My husband Andrew and I returned to Italy a few weeks ago after our annual visit to gli Stati Uniti to visit my family. The trip came as a welcome break from what was in many ways a heavy and difficult summer. But both the trip and our readjustment after were a reminder that life is about change—whether we like it or not, whether we’re ready for it or not.
The highlight of our time in Michigan was a delightful long weekend in a campground on the stunning shores of Lake Michigan, something that is now a two-years-running “tradition” of our summer trips. We played games, laughed a lot, went for walks in the woods, made s’mores and pizza pies over the campfire, and stayed up late talking.
And, of course, we spent hours at the beach, frolicking in what my dad has always called “the Big Lake.”1 My youngest nephew M. and I tossed a soccer ball back and forth in the waves. He also introduced me to his skip ball, which resulted in hours of fun. One afternoon the waves were particularly formidable, and I spent an hour or two bodysurfing, getting pummeled into the sandy bottom, water up my nose and in my ears. It was exhilarating.
Our last morning of camping happened to be Labor Day, a federal holiday in the United States and a traditional marker of the end of summer. As if right on cue, we awoke in our tent to the chill of a beautiful fall-like day. Andrew and I went down to the beach, which was deserted save for the gulls. He meditated while I sat and thought about how, as a teenager, I simply could not wait to get out of Michigan. And now, as a man in my 50s, I wondered what that had all been about. Why exactly had I needed to get away from all this magnificence?
After we packed up, I went for one last swim on the still-empty beach. I was surprised to find the water noticeably cooler than just the day before, but I didn’t want to get out. As I trudged reluctantly through the sand back toward the campground, I turned again and again to steal just one more glance. I felt like I was leaving part of myself behind.
The Hands of Time
When you only go home once a year, you notice things that probably elude those who live there. Such as how quickly M. is growing. During our visits, he is absolutely non-stop from the time he gets up in the morning until he goes to bed at night. He asks us to ride bikes, read books, play catch, build Lego® towers. I kept thinking with a twinge of sadness about how there’s probably only 2-3 more of these visits before he’ll be old enough that playing with his visiting uncles won’t be a top priority anymore.
Another thing I’m conscious of is the aging of my siblings, my parents, myself. During the trip, we threw a “50/30” party to celebrate milestone birthdays for my sister and my nephew. When my “little brother” (now well into his 40s) greeted me with a hug, he asked, “Big bro, are you shrinking?”2
My parents are totally gray now. Mom stopped coloring her hair during the pandemic, and I realized her days as a bottle brunette had allowed me to live in denial about the fact that she was getting older. But seeing is believing. I’ve noticed in recent weeks that my hair and beard are more gray than not. Time is having its way with all of us.
I knew all this before we moved to Italy, of course. At least in theory. I even wrote about it here shortly before we left:
We have reasons—many well-thought-out reasons—for making this move. But it doesn’t mean that it comes at no cost. There’s a price to pay, like there is for everything in life. There’s always a trade-off. Sometimes many.
All too soon, our visit was over, and we said our melancholic goodbyes, with assurances that we were already looking forward to our next trip, next year.
Saying Goodbye, Again
The Michigan trip had been long-planned, but after my father-in-law died in his native Poland in July, we decided to add on a stop in California so we could hold a second memorial service for him in San Francisco, since he lived most of his final 20 years there. Having called SF home for many years myself, I was glad for the chance to catch up with some dear friends. The city remains extraordinarily beautiful, and the visit was full of reminiscing for me.
The memorial service itself was everything we could hope for, full of tears and laughter as we bid farewell to someone we loved dearly. That same day, back in Michigan, M. celebrated his eighth birthday. The circle of life.
All too soon, this visit too was over, and we again said our goodbyes. But this time there were no nods to our “next visit,” because I have no idea when I’ll be back to California. It is a long, long way from Italy.
Turbulence
On the plane back to Europe, I thought about the many conversations I’d had throughout the trip with people who are struggling. Yes, we had lots of great times, but I was struck by how many within my orbit are dealing with deeply challenging relational issues, with vexing career challenges, with physical and mental illnesses, with feelings of isolation and exhaustion and burnout. They’re trying to hold it together, but life is fragile, and sometimes things just fall apart. All of this, of course, is made worse by the looming shadow of the upcoming election, the stakes of which feel existential. It is all a lot.
I found myself worrying about whether I could actually help the people I love as they go through their storms, especially given the miles between us.
A Bumpy Landing
I’ve been back in Italy for three weeks now, and I keep wondering where the last four months have gone. I mean, I know intellectually where they went: There were lots of visits to Polish hospitals, and eventually to a Polish funeral home and cemetery, followed shortly after by a trip to Scotland for a family wedding, which itself was followed shortly after by the trip to the U.S. But it’s all a blur of love and loss.
I’ve been trying to adjust since we returned. It’s a strange, discombobulating time of transition, from an unusual summer to an unknown new normal. I’ve started seeing a new therapist to explore some parts of myself that I think need a deeper examination. I’m fighting to establish new patterns and habits, to re-impose discipline on myself, to slog my way to a breakthrough. Over three weeks’ time, I’ve written—and subsequently cut—some 2,000 words for this post.
It feels to me, quite literally, like it should be June. Instead, it’s October, and change is everywhere. With the lake already too cold for swimming, our holiday town has nearly emptied out, the little trailers in the campground mostly closed up for the season. The fruit is gone from the trees, the corn stalks weathered and brown. Leaves are dropping by the bagful. Spiky chestnut pods are falling everywhere, splitting open on sidewalks and country roads. The clouds swirling about the mountaintops signal the coming of another winter, the first dusting of snow gracing the highest peaks.
Back in Milan, Checcoro’s choir season is well underway. My volunteer work with Democrats Abroad is in full swing as we hurtle toward the election. And I’ve begun Italian classes twice a week, as well as private tutoring once a week, in a renewed effort to finally learn the language of my adopted country. After the first tutoring session, I was so wiped out I literally wanted to lie down on the floor. Two years in, grasping a new language is proving to be a profound challenge for me.
Home for the Holidays?
The other day, I realized with some surprise that Christmas is less than 90 days away. We spent the last two in Poland with my father-in-law; we don’t know yet what we’ll do this year. Perhaps we’ll just stay home and try to establish our own family holiday tradition, just me and Andrew and our dog, Bibi.
Irish novelist George Moore observed that “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.”
These days, I think of home as multiple things: a place, yes, but also a concept, and a feeling. More than 30 years after moving away, I realize that Michigan is my home. Not Chicago, where I fled without looking back at 18. Not Nashville, where I transplanted myself at 21. Not San Francisco, where I started over at 32. All fine cities, all close to my heart. But not home any longer.
I’m unsure what Italy is yet. People often ask if we’re staying here “forever,” but I don’t know how to answer that. At 52, forever doesn’t feel so far away.
All photos in this essay by me ©2024
Geologically, Lake Michigan and Lake Huron are a single lake joined by the Straits of Mackinac and are the largest freshwater body of water in the world, according to Wikipedia.
I hope not. About a year ago, I started hanging from a pull-up bar at the gym during my stretch-down period after each workout, in an effort to avoid, or at least minimize, any skeleton shrinkage. Having topped out at just over 5’8”, I don’t have a lot to lose.
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