Landscape of clouds…thrown sheep’s fleece…churned blanc mange…filling from a polyester duna…etc etc…through the mist…patchwork jumble of paddocks hemmed with trees…
Home of a shop that may or may not have been called ‘Cake’ and which, last time I visited, sold an astonishing variety of cup cakes; home to the best hot chocolate I have yet encountered – although there was that one in Margate, south of Hobart, Tasmania, in a café set inside a train carriage which was extraordinarily good; home, as a lot of England is, to little higgeldy-piggeldy buildings that remind me of gingerbread houses.
But I have never felt the way I did when my mother, my children and I landed in (on?) Italy. She and I sat together for the final descent, united in silent joy, the children all agog behind us. They were minutes of profound reverence and gratitude. The natural extension of these feelings, upon setting foot on that longed-for soil, was a craving to kiss the uneven, weedy tarmac. I decided that might be a tad papal so I simply trod on it, relishing each step.
Some say you never recapture the feeling of your first love. I disagree, but I do wonder if special accomplishments at important times – the weaving together of dreams – as the Italy trip was, do forever stand alone.
It’s not just that the experience is as good as the expectation – although, that’s remarkable enough. There’s a feeling that arises when, through choosing and acting over and over again, sometimes with internal or external resistance, one honours a deep expression of the self.
There’s magic and power and celebration in living dreams.