Serendipity

The train stopped on the tracks 200 yards past a rural station.

We were about an hour into a Praha to Vienna trip and as my computer clocked continued increasing I ticked down to 0 from the 7 minutes I had to make my connection back home – the last one for the night. I glanced out of the window and saw conductors and then passengers start to meander past.

My tummy rumbled and I thought again of the somewhat-past-prime vegetables I had removed from my bag in the morning. At the time I thought “I’m going to regret this later.” Indeed. An announcement in German was of little assistance and so I turned to my fellow cabin mates.
Waiting for the Train

“I’m sorry but do you know what is going on?”

“Something on the track ahead… we have to wait.”

“Did they say how long?”

“No.”

Over the course of the next hour plus, between getting fresh air, stretching on the segmented gravel, and a few picture opportunities, I learned of the accident at a crossroad on our track. I said a silent prayer for the person, family and friends who were all having a much worse day than I. An 140 minute delay is naught compared to life’s other wreckage.

Sitting back in my computer as we slowly made our way down the tracks I mentally prepared for changing arrangements. Again, glancing out of the window I breathed deep for the beautiful sunset over russet trees and fields of green.

My inner voice sighed contentedly, “relax, appreciate what you have and enjoy the journey.”

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150 Blank Pages to Fill

It was an emotional challenge to fill the last page of my old journal/planner/notebook.scrapbook.

It covered just under a year. Such varying events and moments condensed into less than 100 scrawled pages of ramblings and lists.

ParisI spent an hour flipping back through every page and copying over notes and writings that I couldn’t help but carry forward from my old tome.

After a year of weekly posts, one might think that this blogging thing would be easier. One would be quite wrong.

I still struggle to find the words to encapsulate my experiences. I’m battling the balance of living and writing especially during these full weeks. I want to be out doing, seeing, engaging, connecting, opening, expanding, loving my life with ferocity and consumptive fire.

There are rare times that I have the compulsion to write at length. Most often, however, it is a passing thought of “I should write about…” or a catchy title or sentence that I have repeating over and over in my brain.

I have pages of “starts” but few “finishes” in the banks.

When the muse visits for a long chat, I relish the words forming under my pen. I cherish the missives after the moments have passed.

It was with heavy heart that I faced the replacement my old notebook. Yet, as she often does, the Universe provided a perfect new one to purchase in Paris. And, to ease the ache, I was gifted with a glorious afternoon to first scrawl upon the pages.

On the banks of the Seine 9/29

My only regret is that my legs do not feel strong enough to run… that and that I not a poet nor a painter. Throwing gratitude by the fistful that I am here.

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Sono a Firenze

Grateful, overwhelmed, thankful, pleased, overjoyed, awed, inspired… settled.

It is day 3.

Actually only full day number 2. Already I feel comfortable and snug in this — my — foreign town.

The Street Where I liveI realize I have only barely begun my journey here. Moments abound where I am truly IN and overcome with the exceptionality of my experience… and then the boot and I just keep stepping along stone streets enjoying the journey to our destination like normal.

A little fatigued but no jet lag.

A little misty about friends far away but no homesickness.

A little awkwardness but no fear.

New and familiar at the same time.

Perplesso

I have spoken before about having an immediate reaction to a city and, well, I just sorta skipped over the part where it was a question of liking it or not. Perhaps it is that I already knew I would be here for a year and I fear I am jinxing it — gratitude, gratitude, gratitude — but I simply glided into Florence and nested.

Not Good at Goodbyes

My bags are packed (not really)It is profoundly unbelievable to me that my next post will come from Florence, Italy.

I look at that sentence and the words just start to lose their meaning. It is as if it is a story I am reading about someone else instead of a sentence happening to me.

Inconceivable!

“I do not think that word means what you think it means.”

Oh, but it does. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea that I’ll be living abroad in 4 days… until faced with the realities of saying goodbye.

It is coming in waves. They break faster now as my time gets shorter.

I had to hug my brothers for the last time before departure the weekend and one hit me broadside. Dan said, “you’re still not good at goodbyes…” Nope. I get chocked up just thinking about the moment. No. I’m still not good at goodbyes. My brain absolutely short circuits when I think about kissing Little Miss for the last time.

Bidding farewell to those that we love shouldn’t be easy should it?

Saying sinara to stuff is one thing. To let go of people and face the reality of being a half a world away from them — that is something else entirely.

Under the excitement

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Divesting of Stuff

PensWhere did I get so many pens? And hangers? And scraps of paper? And bottles of lotion? And shoes?

Why on earth have I kept this for so long?

As I make preparations for Italy (10 Days?!) I’ve been dealing with a lot of stuff.

No, that isn’t euphemism for the emotional calisthenics my heart and mind have been running. I mean I’m divesting myself of my junk, by articles, my items, my possessions, my baggage, my crap.

I’m more annoyed that I have to deal with it than anything else. A rather large part of me wants to pack a small suitcase and simply walk away.

I have visions of that scene in “Waiting to Exhale” of piling all the stuff — but my stuff, not my cheating husband’s — into a giant heap and setting fire to it.

I’d confidently stride away looking fierce, snap my fingers and say “never again.”

Overdramatic? Maybe a touch, but that is how deep my desire to be rid of the things right now is. I’m getting rid of as much as I can for, in my mind, my time in Florence isn’t a little sojourn over to Europe. It isn’t even a year fellowship in my mind. In my preparations I am overhauling my life and my concept of “home.”

Florence is the first stop in what I hope to be a longterm nomadic life.

Tis a life that doesn’t need quite so many pens.

Saving

I’ve always had this “rainy day” mentality. Save things for when you will need them. Save them because they are too nice to use. Save them so they don’t go to waste…

Saving so long the act of saving becomes wasteful. [Read more…]