Tomorrow I leave Italy, and I am already one foot here, one foot out of this place.
I recognized my feelings of melancholy this morning for what they were -- sadness at leaving here. The sadness descended suddenly upon me, and at first I could not place it. What was there to be sad about? I have just spent five marvelous weeks in Italy, and I have more travels ahead of me. But transitions have never been easy for me; even as I look ahead to the next thing in front of me, I hate to let go. I'd like to stay here for another five weeks, then add another, until I was sure that this was my life, these happy day, and not those, then.
Then was this spring, when I juggled work and school, and the decisions of where to go next and how to keep the person I love at my side while designing my own life.
Now is central Italy, golden fields, Medieval hill towns, dusty roads, the Italian table, fiber between my fingers and potato peels at my feet.
I tell myself that I will have this again -- leaving happy places does not mean leaving happiness behind -- but for now I am sad to see it go. Which is more real -- the hardships of cold spring, or the delights of summer? How much there is to live and feel in just this one life!