I have been thinking a lot lately about how we are all so much more than what happens to us – more than our pain – our suffering – our worries – the inevitable disappointments – the let downs – the sadness – our struggles and challenges – the things over which we have no control, which are part and parcel to living a life – any life.
It has been just a bit over a year since the somewhat expected, yet shocking phone call informing me of my sister’s death – a sister with whom I was estranged – a difficult relationship for such a long time, and my journey since that momentous event has been a twisty, curvy one, fraught with many ups and downs, as I came to grips with the intensely sad reality of it all.
After dealing with the physical and emotional logistics regarding her final “send-off,” I then had to deal with the family property in Italy which was always in her hands after my parent’s death – a somewhat daunting task made even more so as I again had to acknowledge and confront the bittersweet memories and feelings connected to the long, lost dreams of our family to one day returning to our birthplace – “an immigrant’s quagmire.”
The first step, I knew, was to physically travel to Italy, where I had not been for 6 years, to deal with the necessary paperwork, updating the deed, which required a copy of my rather uncooperative brother’s US passport.
Eventually, I realized I needed to go anyway, with or without the document, to be there on the 22nd of February, my sister’s birthday, and my intention was to have a mass said in her honor in the church where we were all baptized. Somehow, this became more important than the business aspect of the trip.
One evening, as I was anxiously pondering what to do – a string of hopeful events occurred- one right after the other. My brother sent a text informing me that he was going to send me a copy of the much needed passport, after which I contacted a cousin who set up the mass, called my trusty travel agent to set up already agreed upon airline tickets, confirmed my arrival with my uncle, with whom I would stay, reached out to other relatives and friends, letting them know I was coming with plans to get together.
No longer did it feel like I was flaying and drowning in murky mud- I had stopped struggling, started breathing, relaxed, and “reached for the sturdy branch of hope that happened to be hanging above me the whole time, only now noticeable. That’s when the whole ordeal of my sister’s death, and all the uncomfortable and scary thoughts became only “a part” of this trip, which had grown from a mere one week to five weeks.
In Italy, I sat with ten other friends and relatives in the church where it all began for us on my sister’s birthday, sending her off once again, and being comforted by the repeated sound of her name, feeling her loving presence as well as that of my parents. Afterwards, my uncle and I drove to the abandoned house where we were all born – a bit nostalgic and sad, as always, but my resolve hardened even more to “move her along” – allowing others to enjoy her – something that my parents and sister were never able to do.
My stay in Italy included a wonderful time spent with my uncle whom I adore, listening to his ranting and raving about this and that, eating, drinking wine, and watching his evening programs. Seeking out WIFI, which he did not have, led me into town in the morning for a coffee and breakfast, and in the evening, for a glass of wine, to check messages, read, write, and soak in the inspiring café atmosphere.
I then reconnected with so many people – each day meeting up with a different cousin – a different friend – feeling loved and cared for, reveling in this “other part of who I am,” listening to their life stories – getting out of my own head, putting my story on hold – and, I walked – a lot – and far into the countryside where my parents once trekked when they courted – to the little town where my mother grew up by way of the cemetery to visit my grandparents and others who were a part of my past here – and through it all I was able to get a little of the business with the property completed, and now have the trusted guidance of the son of a friend of mine, as there is much more to do, but the anxiety had subsided considerably.
After 8 days, I headed off to Milan, where my sister lived for three years, and spent the day walking the streets we once walked together – another comforting part of her “send off.” The next day, I flew into London to visit and stay with my dearest cousin, Carla, with whom I have an indescribably strong life-affirming bond, in spite of the fact that we live in 2 different continents. With her, I am always home – maybe because our mom – sisters – were very close – “due corpi, un’anima,” my aunt would say – “ two bodies, but one soul,” so maybe this is our legacy- one for which I am so very grateful.
I love London, probably because it’s connected to my many visits to my maternal relatives. Carla always researches what we will do before I get there, and organizes wonderful outings and activities – a movie – an art show or two – a comedic presentation – shopping – attending her art group, and of course, numerous visits to an array of pubs, spending precious time with her family, and my favorite, simply hanging out in the morning – just the two of us, “ chin wagging,” over coffee before starting the day. This time there was even a short trip to Dublin where we met up with her equally pleasant and humorous husband.
Once back in London, there were get togethers with other relatives – high tea with one, a drink with another, and an overnight stay with yet another. I also contacted a Scottish couple – friends met on the Inca Trail a few years back, who joined me in London, and with them I discovered the Bermondsey Mile – with craft beer breweries galore!
I traveled to Nuneaton up north and spent 5 days with other friends – these I met climbing Mt. Snowden in Wales last year – and with the wonder of technology, managed to keep in touch, and was pleased to be invited to a 40th birthday party. My visit was filled with amazing walks, playtime with an adorable dog and two very sweet children, chats with the host and hostess, lovely meals, and again, feeling a part of something, “bigger than me,” all the while reading the fabulous story of “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Frye,” a 65 year old man who journeys by foot on the spur of the moment from the south to the north of England, coming to grips with all the challenging and sad facets of his life – the fact that it took place on the very same route as the bus I was on, made it more than just a simple read to wile away the time – it became part of my own quest.
My journey back started with an overnight stay in a tiny, cute hotel nestled in the airport so as to be in closer proximity to the terminal for departure the next day – all alone, but most definitely, not lonely, as I reveled in all my adventures – my connections with cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, strangers – and, being a visitor in their lives – in their stories which have their own ups and downs, and yet, in all cases, life was being lived gracefully – everybody was simply doing the best they could.
And, this is what I learned – or maybe reconfirmed – that when we are dealing with hard issues it is understandable and natural to worry – to fret – to despair – to see no solution – like being in the murky mud of life – struggling – kicking – not being able to extract yourself until you stop – to breathe deeply – to calm your beating heart – to look up finally in search of a plan – to discover that branch that was always there above you, but only now do you see it, and you grab onto it and hoist yourself out of the mud – in order to see the whole picture – that the present situation will change – it always does , but more important, it is only one part of your life – you are more than this – so much more .
You are first, “all the ages you’ve ever been,” according to the very wise Anne Lamot, and all the challenges you have already overcome. You are your connections to people, to places, books, ideas, and experiences – some already known and some yet to be discovered – and, as we go on with this task of living to remember to breathe deeply – to slow the beating of your heart, in order to look up and notice the branch.
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