Southern Legitimacy Statement: I have lived almost exclusively in the South, but that has never fully defined me. I find that definition in how I think about and how I respond to my orange blossom scented environment. For the last eighteen years, we have spent considerable time during the year in Appalachia. In addition, I am over the moon about Dolly Parton’s recent recording of “Free Bird” and am saddened my the announcement of the divorce of Jason Isbell and Amanda Shires. I have a copy of “Caste – The Origins of Our Discontents” ready to read.
An Italian Life Journey
One day, after years of living in the American suburbs and working in government, I chose to move to Italy. It was, in most respects, a well reasoned decision. There were no longer any lingering ties left connecting me to my American life. When the charm of the medieval hill towns in Tuscany called to me, I answered their call. My soul and my heart told me that I would find a peaceful existence there. In my research of where I might want to live, I found San Quirico d’Orcia, a place that is Etruscan in its origin, which was first mentioned in church records in 712 A.D. I soon quietly and effortlessly made it my new home.
I rented a small but well lit apartment near the town center and learned the basic skills of caring for myself in a new environment. I was soon settled. I had found a small supermarket, a newsstand, a pharmacy, and my favorite pasta, pastry, and butcher shops. The apartment had a washing machine, and I joined in the local practice of hanging my clothes out to dry on a line running off my second floor balcony when the weather was good and indoors near the fireplace when it wasn’t. A dry cleaners who would also wash your clothes was available, but, for me, that was a luxury to be carefully considered.
As my rudimentary Italian began to improve, I made friends at first with a few of the townsfolk while adding with relative ease to my band of new acquaintances as time slipped by and I became more fluent. I was known as Giacomo.
I read books in the good midmorning light by the window that looked out on my narrow cobbled street, started writing my short fiction and poetry in Italian, learned to make my own gelato, attended the local soccer team’s matches, and explored the other nearby hill towns so that I could also photograph their charm and study their history.
I kept my self busy, exercised enough to stay limber, and found that I lacked for almost nothing. The first seasons of my inaugural year passed quietly. With their passing, I gained a deepening respect for the town’s unique cultural sensibilities and idiosyncrasies. I could now dream in Italian and even a few of the local football players, whom I had called soccer players before I had known better, now cheerfully acknowledged me and knew me by name
During my coming and going in the town, walking almost all the narrow passageways that took me from place to place, I would see the elderly women, the donne anziane, dressed in black, usually walking with a cane, often hobbled by age and arthritis, carrying small shopping bags filled with the meager necessities their daily lives required. I would nod and tip my cap. They never smiled, but occasionally would raise their head and briefly meet my gaze. As I came to recognize them and they me, I ventured offers to carry their shopping bag and walk with them to their doorstep. While some accepted my offer, they never spoke and only nodded their gratitude. It was enough. È stato sufficiente.
It was at this point in my journey that I began to feel a restlessness that I could not quite reconcile. Culturally, intellectually, and emotionally, I now had a completely different perspective compared to my previous life experience before I came to to San Quirico. A place I now had no intention of ever leaving. Still, there was a missing element. Something that was mildly but persistently unsettling.
I began to see how these ancient towns had a religious sensibility imbedded deeply in the culture. The churches that served the towns had a palpable spirituality imbued over centuries in their stone walls, reflected in the art and the stained glass, and for the congregants was a liturgically linked refuge from the uncertainties of the secular world. Something woven into the fabric of their daily lives going back innumerable generations molte generazioni. How then was I to add spirituality to my life in Italy if I did not want to participate in the church rituals and sought only a quiet meditative sanctuary? Knowing that the church doors were never locked so that anyone needing sanctuary could enter freely should allow me, I hoped, to respectfully seek peace and solace pace e conforto on my own terms.
There were several churches in San Quirico. I chose Chiesa di San Francesco on the Piazza Della Liberta, the town’s main square. Initially, I would enter at times when it seemed certain that very few others would be there, sit immersed in the shadows in the back of the church, and leave quietly without attracting attention.
Later, in the winter months, I would come and sit in the shadows almost every day. Not staying too long. Only until I felt like my thoughts had regained some clarity.
The faint but clear light that flowed through the stained glass windows opened my eyes to many things. The donne anziane would come almost daily, usually in the early morning, wearing long black coats and knitted hats and carrying their rosaries. They would come to offer prayers, light candles of remembrance, and perhaps once a week enter the confessionale. Since I knew many of them, I would offer to light their candles for them or simply whisper a blessing to them as they passed close enough for them to hear my voice. As my second spring season came and the weather began to warm, I would again take long walks often seeing my widowed friends who would now, occasionally, nod and smile. I doubt they knew my name, but we had forged a respectful bond of familiarity.
One day, much to my surprise, one of the women stopped me and said, “Giacomo, I must tell you something, please listen carefully.” “Of course,” I replied. “When we take confession, she said, “the priest tells us that you are a lost soul and that you should be shunned.” “That’s concerning,” I thought to myself. Then, she continued, “We know we should not question his judgment of you, but I told him that your kindness exemplifies the teachings of Christ. I felt very brave to have said that, but I knew it to be true.” “Mille grazie,” I replied and told her I was grateful for the courage she had shown on my behalf. “Be careful,” she whispered. “He will try and ban you from entering the church,” she warned as she laid her hand on my sleeve.
Eventually, I was asked to leave by the young attending priest at the bequest of the choleric old priest. He had by now told the church’s old women, while they were in the confessional, that I was truly lost and that I was beyond redemption. He asked that they encourage me to stay away. A few, fearing the admonitions of their priest, abandoned their trust in me while others surreptitiously strengthened it.
I respected the concern of the elder priest, but neither could I just abandon my quest for finding the sense of refuge that I sought within the church. Now though, I would bring cleaning supplies and show God my appreciation in a supplicante manner for allowing me time spent in his casa della grazia house of grace.
Fortunately for me, also assigned to the church was a nun of West African descent. She looked to my eyes like a Renaissance madonna. She would, in contrast to the priests, amicably greet me and give me a small glass of the chalice wine because, she said, “Ti do questo perché ami Dio a modo nostro.” I give you this because you love God in your own way. In response, I would tell her, “Tu, Sorella mia, mi vedi attraverso gli occhi di Dio.” You, my Sister, see me through God’s eyes.
Occasionally, she would come back when the shadows had begun to deepen, sit beside me and read to me from Dante’s Inferno in the faint light. Each time, I found myself comforted simply by being in her presence and sensing her trust in my soul’s final outcome.
It was during one of these times that she suggested that my mindful restlessness might not be entirely spiritual. “Try engaging more in the town’s communal activities outside the church,” she said. “Come to market day in the town square this Saturday and help me at our booth providing food and clean clothes for our less fortunate families. You can also help out the other vendors with setting up their booths and translating for them with the English-speaking tourists.” I was beginning to find un nuovo percorso a new path.
As I began to feel more like an Italian, more a member of the local community than simply one who lived there, more willing to earn their respect, I began to change . I still helped the donne anziane carry their shopping bags, did handiwork around their homes for them, and learned their names. When harvest time came, I volunteered my time with the local farmers and only accepted some of the bounty which I then gave to my now friend, Sister Angelique, for her work with the poor. In addition, I somehow became an assistant coach on the local soccer team with the responsibility of scouting the other neighboring teams. On the various holidays, I would volunteer to work washing dishes at a one of the town’s trattorias. Occasionally, I would be asked to sit in on classes in the primary grades at the local school and read stories to them in Inglese English. The quality and breadth of my Italian vita life was measurably improved.
Eventually, the young priest lost his faith and left to farm lemons on the Amalfi coast. The old priest was invited to live as a pensioner at the Vatican in Rome. I had thought him to have become too deeply cocooned in the threads of his own convictions to minister to those whose suffering he could no longer see.
In retrospect, I came to understand that I had no right to judge. In truth, for both of us, it was la luce che non potevamo vedere. It was the light we could not see.
I continued to regularly sweep out and mop the floors of the church and wipe down the pews. The new priest granted me, without judgment, the quiet moments of refuge that I sought. When time permitted, we would play dominoes in the rectory and talk about Renaissance art and artists. He would even ask me, on occasion, to drive his old Fiat 500 and take sealed church papers to the Archbishop in Sienna. I drove very carefully both out of respect for the Father’s car and for my own safety.
Sister Angelique told me that she had decided to return to her village in West Africa to establish a school for young girls. I traveled there about six months later, brought her books and school supplies, and built desks for her. She said that she could never thank me enough. I told her that she had long ago given me a gift of grace that I could never repay.
In the time that passed, I missed her and I didn’t see her again until she appeared years later in a dream, both of us sitting with a small goblet of an extraordinary Brunello di Montalcino red wine with the clear Tuscany light shining through the diamond cut glass. She still had warm brown eyes and an easy smile, and I was a ghost whose shadowy form only she could see. Il mio viaggio di vita è stato completo. “My life journey is complete,” I told her.
Ora, forse, puoi aiutare gli altri a tovare il loro nuovo percorso. “Now, perhaps, you can help others to find a new path,” my friend replied.
In that moment, I found the courage to embrace eternity. Il dono di Dio del coraggio.
