Postscript

(A good enough life)

From my desk, I can see Shannon in the veggie patch. He’s tidying up before our first wwoofers arrive. He wants to make a good impression, and I can’t help thinking of Elisa cleaning all the floors and windows of her three-storey farmhouse in preparation for her first wwoofers.

I’m doing what I’ve been doing ever since Shannon suggested I write it all down, over a year ago. I’ve discovered more of Italy and understood more of myself through this second journey of words. I’ve come to realise that dreams, when dormant, are nothing more than pretty postcards for places we want to go, people we want to be. Travelling with a dream is another thing altogether. Like the twister in The Wizard of Oz, my dream has picked me up, shaken me about and put me back where I started. Nothing looks quite the same; so much that was dull is brighter.

It took time to dismantle the framework of the life we thought we were building. When we did, we realised there was a lot to be salvaged, that more than one way of life could be accommodated on the foundations we’d laid. Shannon was back into the garden within a month, and as the orchard began to blossom his mood lifted. I never got back into the garden, at least not in the way I thought I would before going to Italy. I’m not short on ideas, and I can be relied on for weeding every long weekend, but my perspective has changed and so have my dreams. We spent some dark months working out how these new dreams could cohabit with the old.

A job helped, eventually. At first I thought it was a defeat, but I think I’d have gone mad without it. I enjoy the company of the strangers who catch my bus, and the buzz of ideas that reverberate through the hive of my office block. And sometimes, during my lunch break, I sit at Lucia’s in the Adelaide Central Market and pretend I’m in Lucca, watching people going about their day. We’d struggle if it wasn’t for my income, but this time around, my job isn’t the dominant colour in the landscape of our lives. It isn’t my job that dictates my mood or how much wine I drink or how much energy I have for making raspberry jam with the boys. It’s part-time and contained, so I have whole days when the house is empty and there is nothing to do but make bread and fill the idle hours between kneading and baking with words.

I’m beginning to understand the legacy of our time in Italy. To an observer, our life would look almost exactly the same as it was before we went searching for something more. But there’s one significant difference: life is good. Not because we’re living the dream – that will always be elusive, it’s the nature of dreams. But in searching for ours, we’ve found something else. We’ve found an appreciation for things that are a privilege and that have been there all along, and we’ve found the courage to explore our deepest selves.

Our life is good because it’s good enough. All it ever required was a bit of tweaking, a measure of honesty, and one or two small compromises. But we needed to dwell a while in others’ lives to understand that. Every family we stayed with had built the life they shared with us on a dream not so different to ours. For most it was a little tarnished, the reality not quite what they had in mind. But for all of them there was meaning and real value in the time and energy they spent working on the land that fed them. For Lauren, like me, it might not have been enough. Soon after our stay, she and Gianni left Pirapora and moved to the UK. The last I heard, they were wwoofing their way around the world.

Italy has shown us who we are, and we’re grateful. We’re particularly grateful to Stefan, who taught us to stay calm and never interrupt a meal to fix something. And Ulrike, who taught me to move slowly and need less. And Romano and Elisa, who taught us that coffee is best served in a glass, and that whistling ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’ can cure backache and heartache, especially if others join in. And Pia, who proved dirt and pink fingernails can be happy bedfellows. And Mauro, whose love of wine and a healthy financial plan helped build a dream that looks a little bit like the brochures. And Gianni, who never failed to put good food on the table. And Lauren, who showed me myself and challenged my dreaming – I didn’t fully understand it then, and I failed to be grateful.

And there are others to thank: the street vendors, the violin player, and the ghosts who walked up and down the aisles of trains from Rome to Zambrone, Matera to Turin. A good enough life is a privilege.

Tomorrow will be Christmas day, and at five in the morning our first wwoofers will arrive on a bus from Victoria. When Aidan and Riley look under the Christmas tree, among the gifts will be four Italians, already unwrapped and ready to play. The boys will not be shy because they’ll know them – Pia and Mauro, Luca and Daniele – they’re coming, after all.