When I look back on this trip, I notice sooo many gifts. And they are all connected to hosting.
My parents are the best hosts in the world. I know this from every single person I know that has visited their home. When a guest comes, they become an absolute priority. And our guests get to experience VIP service in the Southern Italian way. Only the freshest food, only the brightest fire, only the cleanest home. They have instilled in me that guests are sacred, and hosting is an honor—not a burden. There is no extent my mother won’t go to host someone at her very, very best. As her—slightly more modern daughter—I’m as gracious and warm a host (I hope) but not as devoted. I don’t put my life on hold for my guests and I often forget basics, like milk and croissants…but I always help people feel warm and at home—and it’s easier if I don’t stress about it. Hosting is a big part of my professional practice through the Art of Hosting: holding space is always hosting. The community (www.ArttofHosting.com) has woken me up to the art and sacredness that I was born into. In my family hosting is a philosophy and a way of life. It’s assumed that anyone we love is welcome, always. It’s also assumed that anyone in need is welcomed. More often than not, it’s enough to be at our door to be welcomed.
The biggest gifts of this trip have been around being hosted. It’s the first, since covid, that I’ve been able to travel as I love, traveling through visiting people I love.
Gifts. So, So many.
Mom and Dad holding space for my healing in our Italy home: Dad holding my hand, Mom’s cooking, turning off the TV, fewer noises. No questions. Experiencing their full support as I moved through day by day facing my healing in deeper and deeper ways.
New friends hiking together, reaching mountain peaks together. We hosted each other by looking out for each other: often at the back of the line. We paused for rich food sharing rituals: a magical synchronicity of sharing without planning: someone brings wine, some the vegetables, some the bread, some the pasta or the savory pie, the breadsticks, the salami, the coffee. All is placed at the center—everyone eats with laughter, joy, rejuvenation.
The mountains hosted us: the land, firm under my feet, opening my heart, helping me feel safe, warm, alive. These are the mountains of my teenage years—of many camps with the scouts. I didn’t know where I was then, so I have simple flashbacks here and then of having been places. They are all sweet memories of times when I began to feel free in nature, I began to feel moments of relief and joy beyond my usual hidden depression. Days of magic, connection, and love—where everything was fresh and new. I felt more alive in those camps in nature than I had ever been. I felt I belonged—for the first time in my life.
Then in Milan, I connected with an old high school friend—who used to be on those walks with me. One thing touched my soul deeply: A guitar songbook, worn-out in all the same places as mine—the cover consumed and separate from the book. A guitar tuner. The same I have. Broken in the exact same way: battery wires detached from the battery-holder. We are connected in the most simple of ways. The pieces of our teenage years that we brought with us—across the world, thousands of miles from home. We honored this past with a loud—somewhat off-tune singing of old camp songs…”One day long ago we walked together on unchartered paths…one day long ago we discovered that love is the very purpose of life. Together…together… is a slogan of brotherhood, together…together…we believe, we believe.”