Jan Peppler HOME
Exploring Our Connection to People and Place
Home is Not Changing, We Are
I’m starting to see more articles and essays on home. Which is not surprising since most of us are at home more than ever these days. But in particular, there is a theme about how home is changing now that we are sheltered in place. Which makes me think it’s time I jump into the conversation and start at the beginning. Because honestly, my friends, home is not changing. We are.
First, what IS home?
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.[1]”
“There’s no place like home.”[2]
Come on, everyone knows what home is. Right? Even if what feels like home to me may be very different from what feels like home to you, we know home. Or we think we do. We at least know what home should be. Sure, it’s not “one size fits all,” but… We may struggle to define it, yet on some core level of our being, we are sure we understand the essence of it. We know it when we feel it.
More than a house, a landscape, or even a sense of belonging, home implies something else, something greater. It is somewhat intangible, almost spiritual, seemingly understood, yet difficult to define.
Home is an emotion, a state of being. It is a feeling of comfort and belonging, a sense of connectedness. Home is where the heart is. Home is love. Where our loved ones live.
Home is Mom. Our first home, quite literally. And even as we age, we go home to mom, wherever she lives.
Home is a structure, a shelter with a door, as well as a place: a town, a neighborhood, a locale. An apartment or flat. A bungalow or brownstone. In the city, the suburbs, or even the country. Maybe a backyard or a park. Alley ways and busy streets or dusty roads and wide-open spaces.
Home is tastes: favorite recipes we ate as a kid. Grandma’s jam and cinnamon rolls. Fried chicken and sweet iced tea. Lasagna and lemon knots or casseroles and kolachkis.
Home is scents: freshly cut hay or freshly mowed grass. Onions frying. A certain perfume or pipe smoke. The smell of a damp basement or a musty attic. The inside of an old pickup truck.
Home is sounds: crickets on a warm night, snow crunching on a cold day, or hearing your local dialect when you are hundreds of miles away. It is the honking of traffic on a busy street or the crunch of tires on a gravel road.
Home is ritual, shared in both our families and communities. Maybe Sunday morning coffee with the paper on the couch or Sunday morning church followed by brunch. Saturday afternoon ballgames or Saturday night movies with pizza and pajamas.
Home is laughter and play: the dwelling place of good memories. Silliness among those who know us best. Unabashed, unrestrained, spontaneous, and authentic.
Home is all this and more. The structure, place, tastes, scents, sounds, and rituals may vary but every home—when we really feel at home—shares similar things.
Home, in its purest form, is a haven of safety, sanctuary, and nurturance: a womb in the world. It is a sense of ease, happiness, connection and contentedness. Even when our actual experience of home is contrary, we yearn for this, for the sentiment of inherent intimacy and security.
Home has always been this. It hasn’t changed. We have. Many of us stopped paying attention. We’ve become distracted by jobs, bigger houses, and things. We’ve moved away or live alone and feel disconnected. Or we purchased big homes in good areas but never quite settled in. Or maybe we are happy, but still dream of something else. A different home.
An alchemical blend of instinct, memory, and familiarity, home is fundamental to our identity. It is, as Edward Relph writes, “the dwelling place of being” and “an irreplaceable centre of significance.”[3] This hasn’t changed. We have. We’ve grown up. Life changed and we changed along with it.
One of the challenges is that most often we think of home in relationship to family. Only, family isn’t what it used to be. We grew up. Maybe our parents divorced. Maybe we divorced. Maybe our folks moved away from the old neighborhood. Maybe we moved away. Maybe our children moved.
So what happens when our parents die? When the place where we played as a kid no longer exists? Or when your children leave home and establish residence somewhere else, no longer returning regularly for special occasions or holidays? When divorce, death, or tragedy strikes? Maybe even a pandemic.
Each of us longs for home—desires the sense of feeling at home—and yet at some point many of us have felt estranged from it and don’t know where to find it. We live our lives, buoyed by events that carry us along, following cultural norms, possibly content yet sensing at moments the overwhelming sensation of being unmoored and disconnected. In response to this discomfort, we shut down or over-stimulate, gorging ourselves on comfort foods and memories. We bake bread. We hoard toilet paper. We accept what the culture—largely influenced by nostalgia, economics, and advertising—tells us home is and strive for that. We buy more things and bigger houses, we change jobs, move to “better” locations, and still don’t feel content, completely comfortable, or soulfully connected to place. We long for something more. We ache for security.
As I said in my post on Play, home is the realm of the child. As adults, we long for this. For the safety and security and simplicity of when we were kids. The sureness and dependability of it.
Which is why home is not only the place from where we start, where we quite literally began, it is also the state to which we long to return. Deeper than all rational or conscious thought is this longing: to be home, to feel at home.
But why?
I’ve given you hints here. In an upcoming post, I’ll tell you my theory. Because once we understand this, the true essence and function of home, we can begin to find it again, no matter how much we change. No matter how much the world changes. Even in a pandemic.
[1] Robert Frost, Death of a Hired Hand. 1914
[2] In the Wizard of Oz, the good witch Glinda tells Dorothy that finding her way back home is as easy as saying this phrase three times while clicking her heels. Dorothy follows her direction and wakes up in her bed back in Kansas, surrounded by her family and friends.
[3] Relph, Edward. Place and Placelessness. London: Pion Limited, 1976. Page 39
Remembering What’s Sacred: Life, Liberty, and Love
My phone pinged with the message, “Today is 25 April.” I laughed. Yes, I haven’t completely lost my mind. My phone still tells me the date, if not the day of the week. But then the second message came through, “Italy’s Liberation Day.”
75 years ago brought the end of Mussolini and a fascist regime. As my Italian friend in Rome put it, “today we celebrate when American forces and Italian partisans got rid of the Nazi fascists and became a free and democratic country.”
Even under quarantine, a ceremony was held in the church square here in Balestrate. A few officials and no public. Even under quarantine, the day is marked and celebrated. Stores are all closed. Across the country, people stayed home. No marching. No demonstrations. No signs of outrage over shelter-in-place. Only solidarity and thanksgiving. The catchy refrain of Bella Ciao was heard everywhere. In Facebook posts, in messages to friends, from balconies. The tune wafted to my ears even from somewhere down the street, origin unseen.
Italians know they are free. And Italians are grateful. How did they show it? They obeyed the rules and stayed home.
This same Italian friend, Mauro, also told me Liberation Day is a “sacred” holiday. He put the word in quotes. Not religious, but sacrosanct. Stores are always closed on April 25th. Some might be open in the morning, and in big cities there are malls… but overall, the day is universally observed with respect.
Which has me wondering… what is still sacred in America? Not Sundays. Not Independence Day (when people wear flags on their clothing, which btw, is against federal law). Not the day we all vote. Only one day a year does everything completely shut down: December 25th. But you can shop until midnight the evening before. Our love of shopping has even encroached on Thanksgiving, with more and more stores opening after dark. Gotta get that Black Friday sale early! If the day after giving thanks is described as black, it’s no wonder the days before Easter are largely ignored. And the President, supposedly a believer, could tweet “Happy” Good Friday!
Only capitalism is sacred in America. More sacred than lives. More sacred than family. More sacred than rest.
Years ago, in the late 1980’s, I visited Germany, both East and West. In those days, Sundays were still sacred – on both sides of the wall. It was an observed day of rest. At home. Absolutely everything was closed. And shopping on Saturdays only lasted until 2:00 pm. Only one Saturday a month would the stores stay open until 5:00. But then the wall came down. The “West” had won. Democracy had triumphed. And capitalism flourished.
Capitalism has become our new god. More revered than our liberties. More worshipped than life.
244 years into our great experiment and people have forgotten what it really means to be free. Forgotten that the basis of every democracy is do no harm to others. No one is free unless everyone is free. No one is safe unless everyone is safe.
Every life matters only when every life is valued, and treated, equally. Every life matters only when we recognize every death. Every child. Every adult. Every elder. If every life matters, than EVERY DEATH MUST MATTER. More than our rights to bear arms. More than our economy.
When we willfully start sacrificing people for our economy, make no doubt about it, capitalism is our god.
Here in Italy, people remember. Today the shops are closed. People stay home.
But, I say to Mauro, what about the small factions that are discontent? Those captured in the news as disobeying quarantine? In the United States and even here in Italy. And those in government who are, as Italians say, “rightists”? So much fear! Fear that gets manifested into hate.
Mauro tells me, “Hope is alive. Fear will be defeated, sooner or later. 25 Aprile is exactly the symbol of this. This is why we celebrate.”
United we stand. Divided we fall.
Have hope, dear friends. Fear is always, eventually, defeated. Italians remember.
So on this, Italy’s Liberation Day, marking the end of WWII and the demise of the Nazi party, may we remember as well. May we, too, have hope. Only love can conquer hate. Only love can drive out fear.
May Love be triumphant! May Love reign supreme!
Sheltered in Place: Play
During quarantine, there’s a prevailing thought that we are “stuck” at home. Even Ellen DeGeneres, currently living in yet another of her fabulous homes, surrounded by gardens and mountains, compared being at home to “being in jail.” Not a fair comparison by any means and yet psychologically this resonates with many: being required to stay home feels like being under house arrest.
This is really an adult feeling. I promise to explain that more if you stay with me and keep reading this blog, but for today, I need you to trust me on this. Home is the realm of the child. Only as we move out of childhood do we begin to consider leaving home or have the desire to be away from it.
I can pretty much guarantee anyone reading this is not a kid. And many of us do not have children at home with us. Some of us are even still working. Others are trying to work and finding it more difficult than they imagined.
Right now my own internal kid really wants to play. But you haven’t heard from me in a while, so I’m committed to sharing a secret with you. Well, one of the secrets I discovered through my years of researching home.
PLAY
We become attached to our homes and to places / landscapes / environments when we play in them. Play is always positive. It creates moments we remember. Even when memories fade, the feelings remain. And the places where those good times happened become associated with our happiness.
So the secret, my friends, is to play. Do things that make you happy, that make you smile. Be silly. Be ridiculous. Laugh at yourself. Adopt the attitude and eyes of a child. Joseph Campbell wrote:
”Sacred space and sacred time and something joyous to do is all we need. Almost anything that becomes a continuous and increasing joy.”
Today I went on a scavenger hunt for things that make my heart sing. I found flowers. Sunflowers and daisies!! Yellow always makes me happy. My smile is so wide. Then I bought orange polish for my toes. And finally, watercolors and a rainbow pack of pencils. I’m so excited. I was swinging my packages and almost skipping, soaking in the sunshine and the delight of these treasures.
Then, once home, I saw the bicycle my landlord left for me and I took it for a spin. I squealed with glee going up and down the street. I was laughing!! I worked up a sweat. I almost hit a curb. I almost skinned my knee. I’m still laughing at the memory.
“What you have to do, do with play.”
Whatever you do today, I hope you do something just for the sheer fun of it. Look around your home and consider: what can you do that will make this place, and this time in this place, fun?
“I think a good way to conceive of sacred space is a playground. If what you’re doing seems like play, you are in it. But you can’t play with my toys, you have to have your own. Your life should have yielded something. Older people play with life experiences and realizations or with thoughts they like to entertain. In my case, I have books I like to read that don’t lead anywhere.”
I’m also reading an absolutely ridiculous book of fiction, Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett. “May you live in interesting times.” So apropos for this moment, yes? And also steeped in myth.
I can’t tell you what to do anymore than this. There’s no instruction book for how to have fun. But ask the kid inside you. I guarantee s/he has some suggestions for where to start. And if you’re lucky enough to be sheltering in place with a dog or a cat or even a ferret, they’re perpetually children too. They’re always willing to teach us a thing or two about play.
One final thought from Campbell:
“What did you do as a child that created timelessness, that made you forget time? There lies the myth to live by.”
* All quotes are from A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living, selected and editedby Diane K. Olson, 1991. Page 181
Resting
My plane leaves from Athens today. 3:00pm. Athens to Vancouver. Vancouver to Chicago. Chicago to Tulsa. I’ve received so many emails and flight updates that I am thoroughly confused. Best as I can tell, my flight to Tulsa now leaves before I even reach Vancouver.
And in case you’re confused as well: I’m still in Sicily.
It’s odd to have this day finally arrive and not be going home. Theoretically, I could have found a way to get myself from here to Rome and then to Athens and boarded the flight and figured out the rest once I arrived in Canada. But honestly, I didn’t have the energy.
I’ve been going to bed earlier and sleeping later. Coloring. (yes, I found a coloring book and markers here.) I’m still talking with friends – at least one call a day and an abundance of emails and messages. Even a few video chats. All welcome. All good.
Still, I’m slowing down. Can’t help wondering how much slower I have to get before my energy reverses itself. Before the train turns around.
I don’t tell you this so you’ll worry. There’s nothing to worry about – at least when it comes to me. I’m fine. But we do worry, don’t we? That’s what we share, what keeps us connected. I worry about you, you worry about me. We worry about others. We worry about our country.
Two days ago I took my first nap. Which is crazy because I love naps. Still, I hadn’t taken any since arriving in Italy. And today, I went back to bed after my morning juice and my morning tea. I began writing you, tucked between sheets, under a comforter, and propped against two large pillows. … And then, I napped again.
Sorrow is sapping my energy, begging me to retreat, to find solace in soft things, in quiet, in covers, in sleep. And I allow this. For now. It’s what I need. Grieving takes time. Some moments are calm, even comforting: still, like the blue sea I watched from my balcony yesterday. Other times, the emotions come crashing in white waves, like today. The sun keeps shining but the wind is whipping and it stings. Today is not a day to be on my balcony. (literally)
I am allowing myself this time to feel what I’m feeling and feel it completely. To squeeze it so thoroughly that there’s nothing left and I can begin again. The only way through it is through. There are no shortcuts. Like the labyrinth, sometimes just when you think you’re at the farthest point from the center, you turn and the path opens, leading you directly in. In the center, there is peace. Getting out is always easier than getting in. (in the physical labyrinth, that is)
Last week an extended family member accused me of being “so blinded by hate” in response to a post I shared about praying for Trump and the United States. I’m not hurt – I know who I am. I know my post came from a loving place. I know her accusation came from her own fears and frustrations. But I am – most definitely – grieving.
If someone in my own family – someone I love and respect and have always believed felt the same about me (even if we don’t agree politically) – if she could say that… if she could say that and not retract it after taking time to think, to remember her experience of me … What hope is there for our country? How do we heal our fractions among neighbors and strangers when even families forget the love that binds us together? Where do we go from here?
My phone just pinged with another update. My plane is boarding. Only, I’m not on it. I’m nowhere near that plane. Right now, I still walking the labyrinth. Best as I can tell, I’m nowhere near the center.
But, who knows? The only way through it is through. One step. One rest. One moment at a time.
Buona Pasqua
Hearing Handel’s masterpiece with new ears this morning.
Every mountain shall be exalted… and the crooked shall become straight, and the rough ways plain.
The trumpet shall sound… and we shall be changed.
May it be so 🙏
Sacrifice. Addiction. Resurrection.
Quarantine measures have been extended in Italy. In L.A. In many parts of the world. And for this, I am glad. We’re not ready for life to “return to normal.” We’re still in denial. Still making excuses. Still raging. We haven’t hit rock bottom yet. Haven’t allowed sorrow to penetrate us. We need time to grieve. We need time to break our addictions.
Here in Italy, I started eating croissants because I could. Because they are everywhere, so plentiful, so fresh, and I have truly missed this pleasure. Eleven years now of a gluten-free diet. I’ve succumbed to the temptation several times over the years. Usually on vacation, when I felt I *deserved* a treat. And always, I’ve paid the price. The painful consequences of intestinal distress and more. Enough to make my indulgences few and far-between. But here in Italy, especially in quarantine, the temptation has been great and the consequences small. The cramping not as severe and the prevailing thought: so what if my tummy hurts a bit? What else am I doing? Being lethargic and in pain seems par for the course during this pandemic. And if I’m honest, freshly baked pastries are only one of my many injurious obsessions.
We’re all nursing our monkeys right now. The prevalent thought is that we’re sacrificing so much. Social distancing. Isolation. Locked in our homes. Rationing toilet paper. Maybe eating more than we should. Or eating our cravings, which inevitably make us feel bad. More than one friend has suggested porn. Drinking at noon. Shopping online. Googling updates, fact-checking, and political arguments. Anyway we can get a hit, an instant fix. We’re doing it.
It’s a full-on wrestling match and most of us don’t even realize we’re on the mat. We’re in withdrawal. Experiencing night sweats. Fever. Anxiety. The furious and fervent waves of emotions: rage, sorrow, regret. Promises to do better, to live better, once this is all over. We’ll live more simply, appreciate the small things, care for our neighbors. Sweet Jesus and Mother Mary, just get us through this.
But every January turns to February and our resolutions dissolve like snow melting into soil. We spend a month or two disgusted by the dirty residue, cursing the newly exposed trash and the mud, but then the weather changes, the flowers bloom, summer is on the horizon. Too late to lose those pounds before donning our shorts. We resign ourselves and move on.
When this is all over, will our resolutions hold? Or will we return to our addictions, justifying them as sacrifices necessary for the economy? Gaslight ourselves into believing they are actually good, that we must embrace our old unhealthy ways if we truly want to support others and our country? Will we indignantly claim them as treats we deserve for having survived such a horrible time?
How long will it take for us to become accustomed to living in a new way – in harmony with the planet, in solidarity with all living things – and truly embrace this way of living? Certainly more than the conventional 28 days. More than breaking old patterns, when will we love this new way of being? Love it enough to have no desire for the old. To feel so strong and healthy that our old ways make us sick? How long until our new routines bring us joy and comfort and we refuse anything that does otherwise?
Collectively, in the U.S. and around the world, we’ve fiercely proclaimed our addictions as our rights. We celebrate our ability to have anything we want, whenever we want it. We might smash the curve of infection and overcome this virus, but will our time in quarantine be enough to change our behaviors in the long term?
My prayer this Easter, this spring, is for universal solidarity. As we celebrate the promise of resurrection, may we resolve to let the old ways die. May we joyfully embrace a new life that is truly sustaining. In body. In spirit. In love. For all.
If it isn’t, and if we don’t, then tell me, was there really any sacrifice? All our discomfort, and even all the death, will have been for nothing. Nothing more than a story. And not a very good one at that.
Video Update from Italy: March 31, 2020
This video is from one week ago, March 31. It is a response to my post “More than Statistics,” which was a vulnerable reveal of the myriad of emotions I had been feeling, and am still feeling. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the video to load. So here it is, edited down into 3 sections with a whole bunch cut out. As someone lacking in tech skills and working from a phone & tablet, this is the best I can do – lol!
Bottom line: Honor your emotions, whatever they are. Know that they will pass and other emotions will come. Take care of yourself, in whatever way you need: bake, pray, dance, write, draw, nap, watch funny videos… Even cry and scream, if that’s what you need. Feel your emotions deeply and in doing so, know that you release them and allow new ones to emerge. We are, truly, all in this together.
Stay present. Stay positive. Stay well.
Coronavirus in Italy, Part 3: Police, Shopping, and the Italian Response
I was stopped by the police a few days ago. Well, not stopped. Checked. As I was waiting to enter a grocery store.
It was early, only twenty minutes since the store had opened, and already there was a small crowd of shoppers clinging to paper numbers. Ten, maybe fifteen? Hard to tell. Certainly more than I expected on a chilly, windy, and overcast day. But, okay, I took my number and leaned up against the wall, at least 6 feet between me and the next person. A store that size allows two, maybe three people in a time. Even with these folks ahead of me, how long could this take?
And then the police arrived. I had easily been waiting maybe thirty minutes by that time but upon seeing the police, I considered leaving. Just turning and walking down the street in the opposite direction. But hey, I had my paperwork with me, I had already invested a good chunk of time, and I really hoped the store would have oatmeal.
(In case you missed this detail: any time you leave your home, you must have a completed form with you indicating the reason you are out. Italy is now on a fifth version of this form. You are only allowed to leave your house for work, a doctor’s appointment, an emergency, or to buy food and essential needs. If found violating the quarantine rules, you can be fined a minimum of 400 euros and as much as 3,000! Police have charged over 52,000 people with quarantine violations – and that’s a number reported sixteen days ago! Did you see the videos of Italian mayors yelling at citizens to stay home? Funny but true. Italy is taking this very seriously.)
The female officer approached me. When she realized I couldn’t understand her Italian, she summoned the male officer. I took a deep breath. Reminded myself I had no reason to worry. He looked at my form and watched as I pulled out a copy of my passport.
“You live in America? Or you live here?” I tried to explain that I was here when the country went on lockdown.
“But why are you here now?”
That’s the question I was dreading. It’s a good question. Why am I?
“I think it is safer to stay in quarantine than to travel.” That’s the truth. He looked at me. He didn’t smile. But he seemed to say okay. And, I suppose, upon reflection, it’s probably nice to hear that a foreigner thinks your country is handling the crisis better than your home country. Did I say that? No. But it’s easy to imagine that’s what he thought. That, or at least he was pleased I had my paperwork.
Then the female officer pointed out my shopping list on the back of my form. He nodded and walked me over to a car where he proceeded to write out a new form for me, with all my information, so I could have my list back for shopping. Well that was pretty darn nice! After I assured him I was only waiting to enter that store and then pick up some produce on the corner, we both signed the form and that was that. The store called out the next number, the officer looked at the ticket in my hand, shrugged and smiled.
It was another 30 minutes or so before I realized the store was calling out for #39 to enter. My number was 54. I had been there well over an hour. Waiting with a constantly shifting crowd in the street and lined up against buildings. Chances are they didn’t carry the oatmeal I so desperately wanted. The wait would likely be at least another hour. My head was aching. It was raining lightly. And honestly, I was still a bit unnerved by the police interaction, as pleasant as it was. I can get eggs anywhere, I thought. So I left.
The next time I left the house, I experienced the same wait at a different grocery store. Easily an hour. This time instead of just getting eggs, I planned ahead: I now have two bottles of wine. Ah, the necessities!
Alright, that’s my story but here’s what I really want to tell you:
Italy now has over 21,815 people who have recovered from the coronavirus. That’s a quarter more than the 15,887 mortalities. Their daily infections and deaths have been on a downward trend for over a week and those in intensive care has finally dropped. The reproductive number is now-finally- at 1 (from 3) and the target is to get it even lower. On the other hand, on April 3, it was reported that the real number of Covid-19 cases in Italy could be 5 million. Five million!! In a country with a population of only sixty million. Meanwhile, the stay-at-home order has been extended until April 13. Perhaps most importantly, it’s estimated that 30,000 lives have been saved by adhering to the lockdown measures.
A friend wanted to know what Italians think of how the U.S. is responding to the pandemic. So I asked the few that I know here in Italy. Their overwhelming response? Americans are not taking this seriously.
“Americans are not taking this seriously enough. Don’t panic and don’t go out. Eat, cook, relax, read a book. It is important to stay happy and healthy. The quarantine won’t last forever. Meanwhile, Stay Home!!”
Please, friends, I hope you’ll listen to the Italians. And encourage others to shelter-in-place too. Because the truth is, I do want to come home.
Yesterday in Balestrate
In my (unsuccessful) search for oatmeal yesterday, I walked to the other side of town. Maybe a mile away. Not exactly a hike but, remember, we’re instructed to stay as close to home as possible. Just like in Rome, it’s wonderful to take in the beauty without the obstruction of so many people around. Hard to take photos though and not look like the tourist. Still, I managed to get a few.
Some things are the same
I’ve had a headache for 2 days. Maybe three. Time is a bit of a blur, marked only by the light outside.
I can’t tell if it’s tension or sinus. Probably both. Ibuprofen doesn’t touch it. Yoga feels great but doesn’t bring relief. Nor does acupressure. No doubt too much sugar and not enough magnesium. I’ve been rationing my magnesium. It wasn’t really enough to get me through six full weeks and now it needs to last… (how long??)
I tried buying vitamins from the farmacia (local drug store). Yeah, okay, so this is how that went: Fiber is vanilla flavored psyllium. The kind you mix with water and try to chug before it reaches the consistency of sand sludge. Yuck yuck yuck. (My 3-year old screams, “YUUUCK!!!”) But I’m an adult, so I bought it. Then I asked for Vit D, which came in a single dose liquid of 50,000 IU. For 8 euros. I bought that too. Finally, Vitamin A. Only comes in suppositories. I declined.
So… I got online and ordered from VitaCost. An extra $29 for FedEx shipping seemed like a small price to pay. It was. Then came the phone call from customs in Italy, and the emails. Eight pages of completed forms were required, along with another 40 euros. At least the customs man was very nice. Even when I only paid .40 euros – whoops!! Was pretty sure as of yesterday that my package would be with me today. Nope. This morning FedEx texted me. I need to pay another 29 euros. I haven’t responded. I will. Just need a moment.
I made a video two days ago to assure you that I am fine, still positive, still smiling. Only I can’t get it to load to Facebook or to my blog. I still can’t get my blog to look right. My federal tax return, received electronically by the Feds on 2/14, is still being processed. AT&T failed to provide me international service (causing me to purchase a TIM card instead), but still charged me and won’t stop charging me until I’m back in the States. I’m accustomed to using chemical-free products, sans artificial scents (dish soap, hand soap, detergent…), which I can’t find here. And yes, despite loving solitude, I’m going a bit stir-crazy. So yeah, just like you, I’ve got frustrations.
I wish I had oatmeal. Funny, because I’ve never liked oatmeal. But I found a bag in one of the empty apartments (a bit like Goldilocks) and I’ve eaten it every day. The perfect comfort food. I figured out how to make it without it becoming gummy and gooey. Topped with banana and strawberries, a dollop of honey, and a milk floater on top. SO good! It became the perfect way to start my day. Only, now, I’m out. And the stores don’t carry it. I’ve been to five. Also wish I had mint tea, kale (yes, kale), my zoodle maker, and my hand blender for making pureed soup. And turmeric and ginger. Ah, the luxuries of my life in the States!
Do I have any reason to complain about any of this? Absolutely not. It is what it is, and I’ll get through it. As will you. The bulk of my frustrations? Same as always. The same things for which I am grateful and typically take for granted: technology, bureaucracy, having what I want when I want it. First world problems. (Not that I’m grateful for bureaucracy, but I do appreciate government and providers of services – when they work properly. And can we really call this first world problems? These are the frustrations of the privileged, wherever you live.)
I can’t imagine that you’re interested in any of this, but you’ve been asking, so I’m sharing. Maybe it helps to know I’m going through the same things you are. We’re all in this together.
The sun is still shining up in the sky, behind the clouds. A man just drove by with gloves on, texting on his phone. Oranges are still sweet and satisfying.
Some things, my friends, are still the same. Wherever you are.
More than Statistics
I don’t know how to write this post. I’ve been sad all weekend. My heart is heavy.
It’s a bit surreal to be in Italy when the numbers of infection are rising in the States. The numbers have now surpassed Italy. Significantly. Exponentially. Over 142,000 cases in America; over 98,000 in Italy.
Three weeks ago, you were all so very worried about me. Ten days ago, I decided to stay in the heart of the epidemic, rather than risk returning home. I still believe staying was the right thing to do. It is safer for me to stay put. I knew this virus was coming to the States. And it has. The first wave has arrived. You’re in the thick of it now. Everyone I know is in quarantine. Some of you still have the ability to take a ride in your car or on your bike or stroll on the streets. Seriously – I’m not kidding – my chest contracts every time I hear this or see your photos. I’m glad you’re able to still enjoy these privileges. At the same time … at the same time… I really want you to stay home. It’s like watching a Halloween horror film when you know Jason is waiting but the other characters have no clue. Only this isn’t a movie and you aren’t actors. This is real. And it’s about to get worse.
You know how you know something intellectually and so you think you know it? Goodness, that has happened so many times in my life. And then something happens, and suddenly you know that thing viscerally. It’s no longer a knowing in your head. Now you know it in your body. Now it’s a physical knowing. Very different. Very, very, different. If this has ever happened to you, you know what I mean. If it hasn’t, I can’t explain it.
I knew the virus would hit the States and it was going to be awful. But honestly, it didn’t occur to me that people I know would die. It all seemed, somehow, very analytical. Matter of fact. Devoid of any emotion except concern. Statistical.
No longer. My former home, where I lived for 14 years, a place I love dearly, filled with people who are so special to me, is now a hot spot.
People I love are going to die.
Friends of mine are already mourning friends.
I think maybe I’m in a premature mourning. Premature, yes, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Yes, I’ve read the articles about grief at this time in history. Yes, I’ve been looking at my emotions analytically, through my dreams, and more. That’s why I finally decided to post these thoughts to the blog: it’s one way for me to own these feelings. To sit with them, uncomfortable and messy as they are. Even if they are socially unfavorable. Let’s face it: no one wants to talk about death.
Again, there are so many things I could say. How death isn’t a stranger to me. Actually, I know it pretty damn well. And I honestly believe nothing – no one, no living thing – ever dies. We merely change form. But you know what? It never gets easier. You think it will, but it doesn’t. Not if every death is personal, not if you allow yourself to connect. If it’s statistical, sure, that’s a bit better. It’s still a sucker punch, particularly in larger numbers. But when it’s personal… My heart is bleeding for every medical worker on the front lines right now. Every nurse, every doctor, every EMT – every single person who is dealing with this face to face every single day. Man, I was there during HIV/AIDS. That was brutal. But this – I never thought I’d say this, could never imagine having a reason to say this – this is worse.
And I won’t be there. I won’t be in my country.
And if I were in the states, what good could I do? I would still be at a distance. Unable to be with the people I love. Sadly, that’s the truth of it. For the first time, I truly feel so very far away. More than that, I feel like a traitor. Like I traded my own safety to be here alone instead of being there with you. It didn’t matter to me when it was just about me. Of course I’m fine alone. Yes, I’m riding waves of emotions, but that’s not new to me. Only, now I am no longer an observer. I am no longer an American trying to understand what is happening in Italy. I am an American separated from my friends. Now it’s about us. Am I in this with you or not?
Early this morning someone very dear to me wrote and told me how she is unbelievably fatigued. So inexplicably tired. From the news, she thinks. Yes, I think she is right. And then suddenly I remember.
The last time I felt this way was when Princess Diana died. And then, a few days later, Mother Teresa. It was an odd thing, this collective grief. A vibrational wailing, echoing across oceans. Different from anything else, different even from AIDS. The grief from AIDS was staggering. The grief from the passing of two great women was penetrating. Like a light had been blown out. And still, it was not this.
Now all the grief in Italy catches up to me. The photos of caskets filling churches. Obituaries filling page after page. The fear. Like an unexpected wind, fiercely pushing against my body, I am struggling to stay erect as I straddle between two countries. My eyes are wet and facing west.
What I thought was premature is, in fact, here. We are all mourning. Each of us. In various stages. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Some even still in denial. What will acceptance feel like, I wonder?
A new world. A new beginning.
But I’m not there yet. And I suspect, neither are you.
Jan Peppler HOME 