On The Art of Letting Go

It took me the whole month of July to learn, remember, and feel comfortable saying ariverderci. Even those last few days, I shied from the word, preferring a light-hearted ciao. If we were interested in reading into this, to analyze and dissect my mind, we would come - quite quickly - to my aversion to the translation. Because as often as I have to say it, I really do hate goodbyes.

I intended this post (over 2 weeks ago) to be wrapping up my thoughts on Italy, hopefully pull something out of the muddle that my last post turned into, and delve into musings on long term travel. There's a brief, sacred time immediately after you end a vacation, when you hold in your hands all of the mental and physical experiences you had in your time away. Similar to the pause after closing the back cover on a good book, you are allowed a quiet moment to reflect and feel all of the raw emotions of the trip before they become clouded from time and expectations of others. There's this space when I don't want you to ask me about the trip because I know any description I give, however abbreviated or drawn out, will sound flimsy in my mouth and in my ears. It will slip by unnoticed if you choose not to care, but if you take those few minutes to breathe deeply and let the memories wash over you, it's enchanting. I reveled in those moments, selfishly coveting my memories of Italy as I jumped back into my life in Iowa. It was so strange to slip easily back into habits of the past year while I could still smell the Mediterranean, still feel the cool touch of marble on my fingers. I wanted so much to swim in that space for a little longer, soaking in my memories, but time refused to pause and here I am, typing from a desk in a room in an apartment that I am allowed to call mine.

Early in my service in Mali, I was told a phrase - Dooni dooni, kononi b'a nyaga da, Little by little, the bird builds its nest. The phrase was comforting when I arrived, slowly collecting the details that turned my hut into a home. I distinctly remember sitting on the plastic mat in my main room, looking around me and feeling both proud and content with the hodge-podge home I had created. Flash forward a few years and I am still collecting those details: dishes from my aunt, a blanket from Senegal, art from Zambia, an old trunk from an antique shop. These items get stashed away in my mother's basement, in the bedroom that is still mine at 26. I buy things for this distant horizon of 'real' adulthood, the one in which I will be settled, own a home, fill a need with everything I have collected. "Someday," I reassure myself, "I will want all of this and have somewhere to put it all."

Funny thing about that horizon, though, I keep moving and it stays just beyond my grasp. I am starting to wonder if I am holding onto things for a future that isn't coming. I have already acknowledged to myself (and probably written about) how adulthood does not always conform to the restraints and frames we put it in, no matter how hard we try. "We can wait two years," my mother says, soothing my nerves, more sure than myself that I will know what is next by the time I graduate. I agree readily, unwilling to say goodbye to a future that fits my trunk in the living room, my kitchenaid on a butcher block counter, and my assortment of art on the walls. If I can't say goodbye to things, to foggy futures, what hope do I have of saying goodbye to people?

I spent much of last week sifting through those things, carefully choosing what I would want for my 9 months in this little apartment, the one that doesn't get the label "home" for a full year before I dust off my passport and vaccination card for new adventures. One week ago, I found myself in that terrifying space where "I'm not ready" is no longer a legitimate reason for stalling. I filled the day with "See you in December"s, this transition's version of ciao, sat on my suitcases to cajole them into zipping shut, and went out for one last cheap drink before moving to Gotham.

The goodbye's shifted into hello's as my train entered Penn station, as my suitcases were loaded and unloaded again and again, as I learned the subway route to my new home. Sitting here admiring the way my new print from Venice looks on the wall, I am amused by my own ability to transition easily and to feel comfortable not knowing where I will be in one year, while simultaneously being completely incompetent at goodbyes and letting go.

Peace & love

Elyse

P.S. I realize the photos of Italy don't totally fit. I just couldn't help it.