Like a grandfather clock

I've never considered myself one of those pendulum-people who are constantly swinging between immense joy and immense trepidation and fear, but seeing as this post follows the previous one, you (and I) might reconsider.

Packing is in full swing. I've boxed up what kitchen supplies I can fit, stuffed all of our linens and towels into a bag, begun the tedious (but often freeing) process of sorting through clothes and trying to predict what things we can do without. When I'm being completely honest I know I can do with so much less. But the thought of all of these things spending another year in a basement while I rotate between the same 10 shirts makes me sad. And I hate that I'm sad about it.

I realized how much we could do without when we lived in Italy. The simplicity was refreshing. Six suitcases. That's it. If it didn't fit, it couldn't come. We didn't need it. And we truly didn't. I found as so many often do that so many of our "needs" are fabricated.

But it's easy to fall back into "needing" things again, into comparing, and wanting, and opening a box you haven't opened in years and realizing that you do have pretty dishes and things that you'd love to haul along. But there just isn't room for pretty apothecary jars when more important things like irons and towels and pots take precedence. So I'm learning again: you don't need it.

I fell into pieces last night thinking about this (and other things). As it always goes, a string of events brought me to a puddle in my husband's arms (I'm so grateful for those arms) but there I was, mad at myself for wanting things, sad that I couldn't take it all with me, frustrated by the constraints of packing, fearing making new friends, overwhelmed by the thought of driving across the country, completely exhausted by my day.

This morning I woke to a kiss and the words, "It will all work out, honey."

Things are looking more rosy already. See? Pendulum.

This is my kingdom

Ada in Piazza Galvani, one of our favorite hangouts.

 I'm not sure what caused the switch. Last semester during Mike's midterms I was moaning that I never got enough time with him and the simple tasks at home were making me crazy.

This time around, I feel like a powerhouse. Maybe it's part of becoming more adult—learning that you are in charge of your reactions, learning to take on more responsibility, and understanding that you're responsible for all of your actions (and consequences) no matter how unconscious (or conscious) you were that you were actually making a choice.

Does any of this make sense?

I guess I don't feel like I need to be on the defense anymore. My choices are my own and they have brought me to this point in my life: married, with a baby, living in a foreign country, sticking to a strict budget, trying to figure out how to paint again, learning to cope with life as a nomad, learning that I am stronger than I knew. . .

Mike and I have talked about how so much of maturity is being comfortable in your own skin; of just knowing that you are who you are; not feeling the need to prove your worth or mystique or beauty or brains to anyone.

Today, I feel comfortable.

I'm coming to better understand that this is my kingdom.

I rule here. In my kingdom, those dust bunnies that crawl under the couch and make as bunnies do will get swept up nightly (and morningly, depending on how busy they were) because I'm in charge. I see my job of sudsing down Ada's highchair as a daily, personal decree that my toddler's stickiness will not take over like the sticky, thorny brambles of fairy tales. Each piece of laundry is carefully hung because here, no detail (or sock) goes missing.

I set the mood. (I set the table.) I make sure my kingdom is fed and well. I make sure my kingdom is happy and bright.

These aren't the burdens of motherhood. They're the responsibilities of a queen.

So I'm off to conquer the kitchen floor. I feel a victory coming on.

The blurriness of tears

When we landed on the runway I couldn't believe I was home already. The metal letters spelling out the name of the airport, Aeroporto G. Marconi Bologna, were familiar. I remember thinking how charming they were when we first landed in September.

We're back. Did we even leave?

Our time in Utah was far too short. With Christmas and two weddings, it made the whole trip one big blur. A blur full of family and food and laughter and hugs and kisses. It was a joyous blur. But a tiring one.

I miss it already. Blurriness and all.

I cried the night before we left. It just wasn't long enough. I wasn't ready to go back to Italy. I felt so at home in Utah; speaking English to everyone, knowing just what was going on, driving a car, gazing at the imposing mountains, the dry cold air. I felt so able and agile. I could get anywhere and say anything.

It is a freedom I think I've taken for granted my entire life.

But when we opened the door to our little apartment, I felt a heavy sense of belonging. At least for now. I belong here, far away from Utah, but close to the most important things. For now.

For his "vacation"

Sunday two weeks ago in the foothills near Ponticella, overlooking Bologna. Image credit.

 The ward members in Bologna are among the most generous people I've ever met. Maybe it's an Italian thing. They always want to feed you or have you to their house. The past two Sundays we've spent eating really good (read: "It's the best you have ever had, right?") food with ward members and friends. It makes Sundays here feel a bit more like Sundays back home.

Last week we went to Pioppe di Salvero (just minutes from Marzabotto where the infamous Marzabotto massacre took place during WWII) where we had lunch (the largest meal of the day. As in, three courses. As in, I loved it so much) with a few families from the ward. The home we at ate used to be an old hotel and restaurant in the center of town. The main floor was a dance hall, trattoria and small shop. Upstairs, where the family now lives, were the hotel rooms.

The patriarch of the home is slowly renovating the main floor. The dance hall was turned into a preschool years ago. His wife used to teach 1 - 3 year-olds. (Now, he told me, there aren't enough kids to ever have a preschool). Another portion he finished for an apartment for his daughter and her husband. But the shop and part of the restaurant have never been tackled. This week he's taking on one more room.

"This week will be my vacation'," he told me. "I don't go to work. I stay here and finish this room for storage. The prophet says to have one year of food for storage. I think, I have the space. Why not make a room for storage?"

And, whamo! I learned something about sacrifice. In a tiny village of only about 500 people, a member of the church was taking a week off to make a room for his food storage. (As as serious as the Bolognesi are about their food, it's no wonder why it's so big and going to be so beautiful. He even has some little glass details poured into the concrete walls). And did I mention he was born with limited use of his hands? And has a limp? When he was born the doctors told his parents he wouldn't ever walk.

I was put in my place when I saw the devotion that this man has to following a modern prophet. I immediately wondered what my problem is?

Why can't I take a few minutes off to pray more sincerely? to study more earnestly? to serve more diligently? Those are the bare bones of devotion! Food storage is so out of my league right now.

I think I grew up a little more on Sunday. I realized how immature excuses are. I understood a little bit better that we are in control of our actions, and consequently, in control of where we are going.

Take a walk around

I had a bit of a break down yesterday. It came out of nowhere and probably stemmed from a lack of sleep more than anything (Dear Ada, when will you sleep again like you did at 2 months? Remember the 9 hour stretches?)

It came all at once and left me dissolved to tears about nothing in particular (but it felt like it was about everything in particular. You know, I have to give Ada a bath tomorrow and bathe myself, and leave the house by 10.  How did my life get so hard?)

Retrospectively I think most of us would agree that our meltdowns are silly, but in the moment they are serious and paralyzing. I also think that we have mini-breakthroughs in moments where facing a flood of tears makes us face questions that may have been pressing to be heard. Jack Johnson sings "I hope this old train breaks down, so I can take a walk around." I think I really needed the walk around. That's what breakdowns allow us to do.

I was asked this past weekend if my life was isolating. It might seem so, I answered. But gratefully I haven't felt isolated. The Italians are a warm and though I can't speak their language well (at all) yet, I feel communicated with. My day-to-day routine isn't glamorous or exciting, but it's comfortable and sweet.

But the question was like a canker sore. I thought about it over and over. It may have sowed the discontented sadness. Who knows.

I realized in it all that I missed my husband. Yes, we were together more over the last weekend than we had been in the days previous, but it felt like it had been many, many days since I had had a meaningful conversation with him. And he's the only person to have real conversation with. He's my person. And I realized that he too missed having me as his person.

We sat on the couch and held each other and came to understand a little better what it means to be husband and wife and what it means be intentional about our relationship. It was one of the sweetest moments since we've arrived.

And one of the biggest goals I made for myself while we're here started to happen: the closeness I feel to my little family swelled and grew even more. I might be bursting by the end of this adventure.

Bologna the Red

I was a student again! I got to attend a lecture last Thursday on the art history of Bologna. It was given by an Art History professor from the University of Bologna who is a visiting professor at Johns Hopkins this year (and BONUS! I got permission to attend her lectures all semester, many of which will be on site. . . to I smell a trip to Florence?)

It's funny how excited I was to graduate and be done formally student-ing, but there is something so refreshing about being in a classroom. Also, it was the first time I've had a break from Ada in a while, and I think it was healthy (for both of us) to have a few hours from each other. (Mike agreed to tend if I took "copious notes" and filled him in on everything he missed).

After the lecture I was on a bit of a Bolognese high. I want to know everything about the city. I want to visit every church. I want to know the streets. I want to memorized the order of the porte leading into the city. I want to speak the language. I want to be able to have visitors walk with me through the streets, point to a building and say, "What's that?" (or che cos'è?) and to be able to answer. I want to know the history.

I've got a lot of reading to do. And exploring. Mostly exploring.

The lecturer talked about the bricks that make up the city, palaces, the towers, the desire to use local materials, the ruling class, the university, the Franciscans, the Dominicans, the passing of the city from one ruler to the next, the Napoleon supporters, the Communist supporters . . .

The city is nicknamed "Bologna the Red." First, because the city is primarily red in color. The buildings are mostly made of brick and the plaster is all painted in warm reds and oranges. Second, the tendency of this town is to lean left politically because of their loss of independence early on and consequent disdain of the central power.

Looking up, a few steps from home.

 I want to know everything about this beautiful city. And then I want to share it with all of you. Bored yet?