Reflections on Italy

By Emily Sutherland

What was it about Italy that healed a part of my heart that was ready to be set free?

Was it the generosity of its rolling hills that could hardly contain their gifts? The silver-leafed olive trees that stood shoulder-to-shoulder, sweeping across the landscape; the lemon tree in the courtyard of our villa, so eager to share that lemons waited for us on the ground every morning; the orange tree just down the hill, and the other one that planted itself beside the lemon tree—the one no one planted, but that wanted so badly to grow that it planted itself?

Was it the vineyards we could see in the distance in every direction, or the one we visited just in time to catch me after an unsuccessful effort to stop at its gates on the e-bike I rode through the hilly town and out into the countryside that greeted us with open arms?

Was it the buffalo that gave their rich milk for the fresh mozzarella we sampled only minutes after the final step in the process that its makers allowed us to watch?

Was it the timeless villas, whose walls seemed to whisper generations of stories—of families, and lovers, and meals shared?

Was it the ancient walls, roads, and structures that endured with a kind of permanence I have rarely seen in my lifetime? Or the ruins that had been discovered and painstakingly preserved by historians who cared enough about the future to tell us about life on these grounds 2,500 years ago? Temples, houses, and burial tombs that were once teeming with life; I imagined the ceremonies, the battles, the births, the harvests, and struggles I will never have to know. I imagined older women teaching younger women all they would need to know to make their way in the world, and I thought of the children and wondered whether they got to play and laugh like the schoolchildren who were competing in games while we toured the grounds. I wondered how young the boys were when they learned to fight, provide, and protect families of their own.

Maybe what healed the sore place in my heart was the care that was given to make our visit so unforgettable—gift after gift of time, space, beauty, adventure, joy, dancing, music, nourishment, movement, conversation, hugs, laughter, and presence. Not one television diverted my attention from the faces of my newest friends or from the stunning way the sun met the horizon differently throughout the day.

Was it the meals, prepared so lovingly and with such astounding skill? Perhaps it was the way communication didn't always require language. Or the way skilled Italians shared the secrets of their crafts without reservation, thrilled that we were willing to try to make ravioli, pizza, and figs stuffed with fruits, nuts, and spices, and patient when we couldn't begin to create with the level of skill they had perfected through years—perhaps generations—of practice and technique.

Something unique happened when I was gifted the chance to walk into another world and see how much I needed to remember that life's pain, questions, and shared struggles are more bearable when we face them shoulder-to-shoulder with those who are willing to help us hold them. Not because they can take them away, but because they remind us that there is always, always so much more to life—more to us—than our failures, sadness, or uncertainty.

There is a sunrise to admire, a moon to watch over our tired bodies, a sparkling glass to raise in solidarity, and a new way to experience this remarkable planet. There are more paths to explore, songs to sing, and seas to navigate. There are more smiles to exchange, hands to hold, and minds to learn from.

Whatever it was that my soul needed to find in Italy, there is no doubt that I stood on the shoulders of countless ancestors—mine and so many others'—to see from a new vantage point just how deep, high, and wide Love is.

How personal. And specific. And universal.

I return softened. Grateful. Stronger. Nourished. Held.

And all I can say is, "Grazie."