To go is to come back and coming back means that we’ve gone. It’s simply a matter of relativity. Our latest comings and goings involved Italy—a land we’ve ventured to before, but never as far south.

            Once out of the crushing crowds of Florence, I found Tuscany to be quite similar to what is depicted in films and pictures. Beautiful evergreen landscapes of grapevines, olive trees, and vegetable gardens. Kent and I enjoyed long walks through the countryside, passing through vineyards and olive groves. This aspect was very peaceful.

           However, driving a rental car in this foreign place was not serene at all. The Italians have an entirely different approach to the roadway than I have. Sorry, but quick acceleration, hard braking, honking, and swerving around other parked or moving cars are not my idea of fun. It was stressful to say the least.

            Unlike here in our country, there were not the throngs of unhomed people occupying public spaces. I’m thinking that they must do a much better job of taking care of them than we do. And the terrible trash and litter issues that we have here were not visible anywhere we were. Recycling bins were commonplace in all the villages. They also have a well developed mass transit system which we would be wise to emulate. Just the facts.

            Visiting other cultures can help give us a larger, more inclusive perspective which often promotes a more open mind. For instance, their method of labeling streets (or no signage at all) was foreign to us. Go figure. It forced us to concentrate more on where we were. While the simple act of everyone saying, “Bonjourno” or Ciao” whenever we passed others, lead to genuine friendliness with strangers.

            Later, we stayed at an agriturismo, a working farm that puts you up—kind of like a hostel, but with private rooms. We were there for a week and hiked daily, traipsing the rugged cliff-edged trails along the Amalfi Coast. Miles and miles and hours and hours. And yes, we definitely had tired legs by the end of each long day. The scenery was absolutely fantastic: garden terraces; thousand-foot drops to the sea; herds of goats being shepherded along steep mountain trails while announcing their whereabouts with tinkling bells hung around their necks; donkeys hauling heavy loads of sand, rock, and wood as the only available transport along the rugged paths… Here, dwellings still have to be built slowly by hand, utilizing only this ancient mode of portage. No roads or big trucks. So much for building a house within a scheduled timeframe. Quality takes time.

            There is a saying: Americans think one hundred years is a long time, but Europeans think one hundred miles is a long way.

            On that cliff-sided terrain the people who live there make use of every square inch of space to grow their produce. The rich volcanic soil overlying the limestone has been fertile for centuries. And even in the more metropolitan areas they have far less wasted spaces than we do. Smaller roads, far less paved parking places, and tiny cars and delivery trucks allow for more economical use of space.   

            One time, while Kent and I were walking ahead of the group, I pointed out a conglomeration of buildings nestled above the glittering bay below.

            “These villages sure blend in nicely, don’t they?”

            He agreed.

            They don’t stand out like gleaming eyesores that seem to propagate and take over our American landscapes. They’ve been built to last, with natural materials that both meld into the environment as well as survive throughout the centuries. We were awestruck again and again with the prominence of beauty and simple utilitarianism, alive and flourishing in this age-old culture. Why couldn’t we try to emulate at least some of these concepts so as not to lose so much artistry simply for the sake of speedy profits or convenience?

          If nothing else, this kind of adventure into less familiar territory has helped me to see how insignificant we really are. No one way is the only right way. Forcing myself out of my comfort zone, at least once in a while, can offer far-reaching benefits. Expanded appreciation and understanding is often a natural byproduct of such experiences. Try it! You may or may not like it, but it helps us grow in ways we might never have expected.

Chi Varnado has published six books including fiction, nonfiction and children’s books. They are available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. 

           These long dog days of summer are a wonder to behold. They’re not at all about dogs, actually. Instead, the phrase refers to the hottest days of the year, the last months of summer here in the Northern Hemisphere. In reality, it’s a reference to Sirius (the dog star) which is part of the constellation Canis Major (the Greater Dog). It’s the brightest star in the night sky and its literal meaning is “scorching”.

            Anyway, despite the negative connotations throughout the ages, I’ve always thought of it fondly. As a kid, thrilled to finally be on summer vacation, those long dog days of summer stretched out gloriously before me—no school, no regular routine, no worries. It had arrived and life was good.

            I still feel the same way. But now, they’re not nearly long enough. I can’t believe we’re already barreling toward the end of August. It feels like summer has barely begun. And I am so NOT ready for it to be over. It’s going WAY too fast.

            It’s why I’ve made it a priority to go to the beach almost every week, reminding friends and family, whoever might go with me, that summer will be gone before we know it—and then it will be too late! It used to be our very important job, as mothers, to do this for our kids, but now I feel it’s just as important for ourselves. You know, carpe diem, even if we do have to plan it ahead of time.

            As a teenager, I’d ride my bike the eight miles to town to work all morning, training horses and mucking corrals. Then I’d ride back home in the heat of the day, stopping at Palma Farms for a couple of delicious fresh peaches to eat under their shaded overhang. And finally, after making it back home, I’d grab my surf board and dog and we’d head to the neighboring pond down the dirt road where the two of us would take turns swimming and laying out on my long board. I called it the whale. By evening it usually cooled off enough to work my own horse. I remember those days appreciatively, while right now I sit on an old couch on the front porch, writing out this essay by hand—the way it comes best for me.

            Another bonus of these hot days is that my three-year-old Australian shepherd is much calmer than when it’s cooler. I can’t say exactly calm, but certainly slightly more subdued and less hyper. When the temperature gets too much to bear, she splashes around in her little kiddie pool and I dunk my head under an outside faucet and wet my entire head and shirt. Then do it again in another thirty minutes or so. And then again and again… It works, you really ought to try it. We don’t have air conditioning and this is a cheap and healthy alternative for me.

Lately, I’ve been itching for another camping trip—you know, before it gets too cold. I don’t know if I’ll make it or not, but the Eastern Sierras are calling me. Those beautiful jagged peaks, the great Owen’s Valley, crystal-clear lakes and streams, and pine-scented air in the higher elevations. I’m listening, but we’ll see.

And once I finish with this evening’s chores, I think I’ll head down to the creekbed and retire in the hammock to gaze up at those majestic oak branches and contemplate the long dog days of summer while I still can.

Chi Varnado has published six books including fiction, nonfiction and children’s books. They are available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com.

           Life gives as life gets. Or is it we give as we get? What does it all even mean anyway? Maybe nothing, perhaps something, or it might not matter at all.

            I came across the words of a Buddhist monk just when I needed to hear them. They went something along the lines of, “You will lose people you love… Pets you love will die… There is nothing you can do to change that. It’s just the way it is.” Tears sprang to my eyes as the passage so deeply resonated with what I was going through. My very good friend of thirty years, Molasses, was worsening by the hour, unable to stand squarely on her four beautiful legs. Legs that had carried us both for so many miles over mountains, through gullies, across meadows, into streams… Her strong bay body exuded the scent of sagebrush from her decades of roaming loose in the canyon. My heart and gut wrenched.

            I just wanted to run away, but from what? You can’t really ever get away from yourself. All I could do was to live through it, be with her, and try to make the best decisions I could. I love her so much—and now I miss her immensely. The heartache is as real as it gets. I’ve been used to glancing over in the direction of the field multiple times a day, looking for her. And I still do, except with a one-second delayed shock when I remember she’s gone. Never again.

            For the two weeks before Mo’s passing, we spent the hottest days so far this summer finally hauling everything out of the storage barn to sort, donate, recycle, throw away, or decide to keep. Our hope is that when we die, the kids won’t have quite as much junk to deal with. We acquired a lot of it (tools, letters, old furniture, pictures…) when my dad passed away in 2008. The barn also contained wedding paraphernalia from both our daughters’ weddings which we hosted here in the canyon. And, of course, the basic things that families tend to accumulate over time. This kind of purging feels good. A lightening of life’s physical load. The Swedish refer to this practice as death cleaning, beginning shortly after passing middle age, in order to organize and declutter the home before you die to lessen the burden for your loved ones after you’ve passed.  

            For us, the Cedar Fire of 2003, coming only months after my mom’s passing, provided the maximum cleanse. Still reeling from the huge loss of the woman who was both my mother and friend, the fire ravaged through the canyon we call home, taking with it our house and outbuildings. It also destroyed our other family dwellings back here as well—five houses in all.

            I suppose death can be looked at as a sort of purging as well. After all, they’re gone. But it doesn’t have the same after-feeling as getting rid of stuff. The fire taught me to not get as attached to things. You know, here today gone tomorrow. It’s not really all that important. I’ve never been one to have the slightest interest in ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ or wearing the latest fashions. Heck, I don’t even know what’s in or what’s out. And I really couldn’t care less.

            What I do care about are my relationships with friends and family, trying to live in peace and harmony with our surroundings, and making choices in life that don’t harm our community or the natural world. Life on all levels is precious to me. Who am I to pretend to lord over our plant and animal neighbors?

            But what I think we all need to purge—and to purge ruthlessly—is our steadfast and hasty judgements. I could gaze for long periods of time into my horse’s eyes. She had the kindest eyes. It was as if I could look through those windows right into her soul. A benevolent one. She was a natural ‘lead mare’ who took her position gracefully, never bullying. The way natural leaders are. What an honorable spirit she had.

            One conscientious purge I try to do once or twice a year is a cleanse, eating only fresh fruits and vegetables with no seasonings or sauces. Those nine days can be a bit of a challenge, but at least I’m eating actual real food. This practice provides a bit of a reset of my digestive system. During this experience I take more time than usual for artistic endeavors, insightful reading, and breathing in the present moments, which help bring about a deeper sort of cleanse.

            The whole purging thing involves so many different levels. Of course, the death of a friend or family member isn’t exactly what we consider “purging”, however they both involve the act of “letting go”. Sometimes voluntarily, other times solely as a way to survive.

            It’s hard to let go, it takes effort. Do we get too attached? Should we not? But to love deeply also requires us to let go—both in allowing the other to be their own person as well as when we move on, either from a death or the end of a relationship. Staying in touch with the nature of our relationships with ourselves and others requires vigilance, I believe. Arriving fully at the table of life rewards us with all that life has to offer. For better or worse—this is what we get.

Chi Varnado has published six books including fiction, nonfiction and children’s books. They are available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com.