ready to go, oh, so very ready

Now that my bags are (almost) completely packed, I allow myself a few minutes to stretch, breathe.  It's finally sinking in: I really, truly am going home. My flight leaves in four hours. In 20 hours, I'll be back with my beautiful redwoods, hugging my family for the first time in too, too long.

It's been a crazy past few weeks. So busy, of course, with work. Add to that extra hours, extra gatherings with friends, this new thing called chiropractic, and a birthday party, and it's been much too busy. It's been fun, too, mostly. Stressful. My appetite is finally returning today after a week of barely being able to eat enough. I'm still in slight (happy) shock after Monday's turnout to my party. Add to that other twists and turns, and I'm finding myself clinging to this one certainty: Soon, I will be with my family.

I love the people here, and often they feel like family to me. They scold me, encourage me, laugh at me (make me laugh), and generally show me that they care about me. And it is a wonderment. A beautiful incomprehension. It amazes me how much of a life I have here. So much gift.

But they've only known me at most 6 years. Most have known me 3 or less. That's so little. And there's so much history, so many ups and downs and glories and wounds, that very few know about. And they don't know my family. They've never seen the absurdity, or the seriousness, that all blends together into the quiet laughing praying intensity that characterizes my family. And I always wonder how you can understand someone without knowing at least some of their family. I also feel like I don't know how to understand myself when I'm away so long. Maybe this is a silly expectation, but I expect to see myself more clearly as a result of this trip. 

Regardless of all this... I'm going home. I'm not super focused right now, because there's that one piece the swirling always finds. And oh, does it make my heart glad!

and I thank you all

Thank you, my friends.

You made last night spectacularly fun. You make my life spectacular. I feel blessed daily to know you all. My life truly is richer with you all in it.

Thank you for dressing up just because I suggested it. Your ninja costumes were amazing. Thank you for coming up with crazy skits to entertain me, just because I asked you to. Thank you for making me laugh, over and over again. I can't begin to tell you how much I love laughing.

Thank you for bringing me lovely cards and gifts. They were an unexpected bonus. Your generosity continues to astound and inspire me.

Thank you, all, for being yourselves. I love you, and am so thankful and honoured to know you and to count you as friends.

briefly, I walk through Orvieto

Italy came to me last night.

Hands in pockets, head tilted down against the cold, my rush for home stumbled as I passed Trattoria Bellamia. White lights garlanded the leafless trees, and the air suddenly sang out: 'Italia!'

All in a rush came our laughing walks back to the monastery through the quiet night streets of Orvieto. Came the puffs our breath made in the lamplight. Came the breathed-in hush of the town. Came the uneven cobbles beneath our feet. Came the wide-open expanse of starred sky. Came the sense of rightness, of expectancy, of surprise, of something I never could quite pin a word to, and still can't.

My heart ached within me as a car spun down Cabot. The streets are too wide here, too open to be Orvieto. And the cars too big. And the buildings too spaced apart. This isn't Italy. It never can be. But for a moment - for a long stretched moment that I breathed in and held as long as I could - I felt Italy. Orvieto crowded around, gently, beautifully, surely.

It has been almost one year - eleven months - since I was there. And still, when I see pictures of Rome (the Spanish steps! my heart stopped; I remember climbing those, slowly, savoring each step, trying to pour and pull it all in so that I would have them with me always...), when a flavor reminds me of that glorious food, when a smell, the humidity of the air, a word... when these things appear or flash by, I feel them. A blow in my belly, a catch in my lungs, a wild synapse bursting in my mind and down my body... I remember. I remember. I still remember.

Odd, to think how deeply Italy is in me, how below, beyond words the experience; odd, how permanently it seems those ten days are a part of me. Ten days. Much can happen, even more can linger, and happen much later from the seeds sown then. I can't help be convinced that me, as I am now, is because of Italia.

I've tried to figure what I learned in Italy, what, exactly, happened to me. I still can't pin it down. But it just came to me: it had something to do with dreams, and beauty, and longing, and glory and wonder. I saw, heard, touched, smelled, tasted things of beauty, places with long pasts. I laid my hands flat against a marble pillar, and felt years and years and years. And I could not comprehend the stretch of time or the depth and breadth of feeling. Italy has seen so much! Italy has hurt so much, has loved so much, has suffered, has hoped, has despaired, has created. The land is full - so full.

And you know what it stirs in me? I want to be full.

I want to live, and be filled, and not ever ever fall asleep to wanting more fullness. I want to live each day in the hope of being filled.

This involves dreaming; developing the hopes of things to come, things to seek, things to be desired. The idea of being willing to dream has come up over and over this past year. It is very difficult for me. How can I justify deciding I want something, especially something outrageous or beautiful, when it's just for me? But then, I wandered around Italy, and thought, how can you not dream in a place like this? And how could a place like this come to be if people weren't dreamers?

So now I've been learning to dream. It comes slowly, and sometimes I have to fight to even accept my dreams. I have to let go, to let myself want things. But it's beautiful. And it's hopeful.

Then last night, when Italia flashed across my path, and the air thickened and my steps and breathing slowed, and my hands tingled, and my mind exhaled and my heart opened wide, last night glory and wonder filled that moment.

And yes, I miss Italia. I miss it ever so much, especially in the quiet cold. But memory is a glory - Italy is still with me. My dreams are growing and flourishing in its soil.

In one of those dreams, I return to Italy.

no, humbug!

But it doesn't feel like Christmas-time yet!

All of my usual markers are missing this year. There was no Thanksgiving break and travel to indicate the end of November and the fall. I have no pending exams. We're not prepping feverishly for winter concerts, or Madrigal dinners. I'm not singing Christmas music, or playing it. And it's not cold. We aren't in the midst of the several-weeks-pre-Christmas deluge; and it isn't even close to snowing. I haven't been wearing gloves! The sun is still shining warmly.

Bah, humbug!

Why is Scrooge in my head? Why am I chafing at the cheerful Christmas songs - about snow, gifts, and love - playing in the lobby? (But enjoy the music from the Nutcracker?) Why do stories of shopping rushes and stresses make me sick? Why do I find some part deep in me rejecting all these things?

But maybe that's ok. Not ok that I become Scrooge, or live in some disgruntled land, but ok that I'm bothered by a consumer-focused attitude. Maybe what I need is some other thing to think about, to make Christmas about. Maybe what I need is some other reason to celebrate December besides that one day.

A friend of mine has been writing about Advent here (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/), and it's gotten me thinking: why don't I spend the next few weeks pondering the mystery of Incarnation? Why not prepare myself for celebrating God with us?

Because I don't know how, whispers a voice.

But I don't need to know how, I reply. I just need to do it. I need to remember, every day, about the wonderful mystery of the Word made flesh. I need to remember that Christmas is about receiving the greatest gift.

Celebration is not dependent on weather, songs, exams, or location. It is dependent on the attitude of my heart. If this Christmas is truly to be a time of glory and rejoicing, I must set my heart down, let it be vulnerable, and choose to dance away the heaviness. "If anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think on these things!"

Celebrate... my car is all fixed up, new battery and all.
Celebrate... the weather is warm and lovely.
Celebrate... there are many amazing and gracious here with whom I get to share life.
Celebrate... for connections with people from past places and seasons.
Celebrate... there is a baby grand piano I may play.
Celebrate... I am going home for Christmas.

It is hard to explain how much this last point means to me. It's such a great big wonderful thing that I can't spend much time thinking about it, lest I burst with impatience and joy and expectation and .... all kinds of other things. I am going home. If for no other reason, I should be able to rejoice every day because of this one simple fact: I am going home.

That is enough.

No more grumbling about shallow lyrics, or crazy shoppers. No more finding reasons to say it isn't Christmas-time yet. Because it is always Christmas; it is always Immanuel, God with us. This is just the time of the year when we make a great celebration about it.

It is always Christmas, and I am going home.

Now I don't mind the Christmas music so much.