In praise of slow travel

That time I didn't tour Florence

Very kind friends had been urging me to visit them in Italy. For almost 2 years, she’s been saying, Come, please come. It will be good for you; you’ll love it.

After Tom died, I had invitations to visit family, to visit friends, to get away. And I did, sometimes, reluctantly at first, and then just kind of resigned.

When you see me
Fly away without you
Shadow on the things you know
Feathers fall around you
And show you the way to go

~ Neil Young, Birds

Please don’t misunderstand: These are people I love, and people I love being with. But my heavy heart struggled to muster the energy. Sometimes I said yes, and got on the plane or in the car, and almost always I was glad that I’d gone. Sometimes I said No thank you, not now, not this time, and almost always I was glad that I’d declined.

In the case of this invitation to Italy, I’d said Not now, not yet for months. And then, a little window of opportunity and energy opened up and I said Yes and began to make plans but then family responsibilities changed the plans, and there was another Not now. My friends, ever gracious, understood and reminded me that it was an open invitation, Come when you can. We’ll be ready when you are.

Another window of opportunity popped open a few weeks ago, and I said Yes, and in short order I was on two planes, and then two trains, and then welcomed into the open arms and gentle community of my host Laura in the sweet picturesque beauty of Umbria.

Laura and Rick introduced me to this place more lovely than the pictures I’d seen, more enchanting than I might have imagined. They gave me a room in their 500-year-old stone house, showed me how to make incredible espresso in their kitchen, introduced me to so much delicious pasta and wine and gelato, walked me through narrow cobblestone streets, and into tiny chapels and grand cathedrals, and along a tranquil lakeshore. They gave me time to be alone and quiet, and time to connect and discover.

When does a trip become a journey?

Their home is about an hour from Florence - Firenza - by train, and we’d planned to spend a day there, but the weather turned dicey and we decided not to. Would I be missing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the David? Maybe.

Or maybe not.

What happens when we leave the guide book and take the slow road?

Instead of tours through Florence, Laura and I spent Wednesday hiking up into the hillside above their house. We took our time. We took pictures. We took in the aroma of wisteria and the 360° views.

We saw flowers everywhere, and met a farmer with his dog.

We met a sweet friendly donkey.

We visited an old old cemetery, and when the rain began we sheltered in the covered crypts and read the names of people who had called this little community home.

The “bucket-list” visit to Florence might have been lovely, but the afternoon in quiet hills, gazing out on the lake, inhaling the aroma of new spring flowers, savoring the velvet-soft touch of the sweet donkey’s muzzle – all these delights restored my soul. They surprised and enchanted me.

Instead of FOMO (fear of missing out), I experienced DOPA (delight of poking around). It was slow and quiet, gentle. Restorative. It was what my heart needed, even when I didn’t know what my heart needed.

A common table, an uncommon experience…

One evening Laura drove us “over the mountain” to one of their favorite places for “pizza night”. We ate at a long common table, with a couple from Norway, and woman from England, a gentleman from Montana, a family from Austin, and our Italian chef and hosts. We told stories and shared experiences and asked questions and we ate lots and lots of pizza, hot out the wood-fired oven.

That evening at the table served up palpable connections, the kind we (I) long for, the kind that’s rare and beautiful and its power and memory make a warm little home in your heart. It was simple, yes – and maybe the simplicity was part of the magic. We sat together, we passed the bread, we learned a little about one another, we passed the salad, we listened, we laughed, we poured the wine, we shared the pizza. We lingered.

We began as strangers, but that changed. We learned a little about one another, not a lot, but a little is enough to be not-strangers, and being not-strangers somehow makes the world seem more connected and less contentious. At least for a moment. At least in a life-filled room on a quiet hillside in Tuscany.

For a few golden hours, a handful of people shared stories and food and laughter and questions and pictures and music. We saw one another.

“There are no strangers here, only friends you haven't met yet," wrote William Butler Yeats

We met. We saw each other. We connected for a few hours as human beings on the journey.

And that is something to not miss out on. Maybe I didn’t see the David this time, but I witnessed connection and community. I touched and tasted the gift of the common table. We fed on the sacred gift of being with, being together, a kind of symbiosis.

A blessing, a prayer, a gift…

I made a new friend, a generous friend, who shared these words of wisdom, a blessing of sorts.

For the Traveler , by John O'Donohue

Every time you leave home,

another road takes you into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await, new places that have never seen you

will startle a little at your entry.

Old places that you know well will pretend nothing

changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself

alone in a different way, more attentive now

to the self you bring along.

Your more subtle eye watching

you abroad; and how what meets you

touches that part of the heart that lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune to the timbre in some voice,

opening a conversation you want to take in

to where your longing has pressed hard enough

inward, on some unsaid dark, to create a crystal of insight

you could not have known you needed 

to illuminate  your way.

When you travel, a new silence goes with you,

and if you listen, you will hear

what your heart would love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:

make sure, before you go, to take the time

to bless your going forth,

to free your heart of ballast

so that the compass of your soul might direct you toward

the territories of spirit where you will discover

more of your hidden life, and the urgencies

that deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,

gathered wisely into your inner ground; 

that you may not waste 

the invitations which  wait along the way 

to transform you.

May you travel safely, 

arrive refreshed, 

and live your time away  to its fullest; 

return home more enriched, 

and free to balance 

the gift of days  which call you.

~ John O'Donohue, from: To Bless the Space Between Us

I’m back home now, savoring memories. Maybe I’ll see the David in Florence someday, or maybe not, who knows? But I know this: I experienced the best that a journey can offer; I witnessed connection, and the glorious gift of people and place.

When you travel, a new silence goes with you, and if you listen, you will hear what your heart would love to say. A journey can become a sacred thing….

The big world feels a little smaller, and my little heart has been stretched a bit. This is the beauty of a journey – when we let go of the bucket list , the “must-see” checklist, and embrace the “don’t-miss” actual moments, and the people who make them so memorable.

Maybe we honor the ones we miss by connecting with the world they loved, by opening our hearts and lives to new places, new people, new possibilities. I know Tom would have loved the beauty, the history, the food, the people, the conversations, the laughter, the life of it all.

Maybe this is how we walk into each new day, opening ourselves to connection? Maybe this is how we honor the gift of our own lives now?

A journey can, indeed, become a sacred thing.