Wheat field on my morning walk in late June 2021

I completed my Reiki training in 2007. Over the past 15 years, Yvonne has told me to do the What do I really, really want? [See prior blog here] exercise nearly every time I sat on her couch unsettled about anything. I was irritated by the repetition. I felt I had already arrived at the bottom years prior—I just wanted to be loved and accepted. Wasn’t that surprising enough?

I thought she was missing the point.

It was me who had missed the point.

Then COVID drove the point home.

For the past 20 years, I had been in the United States, never fully feeling I would stay. I never seriously considered buying a house. I always saw myself returning to Italy. “Next year,” I’d say. For the first decade, I made myself crazy trying to find the answer to the question: Where do I want to live? I wrecked my brain, back and forth, back and forth, arguing all sides—A full-fledged debate team in my freaggin head. No one was winning, ever. The second decade started the day I looked myself in the mirror and said: “You’ve been in Philly for 10 years now. Stop saying you hate it. Start admitting all the things you love about it. Accept Philly. Accept that you’re making a right-now-decision. Let the future go. For the following decade, I chose Philly, if only one day at a time.

When Covid hit, I was overwhelmed with grief. I lost my work for the year, all plans in the air. Thought I couldn’t return to Italy, borders closed. Four months of single life, at home—without being touched by a human being. It was tough. After four months, I cried with two friends about the agony I was in. I got two hugs. Four more months feeling homesick for Italy went by. It was the longest I had ever been away: 18 months.

Suddenly, one day at a time was no longer working for me. I wanted commitment. I wanted a steady community. I wanted devotion. I wanted a clear decision. And I didn’t want to think it through. I wanted to live it through. I wanted to be closer to my parents. Covid had strengthen my fear of them passing away without me ever having really enjoyed them.

I created a “sacred space” plan: it’s not a plan to make a decision, it’s a plan to hold space for a decision. I went to Italy planning a 2-month stay in October 2021. If I wanted to stay longer, I figured, I’d come back to the States, rent out my apartment, and go back to Italy for the year. If I didn’t want more time in Italy, I’d move back to the States and buy a home—commit to Philly, finally.

After two months, not only did I want to stay in Italy, I found someone to sublet my apartment without returning. I kept asking myself what I wanted. Ever week. Every month. Ten months went by. Ten months went by.

I got to the bottom of my list. Juicy black olives harvested in November, pruned in March, flowered in May, first green fruits budded in June, ripe green olives had grown by early November again. Wheat planted in October, slight thin green sprouts by November, stronger sprouts in December, wilted threads under winter morning frost in Janury, high green grass in April, tall green shafts of wheat in May bending in the breeze, golden shaft waves in the summer heat in June, bare, harvested stubs in early July.

What I had yearned for more than anything else, was to see the seasons change on my ancestral land, in Italy. My soul yearned for the views of my childhood, with the peace and maturity I have now. A leaning into the rhythms of nature, ancient, alive, beyond my control.

I yearned for rhythms of colors, movements in the wind, smells, lights, rhythms of life, in this small village of my youth. I had hated this village so deeply: I had tuned out magic. I yearend now to revisit it, relive it. It was a yearning to be whole with the land, in a way I, city girl had never, truly, known.