Here, There, and Being Itchy: Grad School Beginnings.

How will I demonstrate humility this week?

A sticky-note containing this question has been facing me for the last three or four weeks. (Literally - it's stuck on my desk). This question came from a homily that I heard a few weeks back. The sermon came at an appropriate time, as evidenced by another point that stuck with me:

"When we are itchy, we scratch. When we scratch, we get at the source." 

A few years back, I had an epiphany. A mind-blowing revelation. I don't really like to take pictures. Actually, let me rephrase that. I love taking pictures - that's the problem. I realized that in the process of trying to pursue a perfect shot, I was missing out on what I was actually seeing. Don't get me wrong, photography is a beautiful art. But it's also important to see the real thing - to risk forgetting in the name of being fully present in the moment. (See this post from last year about my love/hate relationships with the "last look".)

This explains why I've been so slow on the grad school updates; in my effort to be present I have decided that, for the first month, I would concentrate solely on my adjustment. Sometimes, I have to stand back in order to process. So...this grad school thing? Here's where I come back to humility.

I am humbled each and every day.

I am humbled by the fact that I do not know even a speck of what there is to know. (Not that I ever thought I knew anything in the first place...not for a second). There are so many forces at work in the world, which lead me to even more questions. One of my professors summed it up well the other day: If you all don't leave with more questions than you arrived with, we haven't done our jobs.

Questions. A loaded word. Especially here.

I stepped into one of my classes, "Way of Council," for the very first time a few weeks back. Having gone to UMass, I thought I'd seen it all as far as nontraditional class experiences. But not even I could have been prepared for what the next three hours would bring. Apparently, the word "class" at SIT can be code for  "three-hour therapy session." In a class about active listening and creating healing through circle processes, our first go-around proved downright emotional. The question was: "What brought you here?" A question that, over the next forty-five minutes, would move three-quarters of my class to tears. (Myself included, but that's not entirely shocking).

Why was this question an emotional one? I am sure each person in the class could give you a different answer. But the truth is, the question "What brought you here?" is not just about the present.

What brought you here? This means that we all have a there.

But where/what is there?

Unfulfilling jobs. An undying passion. War. Poverty. Families left behind. A devoted spouse. The need to shake things up and create change.

Death.

Supportive parents. In my case, two of the most incredibly supportive parents. The second I told my mom last January that grad school was on my radar, she gave me a huge hug. Yes, Maria. This is for you.

And yes, I say parents with an s. Because even after his death, my dad supports me in more ways than I can count. In more ways than I can express in this space. And I'm trying my hardest to make him proud of me.

The "theres" in our lives, the questions, the people left behind, the baggage...it can make all of us "itchy." We all get itchy sometimes. (I'm sure a few of my lovely friends will find a way to make this dirty, but bear with me.)  It's okay to be uncomfortable. With uneasiness comes exploration. Surprises. Further questions.

When we're itchy, we scratch and we get to the source. 

When I am uncomfortable, I stretch. When I stretch, I surprise myself.

Wow. How liberating it feels when I surprise myself. How freeing. How downright unbelievable.

How uncomfortable I felt on that first day walking into a pseudo-cafeteria to meet a hundred people, none of whom I had any connections to whatsoever. Uncomfortable, yes. But in the midst of that discomfort, I had no choice but to put myself out there.

The result? New friends from all over the United States and over a dozen countries. A few special people have already become beautiful additions to my life, and we are only in week five or six.

With all of these questions...questions about international education, questions about the current state of the world and questions about how the hell I can help when so many tragedies still happen each and every day. Heck, I'm even beginning to question my own interests! But, as I reflect on these questions (which, on occasion, include  questions about my own sanity), I begin to realize that I would much rather question than remain stagnant. Life is far too precious for that.

I'll take being itchy any day, as long as itchiness = growth. And I am already doing some serious evolving.



....be right back, I have a mosquito bite to scratch.

On The Eve..

Today, I'm jittery. I have that I-can't-sit-in-this-house kind of feeling that only comes on the eve of a drastic change. 

Tomorrow morning, I leave for graduate school in Vermont. 

Am I anxious? Most definitely. I have little idea of what to expect. I know (roughly) of my living arrangements, and I know that there is a Dunkin Donuts two minutes away. Other than that, things are a little foggy. I will not know my class schedule for another week or so. Right now, I feel like I'm winging it.

And that's the difference. The difference is, I'm a little more okay with it. 

Rewind to September 2009. I honestly think I spent half of that summer in tears. Going away to college is, I think for everyone, that first terrifying milestone. Back then, "change," (or at least monumental changes, as opposed to the day-to-day), was an exception.

These days, change is the norm. 

In the last four years, I've lost a parent. I've lived in two different countries. I've undergone transformations that can only come with being catapulted into the unknown and surviving the experience. 

I am still a nervous person, and I'm not sure I can change that. But now, in 2013, I sweat a little less. My mom may not cry as heavily over our parting tomorrow. (Although I still expect her to be teary. After all, I am her only daughter and firstborn.) I guess she has grown, too. 

Looking back, I smile when I remember that this whole blog started as a journal of my time abroad. How funny that a series of classes I began the year before I left for Perugia would so drastically alter my planned trajectory. And how interesting that this altered course would bring me to this moment. 

A Poem

This poem was written by a man on the verge of losing his memory. I found it in a book, and it really struck a chord with me. 

Lost and Found

by David Hollies

The first few times
Being lost was frightening
Stark, pregnant
With the drama of change
Then, I didn’t know
That everywhere is nowhere
Like the feeling when a ocean wave
Boils you in the sand
But as time goes by
Each occurrence of lostness is quieter
Falling from notice
Like the sound of trains
When you live near the tracks
Until one day
When a friend asks
"How often do you get lost?"
And I strain to recall a single instance
It was then that I realized
Being lost only has meaning
When contrasted with
Knowing where you are
A presumption that slipped out of my life
As quietly as smoke up a chimney
For now I live in a less anchored place
Where being lost is irrelevant
For now, only when there is a need
Do I discover where I am
No alarm, no fear
Just an unconscious check-in
Like glancing in the rear-view mirror.

Deep Cuts

It was late afternoon, and I was bleeding.

Not many people can declare that they've been sliced on a horseshoe crab, but I can. I sighed as I reached into the first aid kit to pull out a Band-Aid - the first thing we all do when we have a cut.

My first grade campers just love Band-Aids. Although only about one in ten "injuries" at camp actually warrants one, the kids frequently point to a freckle or a bug bite before eyeing the green medical bag hopefully. Most children just like the way they look. But is this desire for a bandage based on a deeper need?

Young children are not the only ones obsessed with Band-Aids.

Bandages offer protection. Even if you don't actually need it, it's nice to just stick one on your arm or leg and go on your merry way. Of course, Band-Aids can prevent infections. Other times, however, we just don't want salt in the wounds...

But isn't a little salt water good for cuts?

Why do we try to "fix" everything? I will be the first to state that, because of my mothering personality, I feel no deeper hurt than the pain that comes with staring into someone's helpless eyes and acknowledging that I cannot help. I've looked into my own heart on occasion and had the same devastating realization. There was nothing left to do.

In the end, I had to let myself bleed out.

After all, blood involves the heart.



....And what happens when a Band-Aid isn't enough?

Why Showing Up is Everything

As of a few weeks ago, there is a spider plant residing on top of my bookcase. The plant sits in a small, clear jar wrapped with a navy blue ribbon. I already like this plant because I know I won't kill it - spider plants can thrive in a wide range of conditions. This particular plant is already a survivor. How do I know this?

Because of where it came from.

I won this plant at an auction. The auction was part of a fundraising night for my beloved seventh grade science teacher, Mr. Kittredge. Mr. K has been battling ALS for the past couple of years. Unfortunately, his condition continues to deteriorate; his current and former students are devastated. To say that Mr. K was a light for us during our seventh grade year would be an understatement. He completely and wholeheartedly embodied what it means for a teacher to "show up" for his or her students. Every day, we would enter the room and see his briefcase resting on the lab table. The briefcase was COVERED with stickers, and I enjoyed feasting my eyes on all of the colors. Mr. K's personality was as colorful as these stickers - he brought a sense of humor to the classroom that I have yet to experience again. During that painful year in my life during which my family experienced yet another cancer diagnosis, Mr. K. kept me laughing when going to school proved to be an emotional hurdle.

Mr. K always showed up for us. At the fundraiser, I was blessed to witness my town show up for him.   To watch my old teachers, classmates, and neighbors hugging and reminiscing.

And the spider plant? It is actually a part of the larger spider plant that Mr. K housed in his classroom for many years. I remember that very plant sitting on the windowsill above me almost a decade ago. Now, I will always have a part of it.

The idea of "showing up" has been a recurring theme in my life recently, even if only in a subtle way. I've been thinking a lot about the phrase, the essence of its meaning. In the past few years, I've slowly developed a mantra that has begun to govern how I live, and that is this: showing up is everything.

In early June, a close friend of our family performed in her spring dance recital. K is twelve, and I have known her since she was born. (There is actually a picture of me holding her on my couch in early 2001, feeding her a bottle.) At this particular recital, K danced in several numbers. I love dance, so I thoroughly enjoyed the entire show. However, I was sad when I couldn't immediately spot K in her dances. From a distance, it is quite literally impossible to find one girl out of a dozen preteen dancers, almost all of whom are white (since this is Sandwich, MA), of similar height, and wearing identical costumes and buns in their hair. In the last thirty to forty seconds of each dance, I could finally find K.

But that wasn't really the point.

The point was seeing her face when she spotted me in the hallway after the 2.5 hour show, a bouquet in hand. I engulfed her in a hug and was more than happy to "show up" for such a special girl. Because I love her.

Do I remember every performance of my childhood years? Every awards ceremony? Every concert and soccer game and speech presentation? Of course not. I do remember who came to support me. And that has made all the difference.

By "showing up," I don't only mean being present in a physical sense (although important.) To me, the phrase also means having a friend who will just sit and listen to you cry. It's sending a "good luck" card to a roommate before she takes her boards. I am so thankful for these types of friends. But some of the most painful moments in our lives (my life included) revolve around the devastating realization that someone did not show up for us when we needed the support. That really hurts.

I've spent a bit of time in survival mode, I'll admit. By "survival mode," I mean that during a time of intense emotional pain, I wasn't really showing up for anyone in particular. Including myself. I made my bed (usually), ate three meals a day (usually, although my appetite wasn't always there), and continued to receive high grades (because I still liked learning.) I was nice and polite to people.

But I was just getting by.

I wasn't going the extra mile to show just how deeply I cared for those I love. I didn't quite remember what I liked about myself, because I couldn't see through the persistent fog.

Over the last year and a half, I've been showing up again. I remember what it feels like to be alive, to not just go through life but to let life go through me. To let it engulf me and amaze me and throw me around a little. To let it present me with new friendships that I treasure. To be inspired and dream my own dreams.

(And I have to say, nothing quite says showing up for life like paying your first credit card bills.)

On that occasional day when I need to be reminded to show up, I'll take a look at that spider plant. It has been through a lot, as has my favorite science teacher. But they are powering through.

And so will I.

"Snakes Are Hanging Out Above My Head" and Other Musings From a Recent Grad

During a Skype conversation with two of my Perugia roommates yesterday, we somehow fell into talking about snakes. Snakes.

I was telling the girls about my encounter with a Black Racer in Wellfleet last summer. These snakes are relatively common in Massachusetts. They are black (who would've thought) and the ones we see with the kids at camp tend to be young and relatively small. However, adult Black Racers can grow up to around six feet long. Or longer. And of course, as luck would have it, my encounter was with a snake of the six-foot variety.

On this muggy day last August, ten six-year-olds were skipping along in line behind me during a marsh walk. Several of them were chattering about their favorite Disney princesses. I turned around to comment on my connection to Belle when I glimpsed a dark flash out of the corner of my eye. I whipped my head just in time to witness a snake's behind thrashing into a shrub.

I must have jumped a little, because I was not accustomed to such unexpected encounters with snakes at camp. Normally, you can hear one slithering through dead leaves or skulking around a log before you actually see it. But they don't call these snakes "racers" for nothing. None of the other kids had even noticed the snake as it shot by, and I silently scanned the bush for another glimpse. What a cool moment this could be for the kids if I can find it, I thought to myself. But the snake was too quick. It had disappeared. Or so I thought, for all of about ten seconds. I turned to continue on the path when I saw it shimmy up a tree. UP A TREE. Now the kids are starting to notice. The snake's head is raised as it silently seeks out its prey (or at least I think that's what he's doing). He nearly nabs a squirrel right in front of us. We have accidentally found ourselves in a nature documentary.

As quickly as it appeared, the snake is once again out of sight. Now I'm a little freaked out. While I was indifferent to snakes before now, I know he is still somewhere above my head. Feeling somewhat unsettled by the snake's unknown location at this point, I shepherd the kids back to the path and we continue on. I never saw that snake again.

I laughed at my friends' shocked faces as I summed up this dramatic tale: "I am not afraid of snakes, as long as I can see what they're up to!"

This story of the snake is very much connected to my feelings at the moment. If I had a dollar for every time I've been asked "How does it feel to be graduated?" in the last few weeks, I'd be able to pay off my impending student loans in a jiffy. But the truth is, I feel the same. I was not particularly emotional leaving school (and this is coming from the crier.) I am attributing my current (and very surprising) go-with-the-flow mentality to the fact that I know my plans for at least the next year: graduate school.

While I often still feel like a mystery even to myself, I am very aware of a few of my most inherent tendencies, one of which is my fear of the unknown. But my fears are often eased (at least slightly) when I have some idea about what is to happen. The situation or coming event can be completely unknown to me, but if I can at least somewhat prepare, if I have at least some window into the future, I feel better. Although a rough comparison, I think this is why the snake in the tree really frightened me. A snake on the ground? No matter. I don't even care if it bites me. (Okay, maybe I care a little bit. Although apparently Black Racers rarely bite out of self-defense. They poop on you instead.) At least the snake on the ground gives me some sense of control, some idea of what's about to happen. A hidden snake in a tree a dozen feet above my head? A little scarier. The future when we have no idea what's about to happen, when the coming months or weeks or even days lie far outside our sight, our line of vision? That can be downright terrifying.

In conversations I've been having with friends, it has come to my attention that many of our fears surrounding "growing up" have almost everything to do with uncertainty. When will we finally land an interview or job? What will a relationship with a significant other look like post-college? Should we stay or go? Who are we, really?

I'm starting to realize that it is useless to worry about uncertainty, because just when you think you have your life figured out, things change. In fact, change is inevitable. Life can throw a major curve ball in a year, a month, or even a second. I could write an essay about these "curve balls" in my own life. (In fact, I have.)  The truth is, my life looks absolutely nothing like I thought it would when I started college almost four years ago. Many of these detours have been overwhelmingly positive. But with life can come unmet expectations and disappointed hopes. And we've all faced plenty of those.

Unexpected, abrupt changes can leave us scrambling. We don't even have time to process what is happening at the time, so we are left to pick up the pieces later. As someone who spends a substantial amount of time in my own thoughts, I feel particularly vulnerable to these effects. I wonder if I missed something, if I could have changed the situation. Or whether I should have known what was ahead before the sharp turn landed itself right smack-dab in my rear view mirror (or side mirrors, as the case may be.) I am stuck reflecting on the past.

But while certain changes can be abrupt, many aren't. Just two weeks ago, on my first beach day of the summer, I walked from the parking lot down to the water to an incredible sight - the beach did not look the same! The water had moved the rocks all the way up a small cliff. This normally rocky beach was sandy! This movement had likely been happening all year, but, having not been to this beach in nine months, this change was unknown to me.

I realize that I've gradually evolved too, but this certainly did not happen overnight. My becoming more comfortable with adapting to new environments, for example, took four years of college and four months in a foreign country. (Studying abroad, in fact, proved to be the perfect example of gradual yet noticeable change.) My shyness surrounding acting as my own advocate gradually dissipated as I learned to flourish at a large university.

Although anticipatory dread has plagued my thoughts in the past, I am gradually learning to embrace change. What I've learned? Just take it in stride. Take time to learn about myself. If something is not in my control, maintain a positive outlook and figure it out. If something is in my control and I like it? Keep going. If I don't like it and I can have control? Figure out how to change it.

Is it always that clear? No, of course not. Definitely not. Or I wouldn't be scared sh*tless when I think about starting a new chapter.

But I'm excited. So excited. Because to me, change looks less like a snake than it used to. One of my favorite quotes is this: "If there was no change, there would be no butterflies." Now there's an image.

New Beginnings All Around

For me AND the birds...

Two Percent.

Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but

nothing is infinite,
not even loss.

You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.  

-Finn Butler

To Boston, With Love.

While I am a Cape Codder through and through, I was born in Boston and spent the first three years of my life there. My parents were also raised in the city. In the wake of this week's events, here are my love letters to my hometown, years in the making.


Dear Boston Doctors,
When you weren't delivering dozens of Papapietro/MacLean babies through the years, you skillfully removed a ruptured appendix. You trudged with us through four arduous cancer journeys, each a long road so unending that they distorted my vision and completely and forcefully dissolved my many expectations of the future. Chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries...you were there. There is a reason you are respected by so many worldwide. You didn't just treat us. You knew us. And I say "us" because spirits can need treating, too. You gave us personalized tours of the equipment to ease our anxieties. You sent cards and flowers. When you couldn't save him, you cried too. Because he wasn't just your patient - he was your friend.  You paid personal visits in those last months (even though the nurses said that your rituals were unprecedented because of how many people you treat). But you insisted that you loved the man you treated for over twenty years, that he taught you lessons that you will never forget. But we loved you bigger. There is a major distinction between doctors and healers. And you are the healing kind. In my family's eyes, you are and always will be our heroes.
Love,
An Eternally Grateful Daughter of a Patient

Dear Fenway Park and the Boston Redsox,

I've written before about the priceless memories you've given me. I'll let that post do the talking. Thank you for a team to believe in. Thank you for one of the most important lessons I've ever learned: It's never about the final outcome. It's about spirit. It's about determination. When it comes down to it, life is really just unending faith. It's about hiding in the bathroom, praying as you wait for that final out of the 2004 World Series. You all sure know how to rally. Sweet Caroline never sounded so good, so good, so good. 

Love,

A Die-Hard Fan Who Would Go To A Game with Double Pneumonia To Cheer For You

Dear East Boston,
If you had a face, it would feature a luminous smile and wrinkles. The smile because you are the definition of a welcoming community, and the wrinkles because you have lived a lot of life. The grit, the sweat, the tears. You provided a young boy with friends of all races and backgrounds, and this boy would grow up and teach his daughter about tolerance. Because who can witness the violence of forced bussing and not want to change something? You have loyalty in your soul. Loyalty that would keep friends together through the shenanigans of childhood and adolescence, including sledding runs down a mountainous hill  into oncoming traffic (you are so ballsy). I want your guts. You would keep a young boy of eight under your watchful eye as he voluntary trekked to the racetrack every day after school, selling newspapers to support his dreams. How many kids do that? You are sacrifice and contribution. You are the start of so many family tapestries, the strings that hold generations of secrets and hopes together as you weave them through your solid hands.
Love,
A Wannabe Badass


Dear North End,
I took my redheaded Irish friend to the Saint Anthony's Feast when we were fourteen, and watching her mildly stupefied expressions made me realize that she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. But I knew you. I was confident that my Italian neighborhood would come through in all of your overwhelming, hospitable glory. In a blow as powerful as the Vespa that nearly ran me over on the streets of Naples last spring, you swept me off my feet like a forceful ocean wave. Hail Marys on the street? The rise and fall of my family's native chatter as it engulfed me? You are the sounds of home. Because of you and this feast, I recognize home. Because of you, I've had a window into my rich culture since I was old enough to say "aspetta!" (And I heard that one a lot growing up). I've learned to understand my roots, and, by extension, myself.
(And those cannoli won't eat themselves.)
Love,
Una Bambina Italiana


Dear Logan Airport,
I've written about you before also. If you were any other airport, I would probably want to spit on you. But how could I despise the gateway to so many of my comings and goings? You are a portal, a portal that I once entered lost and confused and returned having learned how to live again. How could I not love your view from the air as I watched, brimming with new realizations and dreams, as the sun mirrored my renewed spirit, its rays sprouting down to touch the sparkling harbor? I could just disappear into that shade of blue. Life is about both departures and arrivals. You are always my first set of outstretched arms, the gentle whisper ushering me across the skies to new adventures. You are the reflection of a cherished truth: Just because I leave to go exploring, that does not mean I will not find my way back home.
Love,
A Passport Junkie Who Just Wants to See Things


Dear Boston,
Dorothy said there's no place like home. And boy, do your rivers run deep. Expansive enough to reach me on the streets of Rome, where a man nodded at my Sox shirt, pointed to his hat with a stitched "B," and smiled. But I wasn't shocked. Because people fall in love with you. You don't only represent the beginning of this country. You are my beginning. You built me. You made me "Boston Strong."
I will always love that dirty water.
Love,
Maria

Woah.

Sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk. - The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

From a Different Lens

If only I knew then what I know now.

Last week while I was on break, I had the sudden urge to purge my room of unnecessary clutter. (Coffee may have had something to do with this spontaneous inspiration). My room is very clean, and I have always kept it that way. It's just cluttered. Between being away at college and going abroad last spring, I've taken on a bit of a nomadic lifestyle. I never feel like I'm totally settled in my Cape bedroom as far as my stuff is concerned, because summer hardly seems long enough for a complete revamping of decor or a rearranging of furniture. Physically, my room has hardly changed since I was in high school. There are several hints of the passing time though. Old collages have been replaced with black and white postcards from Paris, London, Rome, Krakow, Vienna, and other European cities. My Precious Moments cross from my baptism that used to hang next to my door is no longer there (it broke while I was in Italy. I was bummed about that). But there are some constants too, like the turquoise butterfly sculpture hanging on my high wall, its wings outstretched as if to guard me while I sleep.

I pondered these evolutions as I started on my desk. I was throwing away an old receipt when I found a light blue DVD in one of the cubbies on my desktop. It had nothing written on it. Curious, I brought it to my laptop and put it on....I never finished going through my room that day.

The DVD captured moments from my high school graduation. My family takes a lot of pictures but rarely captures anything on film, so I was trying to remember where this footage came from. Then it all came back to me - my uncle, my dad's brother, had taken it and made a copy for us. He gave it to me after my dad had passed away.

Technology is beautiful in this way. Beautiful because it captures moments that we are not necessarily aware of at the time. While I was lining up with the rest of my class in the school gym, donning my cap and gown and yellow cords, I had no idea that my dad was playing a practical joke on my aunt, his baby sister. The DVD captured it all. There they were, my large family, sitting down before the ceremony and taking up more than a few folding chairs. Then there's Dad's voice: "Watch this." He has a twinkle in his eye. (Someone once told me that I have "expressive" eyes. I wasn't sure what that meant at the time. Now I'm wondering if they come from him). He is laughing to himself, eyeing my aunt who is coming down the row of chairs. But I'll never know what the joke was or how it turned out, because the footage had cut before all was revealed.

I had no idea of these antics when I stood in the school gym, excited butterflies in my stomach. It wouldn't have ever even occurred to me at the time to think about what my family was doing outside without me on June 6th, 2009...

But I also didn't know that my dad would be dead in a year.

As I watch the footage, my mind is calculating dates. Fifteen months between my graduation and his death. Was the tumor already formed? Were his cells violently attacking each other as he laughed into the camera?

When you suffer a major loss, you become extremely attached to old mementos and reminders of your deceased loved one. I was devastated when the footage stopped after about twenty minutes. Like a drug addict, I found myself wanting more. More footage, more jokes, more anything. You want your fix, the high of seeing a side to your loved one that you haven't seen before, moments previously captured. I found myself hanging on to every word, every movement. And to think, I had him 24/7 before.

My grandma was also featured on tape. Back at our house following the ceremony, the camera finds her in the chaos of my friends and family. She is talking about handsome military guys she met at my cousin's graduation from Annapolis Naval Academy. She jokes that I have to go down to Maryland so that she can set me up with one.

Grandma too would die of cancer the next year. This would be the last time I would see her alive.

Who knew that my high school graduation would be so important? At the time, it seemed significant because I was at the top of my class and making the transition to college. Although that was all part of it, it was important because I was nearing the end. Nearing the end of my life on earth with two cherished members of my family.

I was innocent. Gloriously oblivious.

We all were.

If only I knew then what I know now. 

Today, I know better. In my younger years, I didn't know that the boy I worked with in the summers, the boy with the most beautiful smile, would die in a dirt bike accident at sixteen. I didn't know that I would lose my dad while I was still a teenager.

But how can we know these things?

We can't.

I think this is exactly why I can be very anxious about change. Previously, change meant death. To me, change means a grieving family. It means hopelessly trying to adjust to a world that is moving so quickly. It means feeling stagnant when friends and acquaintances seem to be moving forward with their lives in a glorious bubble of naivete.

I wish I could say I have all the answers now. I don't.

But I do live differently.

Sometimes I think that we all truly believe that if we can only grow up and get ourselves together, we will be immune to life's trials and tribulations. But that is not the case. Life doesn't work that way. I thought that going to college would be my only major transition during young adulthood. How wrong I was. We are not even remotely aware of our futures, our own futures or those of people we love the most. Just like we aren't aware of what's going on behind the scenes. Or from someone else's perspective. In this case, my uncle's.

When I work with grieving children at CZC, forgetting is a common concern. Some of the children were very young when they lost a parent, too young to remember him or her. They bring pictures and their surviving parents' stories. Stories and pictures. That's all they have left - other people's stories and accounts of the man or woman who brought the child into the world.

And that is exactly what this DVD footage represents for me. It presents a new perspective, a memory that I can now hold close to my heart. And when we put our perspectives together, they form the images of lives lived. Courageous battles fought. A loving grandmother. A fearless dad.

I've vowed to start paying attention. My mind is constantly capturing mental photographs. I have taken to writing down meaningful conversations I have with others and the poignant wisdom that comes my way. I want to have these memories.  Because now I know.

I see from a different lens.

Journal Excerpt. Age 11.

I found this in my school journal that I haven't looked at in over ten years. My eleven-year old self had some insight...

September 10th, 2002

A home is different from a house in a certain way. First, a house is an actual structure. It is a certain structure where you live. A home, in my opinion, is a place where you are happy and you feel loved. A house is just a building, but home is wherever you feel happy butterflies and are glad to live there.

What I See...

Yesterday, while standing at my kitchen window waiting for water to boil, my eyes scanned our backyard. The late afternoon sun bathed the rhododendrons, the porch, and the lawn that is slightly brown in protest of this winter's snow and its suffocating properties. 

Something caught my eye - four cardinals. The birds had perched themselves on one of the smaller bushes in the yard. That's interesting that so many of them are together, I thought. I don't think I have ever seen more than two of these birds at once. As I ponder this occurrence, my eyes find something on the ground in front of them. Something red, limp. 

I'm teary-eyed now. These cardinals are mourning the loss of one of their members. I came across a  news clip the other day, "Monkey Troop Mourns Loss of Baby." A baby monkey sniffs her friend lying on the ground, looks up wide-eyed, and lets out a shriek. "This is a confusing time for the other youngsters," the newsman explains. You don't say, I thought. Although he is likely reading off of a script, I applaud the news anchor for acknowledging the utter confusion that comes with a loss. Death is a part of life, but that does not take away its power to leave us in the dark, wondering just how this could have happened and why. 

These thoughts and emotions flood me again as I watch the cardinals. I'm sorry guys, I know how you feel. As I attempt some kind of communication through telepathy, they obviously don't hear me. But in a strange way, I really want them to. 

My pot of boiling water is overflowing by now, so I take my eyes away. I tell myself that I will go outside to the dead cardinal later. But once I remember this plan after dinner, it's dark. 

This morning, I am at the kitchen window again. I remember the cardinal, and look for it. But I don't even have to go outside. In the morning light, it is clear. The morning light presented a new revelation, one that I wasn't ready for.

The dead cardinal was not a dead cardinal at all. It was one of Rocky's red bones. 

The "cardinal" was just a bone. 

This news hits me like a ton of bricks. I am mourning a new loss. I am not grieving for a dead cardinal, but for something else. There is a deeper emotional need here. 

I really didn't want the "cardinal" to be a dead cardinal. Trust me. I have been known to cry when our cat kills a chipmunk. So I didn't really want to be watching cardinals mourning. Or did I? 

Part of me did want that. I wanted camaraderie. Even if just with the birds. I wanted to know that I wasn't alone. But another side of me was relieved for the cardinals. Relieved that these birds could just fly on their merry way. 

Confusion. Relief. Confusion. Relief. I'm sorry. For who? For what? 

I go outside, finally. It is, in fact, just a bone...

But I still see a cardinal. 

Full Circle

Home for the weekend, I started the day today with a walk to Randy's house three doors down to do something about my eyebrows. (Yes, I can walk to my hair salon. Jealous?) I walked in and greeted Randy, who was working on a client's highlights. This woman and I  immediately struck up a conversation about our experiences in yesterday's storm. As we were chit-chatting, something about her seemed very familiar. Strangely familiar. But this was just a fleeting thought, and I hardly remembered it until two minutes later.

"Maria." This blonde woman whose energy I recognize smiles at me. I realize there's more going on here.

"Maria, do you remember me? From Dr. Woods' office? I used to work on your teeth. Boy, do I remember you."

There it is. The lightbulb goes off. I cannot believe it.

"COURTNEY!!!" I exclaim and she engulfs me in a bear hug.

I had braces from 11-14. Courtney was one of the orthodontist's assistants. Not sure what the exact job title is, but you know who they are. They're the ones who actually do almost everything before the doctor comes in and pokes around your mouth for the last two minutes of the appointment.

Courtney wasn't just another assistant. As far as I was concerned, an appointment during which I wasn't assigned to Courtney was an appointment wasted. I completely idolized her. I don't know what it was. Something about her disposition made me feel special, like she was happy to see me too. She was absolutely hilarious. She involved me in her life. Twenty-five at the time, about twelve years older than me, she was kind of like a big sister that I got to see once a month.

When I was thirteen, her boyfriend proposed to her. I still remember it. I remember gawking at her ring, a beautiful silver band with three tiny spherical diamonds. I remember that she was glowing. I remember smiling because I could see how happy she was. I remember when she looked at me in all of my childlike fascination and laughed. "Someday," she told me. "And I better meet him first!" She joked.

Today, she showed me pictures of her beautiful redheaded two year-old. She and her husband just celebrated their sixth anniversary. She's in her early to mid-thirties. Still just as I remembered her.

I stayed for a half hour, soaking up these moments of my past. This connection that even I had forgotten all about. How beautiful it is when someone can remind you of yourself. Courtney remembers me in a way that I cannot.

While I have memories of Courtney, she has even stronger memories of me. She said she remembers Joey crying when he couldn't come back and sit with me during my appointment. She remembers my long, flowing hair in braids. She remembers my nerves when I began high school. But I certainly didn't expect to hear this as I left the salon today. Actually, she said it twice: "Hun, I always knew you would do big things."

Was I really that important to her? She had complete faith in me? I was twelve or thirteen. That's something you usually tell your daughter or little sister, not some little girl you joked around with almost a decade ago.

All of our lives are so intricately woven. Like a spiderweb, our paths resemble strands that diverge and connect and intersect at times. After my braces came off, I never saw Courtney again, until now. I don't even remember if I was able to say goodbye way back then.

For anyone who has ever read and loved "The Five People You Meet in Heaven," you may understand how I feel. This story may seem trivial, but it feels so sacred. Here is a woman who, although essentially a stranger, believed in me. She holds a piece of me inside of her, whether I knew it or not. She knows my gap-toothed grin and my baby face. She watched me grow. And I am so happy to have intersected with her today, to have been reminded that while the world is small, those whispers from the past always seem to come back around.

But this time, without the braces.

Distortions

I walked into Capacidad this afternoon with cold hands. I put my backpack down and turned around just in time to hear cries of, "Maria!" (It's been two weeks since I was last there). Amelia is doing her homework, and asks me to help her. I walk over to her table and hardly sit down before something comes out of her mouth:

"Wow. You're skinny."

I freeze for a second. I'm uncomfortable. I make some comment about how I'm wearing a flowing cardigan today and try to change the subject. But Amelia plows on.

"I hope I'm still skinny like you when I'm growed up."

This is just getting worse.

"Are you a dancer?" Not quite sure where this is going, I say that yes, I was a ballet dancer when I was a bit younger.

Amelia matter-of-factly replies, "Of course you were. You WOULD do skinny people things."

Skinny people things? 

(It's worth mentioning that Amelia is just six).

This starts a conversation. I explain that actually, there are all different body types and that anyone can dance. Anyone can play sports. Everyone is beautiful. What matters is how we treat others. Amelia looks skeptical, but gets back to her math. I breathe a sigh of relief. For now.

God help my future kids, because I just don't know what to say sometimes. This is not the first time I've had conversations about weight with children. Another girl at Capacidad asked me a few weeks back to help her do her "exercises" so she "doesn't get fat." She is eight. I explained that it is important to exercise to stay healthy, but that she is perfect just the way she is. Again, she looked skeptical.

This whole episode has me thinking about distortions. Those constant, blaring thoughts that we are "not good enough." And these thoughts don't necessarily have to do with appearance, either. On another day at Capacidad, I ran over to a crying girl on the playground. She turned her splotchy face towards the monkey bars and sputtered, "Andrew got across and I couldn't! I'm not good at ANYTHING!!!"

(Sidenote: Andrew is four years older and two heads taller).

Little girl not being able to get her five-year-old self down the row on monkey bars turned into "I'm not talented enough."

I was of course sympathetic, but once she calmed down I dismissed this as a "juvenile" concern.

Oh, hold it right there, Maria.

You do the same. exact. thing. 

So the monkey bars aren't necessarily an issue for me. I mastered those long ago. But I do have moments of insecurity, and it's just incredible how quickly these thoughts take over.

We all do it. Why can't I be as outgoing as my extraverted roommate? Why does this person (seem to) have it all together and I don't? Why, why, why? The useless guilt. The comparisons.

When this happens, I try to nip it in the bud. I think of my positive qualities. Does that always help in the moment? No. But it's a start.

That's why I was so glad when it was time for "Star of the Day." Each day at Capacidad, a child is chosen and his or her name is written on a large piece of paper. We then gather the rest of the kids together and have them say one nice thing about that person. Today, Devine received a positive poster to take home.

What if you were your own "Star of the Day?" How would life be different?

The Future Has an Ancient Heart

I came across a beautiful quote recently: "The future has an ancient heart."

I guess it can be interpreted in different ways. But when I first read it, I thought of my own life's trajectory.

An Italian writer, Carlo Levi, originally composed this line. I think essentially he's describing the complexities of feeling as if the future is so far away, that the person we have yet to become is so distant...and yet, most of the time, our inherent traits end up guiding our lives. In other words, you are always you. Sure, people change and events in our lives mold and shape who we become. But that doesn't change our place in the world, our gifts...even if we haven't discovered them yet. These gifts have always been inside of us.

I have spent a lot of time trying to figure myself out over the years, but these thoughts usually lead to utter confusion. The one aspect of my personality that I do have figured out? I'm a paradox.

Example. I've been told that as a little kid, I was very engaging. I would go up to random people and ask if they wanted to hear me read a story (usually Berenstein Bears, but there were others). People actually listened. And I knew what I wanted: adventure. Although I would often sit and quietly read books to myself, that did not stop me from exploring my neighborhood and pretending my clubhouse was the Magic Tree House. And I wanted to be everyone's friend. Everyone's.

But this passionate, engaging, caring little girl also faced horrendous anxiety that warranted my first trip to a child psychologist at age seven. I would go back for several months, and each week we would discuss my eating habits and school. We would play this game like charades where I had to act out different situations. I would also go to the hospital several times, because I suffered from stomachaches almost daily. Appendicitis? Nope. Cancer? Nope. The x-rays came out completely clean. Did she just want to get out of school? No, I actually hated to miss school. Even when I was really sick. Then I told the shrink about one day at school when I cried all afternoon because I saw another child get bullied by the water fountain. It was then (although I don't remember this, mom told me) that I received a "diagnosis": I internalized other people's pain.

The point of all this is that we are who we are, and that will always remain true. I've always been a kind, headstrong adventurer. But also anxious. Today, my personality paradox shows up in other ways. For example, I often crave intense connection, even if I would rather just be alone (I think that's the writer in me...I want to learn about life from others, and yet I have to process and reflect on these lessons by myself as well). I am still very intuitive, often to a disturbing degree. I have recognized people in pain long before they have realized it themselves. I am guard to many secrets, stories that others have had the overwhelming urge to tell me...and they stay with me. I have watched people's flabbergasted faces when I seemingly read their minds. I don't really know where that comes from. And yet, my own mind is often a mystery. I can't figure myself out the same way.

But the nifty thing about being who we are is that eventually, we learn how to use our traits to our advantage. I have learned that events that I am most anxious about often mean the most to me. It is almost like my anxiety signals a great life adventure. Someone once told me that taking a risk is ALWAYS worth it, once you get over the fear part. I've also added my own little observation to this piece of advice: even if you take a risk and it doesn't go your way, it wasn't in vain. Nothing is ever in vain. Because even if you "mess up" and find yourself back at square one, it's not really square one. Because you possess more wisdom than you started out with.

So if you are starting a new phase in your life (as I am about to), remember this: you are you. There will never be another you. Life will work out the way it is supposed to, and your ancient heart will be there to guide you along. If you take your ancient heart into consideration while discerning life's plans, it might even have something to whisper to you.

I'll keep on being my paradoxical self. Because it's gotten me this far. And even as I continue to grow and forge my own path, I'll keep listening to my heart, the heart that has always been my own.

A Nice Reminder

I received an email this morning from this random website that always seems to tell me the right thing at the right time. Seriously, this blogger I've never met "knows" me. Or maybe it's not so much the blogger. Maybe it's just a message from the beyond.

The message was about not knowing. We cannot even comprehend what is out there for us. What is happening now prepares us for what is ahead.

The message included a prayer. It read:

In this moment I don’t know how you are at work in my life.

I don’t need to.

What I do need is to trust that you are here with me in ways deeper than my knowing.

Help me, this day, to rest in your tender care and renewing presence in every circumstance I meet.

The point is that I (we) am (are) being taken care of, in more ways than we know. 

So I Remember What I Did.

I realized that in the craziness surrounding winter break, I had way too many pictures on my camera!

November-January, lightning round:

Reunited with Perugia friends!

Ate a ton at the kid's table on Thanksgiving

Bridesmaids shopping for my best friend's wedding! (These aren't the dresses we actually bought).

15th (or so) annual Papapietro/McEntee Gingerbread House Party (this would be Joey's house).

Complete with frosting mustache tradition

And kids growing up way too quickly.

A few moments weren't captured, mainly because I wanted to deeply sink said moments into my memory. One of these moments was the birth of a special little boy. One of my best friends and her husband had their first child in November, and I've already loved watching little Jack grow up!

The holiday season reminds me of the very special people in my life, people who remind me of past experiences and a home I love so much. The beauty of life is that it changes, and we can integrate new people and experiences into our memories and traditions. Break was a wonderful blend of old and new, past and present.

I still have so many people in my life from my childhood, and I love them all. And there are people I love and deeply care for who I met just a year ago or less. That's what I'm thankful for as I am working on those "next steps" in my life. Hopefully news soon on that front!

Ker-Plunk

It all started with a rock.

I've been feeling guilty about my unintended hiatus from my writing regimen I had been so diligently undergoing at school. Something about winter break just flips my motivation switch off almost completely. But I opened my writing book today and looked at some of the suggested creative tasks for this week. One task made me scoff. "Find five pretty or interesting rocks. They can be small, constant reminders of our creative consciousness." Unsure as to how a rock would spark creativity, I set out for the beach anyway. It was unseasonably warm today, and I couldn't reject the opportunity for a calming stroll (in my white Converse sneakers, no less).

I picked up a few rocks, half-heartedly tossing them back when they failed to spark my interest. Not even sure what I was looking for, I pondered the thought. Was I trying to find a particularly colorful rock? A rock with one of those rings around it? A rock shaped like a heart?

And then I found the rock.

This rock looked relatively ordinary at first. But as I looked more closely, I noticed a feature unique to this rock - it had several very faint rings that created a sort of 3D ripple effect. They looked like the rings on a tree trunk. But since the rock is sloped, the rings gradually became larger, just like real ripples in the ocean.

My dad and I used to skip rocks at Sandy Neck beach. Or I should say, he would skip rocks. Mine tended to go kerplunk immediately, but his would bounce seven or eight times, spawning vibrations that seemed to reach out to the horizon. After a certain point, the ripples were no longer visible at the surface, but I knew that they were still plowing forth beneath the realm of normal vision.

When you throw a rock, the ripples extend in every direction. It's impossible to know where one starts and another ends. It's also impossible to measure (at least without scientific equipment) the effects of each ripple on the overall environment.

Which is why I am so scared right now. And partially frustrated. Because I want to make a ripple, a splash. But how?

How hard do I throw the rock? Do I toss it as far as I can, even if that means I'm unsure where I'll land? Do I go find a paying job that will allow me to travel? Do I go to grad school now, or later? What if I make the wrong decision? What is the "right" decision? Do I even know what I want?

 It seems like every potential prospect or "big idea" I have comes with some looming hurdles attached. God, why is there ALWAYS a complicated Visa process? And then there are the internal hurdles, that little voice in my head that that feeds on my self-doubt. What if I'm not good enough for that?  Where will I find the money for that program? Who does this affect? And how?

I was whining to mom tonight about my doubts. But mom, I don't know what my passions are. I know what makes me happy, but it doesn't fit any job description. I would like to see an ad for a job that will let me be adventurous and give me a paycheck. Oh, and I am not an EU citizen. Amazing how many international jobs require that.

I don't want to settle. I know so many people with jobs they are unhappy with. Can I be 22 and fulfilled? I am hoping that's possible.

If I've learned anything about myself, it's that I have to get to the root of my emotions to feel even an ounce of ultimate sanity. There is always an underlying reason for panic, anxiety, doubt, etc. There are moments when I think my feelings are stemming from a certain event or idea, but when I really think about it, there is a different cause altogether. My fear at the moment, after some reflection, is due to the fact that I've never had to make a major decision (except to study abroad, but I had always known that was in the cards). Even the decision I made four years ago of which college to attend wasn't so much my decision as it was that of my parents due to the astronomical cost of higher education (and, although UMass wasn't my first choice at the time, it totally worked out and I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else).

I remember saying to my mom all those years ago, "I'm just glad the decision is made." I find that once I decide something and it's all over, I am excited to move forward. I just have to have a plan. Even if the aspects of that plan are unknown or scary, I am usually at peace when I simply have some idea of what's coming.

But right now, I don't even have a vague plan. And it is impossible to see how things will work themselves out. But I only hope that they will. I feel like I always end my posts on a positive note, even if it's all a facade and I am not positive at all. Today, I'm not going to do that. I'll admit that I feel just as panicky as I did a few hours ago. Heck, I think I'm even more anxiety-ridden now, because I just hashed out the root of my deepest fears and doubts for all the world to see.

If that rock did anything, it forced me to undergo self-reflection that I have been avoiding for the last few weeks or longer. I don't know what I want. I'm scared. I don't know which choice is the right one.

But every ripple has some sort of impact, seen or unseen. It may not become clear for a long time how my decisions will affect me. But one day I will look back at this time in my life and the questions will be answered. Hopefully.

Ultimately, each ripple leads somewhere. You just have to throw the rock.

L'Anno Scorso

Confession: I hate New Years Eve. One reason being that there is so much pressure (at least in my mind) to be doing something fun and wild and bracing all the crazies out there when what I would really rather be doing is sitting on the couch in my living room watching a "Once Upon a Time" marathon with Joey. Fortunately (or unfortunately), that's exactly what we did. (As luck would have it, we were both sick).

I also don't really like New Years Eve because there is a weird sense that you will never get that year back. Some years (ie. 2010) I was more than happy to see twelve months go. (After talking to many people who agree with me on this fact, I have come to the conclusion that 2010 was cursed). But 2012 is one year that I would actually be happy to begin again.

A year ago today, I was sitting on a chair in Logan Airport with my mother. Not sure who was more terrified as the minutes ticked by. Even the bookstore, which would normally give me hours of entertainment, no longer proved interesting or distracting.

Sometimes, I wish that I could go and tell my past self to just stop worrying. Then, instead of freaking out the whole ride to Italy, I would have at least known everything would be okay as I was hurtling into the unknown. Such a power would leave me considerably less anxious in my daily life. But alas, life does not work that way.

But that was a lot of what my study abroad journey was about. Emotions. Not knowing. Feeling things out.  I do not remember exactly what I was drinking while I waited for my flight on that day one year ago, but I do remember my anxiety and that glimmer of hopefulness that everything would be okay.

They gave us this packet on our first night in Perugia. In it was a sheet with typed advice from past students. I half-heartedly skimmed it on the first night, but found myself scoffing a bit. I was so homesick, and had trouble believing that "Your best weekends will be the ones spent in this city" or "Get to know everyone, the staff, locals...they will become amazing friends to you" or "You'll grow in ways you can't even imagine in this moment." I was a skeptic, and yet...every one of these statements proved true for me in the end.

I guess the lesson is...what do I know?

There is a quote that says something like, "People won't remember everything you do for them, but they will remember how you made them feel." Or something like that. If I applied this statement to my experience, I would modify it to "You won't remember every site or even every moment. But you will remember the emotions involved and the thrill of transformation."

 For example, my first weekend trip was to Rome about three weeks into the semester. The Colosseum was awesome, but I don't find myself remembering too much about it. But I do remember the silent beauty of the Trevi Fountain, sprinting towards it when we got a glimpse of the lights and trickling water from around the corner. We didn't mean to stumble across it in that moment. But we did. And that midnight excursion proved even more enchanting when we found an abandoned piazza with its own fountain. We just ran around and basked in the magic that comes with being in a space that has seen so many ages come and go. I had never felt so free.

Putting Italy aside, I remember the Tower of London and the hilarious Beefeaters I met on my trip to England. I remember the Tube and "mind the gap" and all of that. But when I think of London, what really comes to mind is independence. It was my first time traveling completely alone, hotel and all. And it was thrilling. I only had to answer to myself.

I don't remember exactly what I did that last night in Perugia, but I do remember just how painful some of the goodbyes proved to be. And yet I didn't mind the pain so much, because with the pain came the acknowledgement that I had met people special enough to warrant such sadness. And the warm feelings come back every time I skype my roommates, or receive a message from my Italian family, or read an email from an Umbra friend.

If the last year has taught me anything, it is that I want life be an adventure. Soon I'll have a "real" job and be dealing with life after college, but I never want to lose the sense of wonder of those four months.
I started writing in this way to try to make sense of my journey. If I've learned anything else, it is that words don't do such an experience justice! Over the last year, I have tried to paint a picture of some kind. But the truth is, the painting isn't finished yet. The tremendously positive effects of my travels continue to become evident even now. Last January 5th, I was wondering how my 2013 self would be looking back at 2012. Today, I am pleased to say that I view these twelve months with only the most grateful heart. And I didn't need my future self to tell me that.