living backwards

“Change is something that people both desire and fear – yearning for sweet adventures, yet finding nourishment in the daily routines. “ -ssp/

I write to remember. . . I write to forget. Scrivo per ricordare. . . anche per dimenticare. I write to capture the anima, the sensations, the memories. . .the memories that each song, sound, moment, phrase, event – qualsiasi cosa – seem to trigger. I write to laugh. I write to cry. Piangendo ridendo. The paradoxes and contradictions. The concept of time as an elusive substance that can only be understood through the eyes of another. The length of their hair, the softening radiance of his eyes, the thicker makeup on her thinner skin. The communication. . . and mis-communication. Communication becoming a tangible reward – an unspoken pat on the back. So this is how I begin my story.

Many call me a dreamer. Others think I’m crazy. Maybe I’m both, but when I know what I want, I will stop at nothing to get there. Agenda? I had none. Rationale? To learn the language- you know, because Italian is spoken so much here in California. Purpose? Still searching. I was unfortunately unable to break down my reasons for going to Italy. “I’m just following my heart. It’s something that I have to do.”

I never know why I do the things I do. I begin with a thought and allow it to bud like a delicate flower in the safety of my vase. Time passes, the flower blossoms, and matures into an idea presentable to others. You know, the grown-ups, the peer groups, the co-workers—everyone.

I was a young professional. Working the 8-5. Living the life. Existing in a city where the ocean kisses the mountains and cliffs eat the parks. Everything was “ideal”– “perfect”. I knew it. I loved it. I appreciated it– I really did. Yet, I needed more– my life lacked feeling. I found myself hiding behind the quotation marks of society–discovering a body that was listlessly turning with the tides, mindless meandering in the mountains, and carelessly cruising the cliffs. Although my smile remained right-side-up, the glow in the cheeks and twinkle in the eyes faded with each passing day.

A day came that my reflection told me more than I wanted to know. I met somebody in the bathroom. I stared her straight in the eyes, yet was unable to make eye contact. She was there, yet a mirage. I was angered by her appearance but could do nothing to help her. I remember taking an all-encompassing breath of stale bathroom air, thanking this image in the mirror, and gratefully saying goodbye. The time had come to wipe away the murky residue and open new windows of pristine possibilities in Italy.

You can just imagine some of the looks (and comments) I got from people – especially those traditional parents. You’re doing what? But what about your job. . .and your apartment? It must be some type of study program. . right? Then you’re going with friends. . .family? Well, you must have connections over there. . .don’t you?

No, no, no, no, and ummm. . .NO! (It was really quite simple.)

Then they would attack with proud comments like. . .”well, my ________ (son/daughter) is going to ________ (law school/ med school) and getting ________ (his/her). . .” Blah, blah, blah. Fill in the blanks as you like, but I honestly did not care about what their son, daughter, nephew or dog was doing – nor did I appreciate such snotty remarks.

I wish I could have told everyone that I had a well-defined goal at the age of 21—but I couldn’t. I wish I could have told everyone that I wanted a steady job—but I didn’t. The fact of the matter was that I did not have a boyfriend, a brother, a father or a friend in Italy. Nor did I seem to have a “rational” reason for leaving. What I did have was an open-ended plane ticket and an indestructible attitude. Rather than helplessly trying to explain myself, I would smile, nod, and zone out as their words danced right past me. The words, like pollutants, tossed into the Pacific waters – contaminating our visions of beauty and success. Rather than bathing in American contaminants, I chose to rediscover the meaning of beauty in the Mediterranean.

Ultimately, I admit, it was my parent’s emotional support, a Persian carpet gliding just a few feet below, that gave me the strength to depart. Two years following the initial planting of the seed, I had my ticket in hand and said “ciao” for now.