WSCL Winter 2009
The Italian Secret
When you ask people where they would like to travel, many Americans will tell you Italy. Italy is the number one tourist destination for many Americans. It’s not just the great climate, the ancient cities steeped in history, or the phenomenal art. Americans want to go to Italy to try to figure out why the Italians seem to have such a stress free life. What is their secret? What is the Italian secret? I had to know!
On a mission to find out the Italian secret, I travelled to Italy this summer and spent three weeks observing, experiencing and taking good notes. My conclusion – the Italians are different from Americans in one critical way. They approach life with the attitude that life is to enjoy. Americans believe that life is meant to work and if you get all of your work done and accumulate a pile of money, then you can enjoy. Some Americans never get to the enjoy part until they retire! By then, they forgot how to enjoy!
Italians love life.
They make time to talk to each other. In the small town of Ripatransone I observed a woman going to a small market and ordering meat from a real butcher! They talked. It was more about the relationship than about the food. They discussed their children, the weather and the way the meat should be cut. At night in the hilltop town of Volterra, the men gather in the town square and talk. The women walk arm in arm through the piazza talking and laughing.
Italians have meals that go on and on. One night we dined with the mayor and the meal lasted for close to four hours! For me, it was difficult to sit that long but our Italian hosts didn’t seem to mind at all. They enjoy each course, savor the wine, carry on in depth conversations, tell stories and share experiences. This is their way – to recline at table. To take pleasure in the food, the wine, the friends and the day.
Italians have a favorite word – domani – this means tomorrow. It is their way of postponing things. Just when tasks seemed to be a bit too much, the Italians would use the domani clause to alleviate the stress. They say why not put off to tomorrow what you cannot do today? To me domani has become the Italian pressure valve that I need to survive my American world. It is the Italian secret – tomorrow, tomorrow Diana – today is to enjoy.
<!– /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:”Cambria Math”; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:”"; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:”Calibri”,”sans-serif”; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;} p.MsoNoSpacing, li.MsoNoSpacing, div.MsoNoSpacing {mso-style-priority:1; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:”"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:”Calibri”,”sans-serif”; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} –>
Wheelchair Bound
A bad fall on a roller skating field trip with my students left me in a place I did not have experience with, a place that was dependent. All of a sudden my independent and busy lifestyle changed when the x-ray showed that I had broken my kneecap and badly bruised my shoulder, arm and wrist. Many people would say that this is just old age, that I should not be on roller skates in the first place but I refuse to adopt their philosophy and call it just a bit of bad luck.
What I didn’t expect was how much this little injury would slow me down. I had to learn how to walk with a leg immobilizer so that my knee would remain intact and heal.
Fortunately it was my left leg so I was able to drive but it took so much longer to get in and out of the car pushing the seat back so that my foot would clear the car door. It took longer for me to cross the street, twice as long to get up stairs. Going down stairs was a challenge as I learned to gingerly place my immobilized left leg down and bend the right one step by step.
This temporary handicapping condition made me reevaluate my outlook on life, on the pace of my life, on simple courtesy and kindness. My braced leg needed more room and I often do not fit into theater seats or chairs that have short knee room and no place to put an extended leg. This became an issue on my birthday.
To celebrate my birthday my sons and I planned to see the National Symphony at the Kennedy Center. I called and arranged for a wheelchair for the performance. My sons took good care of me: William rolled me through the grand entrance hall and Alex cleared the way. Their attention touched my heart and helped me to accept my temporary limitations.
Being wheelchair bound was strange and humbling experience. Other patrons of the arts that evening looked at me differently. I myself was uncomfortable with the stares and the special treatment.
Since my leg was in front of me jutting out and propped up, there was always the fear that it would get bumped and become reinjured or that the leg would act a battering ram inadvertently poking an unsuspecting person. But William was skillful at getting me in and out of the elevator without crashing into anyone!
The Kennedy Center Concert hall has numerous levels and our tickets gave us seats in the top row of the top tier. The attendants took one look at my leg and asked us to wait a moment. The next thing I knew they had ushered us to special handicapped seating that was among the best seats in the house: a silver lining to this cloud.
The concert was memorable in many ways. Hearing the music from our special vantage point was an unexpected pleasure and being wheeled to and from the destination gave me new appreciation for mobility and taking for granted the simple act of walking.
<!– /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:”Cambria Math”; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:”"; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:”Calibri”,”sans-serif”; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;} p.MsoNoSpacing, li.MsoNoSpacing, div.MsoNoSpacing {mso-style-priority:1; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:”"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:”Calibri”,”sans-serif”; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} –>
Knitting Possibilities
All around my living room are balls of colorful fluff. Not dust balls but wool, nylon, silk and synthetic balls of yarn. I admit that I have an addiction. I cannot resist beautiful yarn. I look at yarn and imagine the potential it has to become something. Yarn’s textures and colors thrill me. I cannot resist the urge to add a silky skein or a loopy eyelash fiber to my collection. The colors of my yarn range from barely white to deep dark burgundy. I have the golds and greens of autumn, the whites and blues of winter and the soft pink of spring. The yarn colors speak to me, mirroring the splendor of nature’s seasons and filling a huge hole in my heart. For to me the yarn colors give me hope of better times to come and creating with yarn is an affirmation of a better road ahead.
During a personal trauma I started knitting. The more that I knitted the calmer I became. My thoughts were no longer pin balls banging around in my head, instead when I picked up the needles my fingers took over and I could pull together the shattered parts of my life by looping and twirling my fingers through miles of soft pliable yarn. Taking my life into my hands through the knitting needles I carefully, methodically reworked the threads of my life: knit, purl, knit purl. My life had spun out of control and I was knitting it back together, one scarf at a time.
Only the knitting made sense. This was the one thing that did not cause me pain: it was a reliable, self-soothing ritual that allowed me a semblance of peace. I was in control of the needles and the yarn. I had the power in my hands to create something of beauty and this gave me hope and confidence that the future would be brighter. The knitting was a lifeline to another place with happy possibilities and untold choices.
Last summer I packed up my smallest knitting needles and took them travelling with me. I knitted on trains and buses as I watched the scenery and struck up conversations with fellow travelers.
I knitted while I was visiting my mother in the hospital and I knitted through long boring meetings at work. When people see me knit it awakens the dormant knitter inside them and they are often the next person to catch the knitting bug.
My Aunt Mary taught me to knit when I was twelve. She made me the most magnificent afghan as a present long ago. These days she is 93 and we spoke on the phone. She is still knitting and giving away afghans and throws. She wants her nieces, nephews and grandchildren to have something to remember her by when she is gone. I bless her for her gift to me, the knowledge and skill of this ancient craft.
While Aunt Mary’s creations are masterful legacies, mine are a survival lifeline and even though I am still in transition and not quite as fragile as before, I know that a significant part of my recovery from life’s sometimes painful journey lies at the end of my fingertips in soft, bright yarn and the peaceful rhythm of needles clacking.
