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.