CHAPTER FIFTEEN: "Longing to Belong!"

One of the fears that has dominated my family is that you aren't "safe" if you stray too far away from...yes, the family -- la familigia! Italian American immigrants, like so many other immigrant groups, tended to cluster together, at least at first. My mom grew up in a small neighborhood populated by people she knew. So did my father.

When my father moved our family from the family hub in Bristol, Connecticut an hour and a half away into New York state, my brother and sister and I

felt a deep loss. I remember we moved the day before my 8th birthday.

On my birthday, I tried to run away. We had moved into a plain Cape Cod style house in a subdivision. Because my parents were financially strapped buying the house, the second floor wasn't finished off. The walls consisted of bare wooden two by fours, and in between, long layers of pink insulation. It was spooky!

I remember leaving by the back door that led out from the garage. I don't remember where I went, or how long I was gone. Try as I might, I don't remember anything more about that day except that I was upset. Angry. Confused. Needless to say, though, I returned before evening. I learned to live in the new house. Eventually, my dad put up sheet rock and finished off the two bedrooms for me and my siblings.

I'm thinking about that sad day in November of 1960 today, as my husband and I prepare to move back to our house in Massachusetts. For the last three months, we have been living in Denver, near our son, Noah, as well as our daughter, Lindsay, her husband, Geoff, and their precious little boy, Monte.

We've had a great stay. I've had the chance to babysit for my grandson several times. We have loved the weather, and have taken lots of wonderful hikes in beautiful places. There have been many days when I thought "oh heck we should just move here."

Ah, but then, just as soon as I think that, I remember: we have beloved family in Boston, and elsewhere back east, including our daughter Jocelyn, her husband, Evan, and our darling grandchildren, Ronen and Dani.

I feel torn apart. My heart aches when I think about leaving Monte and my children next week.

I keep telling myself to grow up and accept reality. I keep telling myself, "you know exactly what you should do: focus on being grateful for all of your blessings. Live mindfully, staying in the moment, appreciating the myriad joys that happen all through the day."

But part of me refuses to buy into what I know I need to do! This recalcitrant -- childish -- part of me is a persistent voice but also, sometimes it feels like a bodily sensation. It's almost as if my ancestors are all lurking somewhere, deep inside my brain, or they are out there in the cosmos calling to me: they are the angels who keep whispering in my ears. The message from these ancestors -- "questi antenati" -- is crystal clear: when you return to your house in Massachusetts, you will have no family living near you! You will go back to that feeling you often have there, that you are lonely, that you don't belong there! You will feel like you don't belong anywhere!

Before I know it, hearing these messages rumbling around in my mind, I feel incredibly sad. This longing for family upends me completely and sometimes I find myself in tears!

And so it is that I am captive of a very old family script, one that says you aren't safe or happy or complete when you don't live next door to your loved ones.

Back when I was 8 years old, my parents and siblings and I drove from our house in New York State to Connecticut to see our grandparents. We did that almost every weekend! It never occurred to us not to! For one thing, my mom missed her mother and father. And we kids missed our grandparents.

By the time I went off to college, however, I was delighted to get away from home, escaping what felt like a stifling (and old-fashioned) family environment. Over the next few years, I traveled here, there and everywhere. I worked in Boston, then went to graduate school in Berkeley, California. Then I worked in Chicago, and after that, New York. At one point, my mother counted 21 different addresses for me.

Not too long after I married my husband Richard in 1978, we both decided that we wanted to move back East so that our (future) children would know their grandparents.

After some 15 years of moving here there and everywhere, I settled with my husband in an old farmhouse in rural Columbia County, New York -- ironically, it was only an hour away from my parents and the home where I grew up. Rich and I lived in that farmhouse,

and raised three children there, for the next 30 years!

As our children left for college and set up their own lives, one thing became clear: none of the kids intended to live close to our old farmhouse. All three of them eshewed the rural lifestyle in favor of city life.

Like so many families, we are spread out.

Do other people feel the way I do? Do they feel lonely, and like they don't belong anywhere? Or is it just me? Is it because of my ancestry that I feel so...disconnected?

My rational side keeps trying to convince me that there is only one solution: stay riveted in the present moment, no matter where you find yourself! Accept what is. And don't give into the longings that characterized your ancestors.

Yes, yes, I know all that. But now that I am a grandparent I want to live close to my grandchildren, just like my parents and grandparents did before me!

Curiously, my sister Holly and I were talking about our family situation recently. She lives in the same Massachusetts town as our sister Karen, Karen's husband Dale, as well as Karen's daughter, Lauren and her family (including two adorable little ones, Lily and Scarlett.)

Even though Holly lives close to these family members, she confided that she too often feels lonely. She finds herself asking "what am I doing here?"

We decided that the last time we didn't feel that loneliness was when our Mom and Dad were still alive, and they occupied their cozy brick house in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. We can't let go of our desire to gather at that house, the way we used to for all the holidays.

As I add this photo of Mom and me in her Pittsfield kitchen, Christmas of 2010, I can't hold back tears. Recently, I told someone in a condolence card that I don't think I will ever stop missing my mother.

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I stepped away from writing this piece a few minutes ago because Noah arrived; he was having dinner with us here in Denver, as he has several times since we arrived in January.

We eat fried fish, baked sweet potatoes and bok choy, and we watch part of a movie. Then Noah says it's time for him to leave.

"When will I see you again?" he asks, just before he drives off in his truck.

"Not sure," I say. I mumble something about maybe seeing him for his birthday in June. I'm feeling fine when I go to bed but the next morning, I find myself missing him. And feeling...lonely. Ugh.

That's when I hear my mom, who passed away in 2015, reminding me that for so many years, she and my dad were constantly looking forward to the next time that they would see us kids.

I didn't really get it in those days. I was busy with my work, my writing, the kids, and our lives separate from our parents.

"In those days, we missed you all the time," Mom is saying, "just the way you are missing your own kids. Now you see what your dad and I went through. You know the old saying, 'what goes around comes around!'"

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So what does all of this loneliness have to do with healing?

Everything. As medical anthropologist and modern shaman Alberto Villoldo says, "The mind can heal you or it can kill you."

The brain serves up stories of all kinds, some of them as old as time, like this story supplied by my ancestors -- the intense need/desire to live physically close to one another.

After my grandfather Claude, my mother's father, left Italy in 1896, at the age of 16, he never saw his mother again. He and his brothers settled in Connecticut, where I was born. Back in Italy, his mother, Domenica Rotondo, wailed continually about how she had been abandoned by her sons. Her daughter, Lauretta, who remained in Italy, visited her mother every Sunday; for years, Lauretta listened to her mother moan about her sons' leaving; Domenica earned the nickname "abandonada" for herself, abandonada meaning the "abandoned one."

Dr. Villoldo would say that this story of abandonment is one that has trickled down through the generations, landing in me. In therapy through the years I have repeatedly identified my own tendency to feel abandoned -- there was my mother who "abandoned" me at the age of four when she was too sick to take care of me.

There was the abandonment I suffered when two of my children moved to Colorado.

There is the feeling of abandonment I can feel whenever I say goodbye to my children.

Dr. Villoldo would say that this story of abandonment doesn't serve me. He would tell me that it is part of a limiting belief system, an old-fashioned world view all tied up with fear that is not at all useful or healty.

I need to tell a new story, he would say, one that will empower me spiritually and psychologically. One that will take me out of the worn out belief systems of my ancestors, one that can propel me confidently into the future.

Villoldo would say that in order to be happy and healthy, we must deal with all of the fear and anxiety we have. For me, it's accepting the reality that I can't possibly be in two places at once. I am bound to miss one set of children or grandchildren, no matter if I live in the East, or out here in the West.

We must accept these facts of life. We must face the fact that things continue to change. People move around. Kids grow up. We get older and we lose loved ones.

It helps too to think about what my spiritually-minded therapist Mary always used to say: you carry your loved ones in your heart all the time, including the ones who have passed on. To get in touch with them, all you need to do is close your eyes and feel the love you have for them, and the love they have for you! Concentrate on that love, and let the glow keep growing until it envelopes you completely.

Mary is a big believer in unconditional self-love, too. Whenever I would complain that I was missing my children or grandchildren, she would tell me that I needed to "love myself more," that is, I needed to immerse myself deeper in positive feelings towards myself. Part of that involves immersing myself in activities that bring joy and fulfillment to me as an individual. Don't give into feelings (or stories) of loss, scarcity or insecurity, she would say. In this way, she echoes Dr. Villoldo.

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There are on average 300 sunny

days a year in Denver. Combine that with the steady inspiration offered by the Colorado mountains and well, it feeds my soul. It feeds my painting muse as well.

No matter if there is a huge snowstorm one day. The next day, or the day after, all the ice and snow in the streets is GONE!

"It just keeps being sunny."

That'a the sentence that popped into my head just now. So often back East, the day begins bright and sunny but by afternoon, grey clouds move in.

Not here. It just keeps being sunny. All day. And that keeps me sunny too! Living here has been given me the strength and inspiration I need to challenge my ancestors' stories. It's as if a giant lamp has been turned on, illuminating my life fears.

Hiking and walking every day are part of the Denver equation too. The more I walk and hike, the more I want to walk and hike. I remember a time not too long ago when Rich would suggest we take a hike and often my reaction was, "oh, what, that again? You mean I have to huff and puff my way up another hill or mountain?"

But I don't have that reaction anymore.

I know that the more I walk, the better I feel.

*********

Ironically, the clouds have moved in this morning. I have to laugh -- it's almost as if I'm getting a taste of the weather I have to face next week.

Oh well. A couple hours ago, after meditating, I wrote down the word "ACCEPTANCE" in large letters in my journal. And then I wrote down the Italian translation: "Accettazione."

Enough. Time to grow up. And now, go for a walk.

p.s. OK, so I thought I was done. But as I was finishing writing this piece, feeling so sad, I asked my mom to send me a sign.

Well, I'm not sure Mom is responsible, but the next thing I know I am staring at this photo in my iphone: four generations of women!

Me on the left, 33 years old, (pregnant with daughter Lindsay), then Jocelyn, almost two, Grandma Michelina, age 85, and my Mom, age 60. We are sitting in Grandma Mish's living room, in front of a painting (done by my Aunt Marcella) of Grandma's ancestral village in Italy. This photo, almost 40 years old, is one of my all-time favorites. I will get a print out and add it to those I keep by my meditation space. And then this photo pops up on the iphone: Jocelyn's daughter, Dani, looking so much like her mom.

Looking at these photos, I'm smiling thinking, OK, so I do belong somewhere. I belong here, in this cozy line of women. I see myself becoming...one of a long line of ancestors!