As our walk progressed deeper into the woods that day
in Italy, George began to wonder if we were traveling in the right direction. It
had been many years since he had walked to the chapel, and he wasn't sure if he
had always selected the correct branch of the many forks in the path. Except
for the birds, we hadn't seen any wildlife, and the walk through the dappled
light under the trees had been cool and pleasant, but I was beginning to tire. Margaret
Ann had enjoyed her ride on my back and her high up view of her older brothers
as they raced around below her, but she was a healthy, sturdy child, and the
bands of canvas from the carrier were cutting into my shoulders. As we kept
walking, the morning gave way to midday, and we still couldn’t see any sign of
the chapel. It was just about noon that we broke from the trees to look up a
steep slope. The chapel stood at the top of the hill. We had taken the wrong
path after all, and we had ended up, not at the front of the chapel, but at the
back—the lower back. The grass and brush-covered slope went almost straight up.
There was no way I could climb it, even without Margaret Ann strapped to my
back, so we sat down to eat our picnic lunch at the bottom of the slope. It was
pleasant to rest at the side of the path, munching salami and cheese, drinking
water, and swatting away the few late-season mosquitoes. James and Paul soon
finished, and re-energized, they climbed halfway up the slope then slid back
down, pretending they were mountain climbers in grave danger. Matthew and
Margaret Ann soon tried to copy them, whining when they couldn’t climb as high
as their older brothers. They were tired; it was just about their naptime. We
packed up our wrappings and walked back down the hillside to Gabi. We hadn’t
arrived at our destination, but we had thoroughly enjoyed the journey.
It seemed that our time in Italy was marked with
similar near-misses. We lived within a few hundred miles of some of the
greatest art treasures in the world, and yet I remained isolated on a small
farm. I didn’t mind. We were focused on watching our children develop and
learn, and we were alternately fascinated and frustrated, but utterly absorbed
by the farm life around us. It was an opportunity squandered perhaps, but we
were intent on trying to establish ourselves in a new culture, not investigate
the past. We needed to make our cash last long enough so that George could get
a job to support us. We thought that there would be time enough for touring in
the years ahead. We were also living on the generosity of my in-laws, much to
my discomfort. There was no money for hotels, train fare, or the entrance fees
to tourist sights. Like poor people the world over, we were unable, more than
unwilling, to take advantage of the opportunities all around us. My ignorance
of Italian art remained intact for another fifteen years, but our time in Italy
was not wasted. During that year I learned a lot about the nurture of children
and life in the Italian countryside, but most importantly, I learned about
myself: what I could live without, and what I absolutely needed to nurture my
spirit.
No comments:
Post a Comment