.

My grammatical skills are at a beginning advanced level, my oral comprehension has markedly improved, my spoken Italian, although still needing much practice and continually an area of struggle for me, is getting better and I am comfortable using the language wherever and with whomever I am. I have made new friends here in Assisi and, just yesterday, I spent two hours in conversation, most of it in Italian for me, and a little in English for him.

After two years of living without mom, I have started to find peace once again. Like anything difficult, it is a process and there are still days when my heart is heavy and missing her envelops me. During those times, I just let my emotions flow and take me wherever I need to go and, when I smile again, it is with joy at the memory and the blessing of having had an extraordinary relationship with my mother.

I believe in the energy of the universe, in the synchronicity of life, in my destiny, and that I am where I should be in this remarkable life of mine. My mother knew of my passion for travel, of my love of adventure, of my delight in planning my next trip. I am living that passion and what I have learned for sure is that the richness of life, for me, is the connection I have with the people I meet. I have written much about food because I love to eat, but eating in a trattoria, where I know the owner or I am with friends, is what makes the memory. Chatting with people in a mercato where I am now a familiar face makes buying formaggio or mele more than just a trip to the market. Last night I shared a laugh with a woman when I went to buy some fruit. I heard her mention Berlusconi to the owner of the market and I asked her what she thought of the current political situation and where was the former prime minister living now. She laughed and basically said that his being out of office was all that mattered (Arrivederci Silvio!) and that now there was hope for positive change in this country. We talked a little about Monti and the problems in Italy and I left the market, not only with a small bag of groceries, but with a memory of something shared.

I think of life as a train ride; I can take the express which doesn't stop, or the local with its many twists and turns. It's the latter train that I have always chosen, at least as long as I can remember. It's all of those stops that make up the memories; yes, sometimes the delays are frustrating, but what you make of them is what makes the story...another person, another conversation, another connection, even if brief...that's where the important memory is.

So, I dedicate this entry to my parents...to my father who was the impetus behind my first adventure...and to my mother, who worried every time I got on a plane and was happiest when I was back home, but, who never stopped cheering for me along the way.