My Lost Words

I was touched and honored when asked to contribute an essay to a colleague’s upcoming online program. My topic would enable me to explore and dissect my move to Italy. When I agreed wholeheartedly to share my story by November 7, I’d imagined being here for two months already. But as most of you know, our departure was delayed. Twice. First because of our visas, then because of our cats. Since I didn’t actually arrive until late in the evening on October 28, I only had ten days to assimilate enough of this transition to be able to write about it.

Well, let me tell you . . . it was one of the most difficult pieces of writing I’ve done in a long while. My emotions were raw, and I was feeling vulnerable. (And yes,they still are; yes, I still am.) But I’d promised. I’d made a commitment. And I wanted to do it. It’s a wonderful program that I’ve participated in before. So I was determined to get my experience on paper. Somehow.

I wrote and wrote, I crossed out, I threw away, I switched around phrases and paragraphs, I deleted and added words. And I got it done, on time, and was happy with the final result. But it was exhausting in the midst of the emotional fragility I’m carrying around with me right now.

I write every day of my life, always have. I dive deep into my feelings index, deciphering and decoding the way I react and respond to my world. From the day I left the states, however, I haven’t written anything except a blog post and some Facebook updates. The content is definitely there, it’s just not finding its way to the paper. It’s all in my heart and my head, churning around, but any attempts to process or make sense of it fall short. I told my husband yesterday that I feel as if someone suddenly picked me up from all that was familiar and comfortable and randomly dropped me into an unknown landscape on a distant planet. (Perhaps because that is similar to what did happen, except of my own choice and volition.)

I’ve begun taking massive notes again, trying to jot down the amazingly difficult and rewarding and crazy and amusing things that happen each day (which I hope to share soon). But for now, the only topic I can wax poetic about is the tumult of conflicting anxieties and pleasures I’ve been experiencing. Nothing I can comprehend or hold onto or digest just yet. Nothing I can absorb into my existing framework. My essence has been shaken to its core. And that’s good – that’s why I chose this journey. But it’s hard, oh-so-hard. Harder than I’d even imagined it would be. (And I spent a lot of early mornings over the past several months, lying awake, trying to control my very vivid imagination.)

It’s only been two weeks since I left the home I knew and exchanged it for a large currently-inhospitable-and-cold Italian villa. A villa that will hopefully one day be the most comforting, beautiful, welcome place I know. It will happen. I must be patient and weather this interim internal storm. Because actively seeing a big dream through to its fruition is not easy.

But I can assure you . . . there is definitely magic to come.

 
 
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