Staying in the light

I started writing this letter in June; the few weeks since descended into a tumble of travel, events, logistics, and moving—and overall, enormous upheaval, which I do not handle well—that have made it impossible for me to catch my thoughts. For the rest of the summer, my mission is to find some stability—among other positive outcomes, I hope it allows for a more regular posting schedule :)

Hi, friends—

Ciao from Tuscany :) It’s my first time here, and it’s one of those places that makes me wonder why on earth I’ve been anywhere else this whole time; I’m aghast that such bounty has existed all along while I’ve obliviously existed elsewhere.

There is so much to love. The natural beauty, of course, is staggering—I’ve watched the sunset two nights in a row, first from a bridge on the river Arno in Florence, and then from a farm in the countryside close to Siena. So much beauty is hard to compute; the colours alone—a naturally-occurring combination of pastels and neon?!—defy comprehension. This morning, I walked around the property where I’m staying looking for a secluded meditation spot; I turned a corner and found a shaded bench in an olive grove, replete with pomegranate trees in bloom, overlooking the rolling Tuscan vista. I promptly burst into tears.

Experiencing unexpected and shocking beauty is always like finding a key to an inner soul chamber I didn’t know existed and unlocks a part of me that I’m surprised to meet yet, simultaneously, recognise. Ever since I’ve begun prioritising beauty as a fundamental spiritual need, I’ve had many moments of self-acquaintance. “Oh, there she is” is something I say frequently when encountering yet another delight-induced aspect of myself.

Beauty pertains, too, to meetings of the soul. Human warmth and emotional availability are an incredibly rich source of natural beauty that I’ve learned I can’t live without. I need to meet and connect with other people regularly, if not daily; one of the reasons I needed to leave Berlin was because it is so hard there to meet people organically. In the South of France and Italy, however, I simply have to go out alone to be assured of rich conversation and a full heart at the end of the night.

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On my first night in Florence, I sat alone at a wine bar with my journal; I was perfectly happy to spend the night alone observing my new surroundings but ended up spending the whole night with friendly and curious people who approached me. Somebody I met there wanted to know if I was traveling with anyone; he asked, “Are you lonely?” I knew he meant “Are you alone?” so I answered, “Alone? Yes. Lonely? No.” While I’m never alone in my own company, it seems I so rarely have to be, either.

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Meeting new people, of course, isn’t the same as forming friendships. This is something I’ve been reminded of recently, a reminder that always stings. It’s made me think more deeply about authenticity and vulnerability, and the fine line between the two that constitutes safety. Asking myself whom I’m safe to fully be myself with runs counter to my belief that I should always be myself. I’ve found that this is the only way to really connect with people; that vulnerability and authenticity extend the same permission to others, and create a safe space.